The Profit Dare

When I was young boy, probably four or five years old, I witnessed my dad savagely beating my mom. She was pregnant with my youngest brother at the time. I heard a noise and woke up and came into the living room. She was on the ground and he was kicking her in the stomach. She looked at me and said, “go to bed baby, it’s going to be okay.” I froze in my steps and she repeated herself. I really don’t know what happened after that. My brother, thank God, made it into the world. My dad, also thank God, was gone shortly after that night.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what happened next in our lives. My mom was a young, single-mother raising four boys. We lived in a house we could not afford and had little money. Our dad did not pay child support and rarely contributed to the financial cost of raising his boys. I recall only one Christmas or birthday gift from him.
It was an electric racecar track for all four of us. We set it up and it didn’t work. He was supposed to return it and exchange it for another. The operative word in that last sentence was supposed to exchange it. I’m sure he returned it and pocketed the cash. My mom soldiered on and took on the dual role of mom and dad.
If you ever are around my three brothers and me you will see an unbreakable covenant that was forged in the fire of affliction. Our mom doesn’t take joy in us sharing stories but we all know those experiences united us like nothing else could. Plus, we would do anything for our mom. Quitting was the easy way out and who would have blamed her. She did not quit. Sometimes the difference between winning and losing is simply refusing to give up. She never takes credit for how we all turned out but she deserves it. Trust me, we were not choirboys.
Memories have a tendency to fade and change. Bad memories soften and good memories often improve. Some of my worst memories are not so bad as they developed a fire inside of me to despise poverty. I truly hate it and have zero tolerance for its insidious nature. Some people mollify poverty. Others even go so far as to think it’s a sign of spirituality. I don’t think those people have ever truly been poor.