The Pleasure of Working. ❤️

Would you believe me if I told you I started earning money at 6 years old?

As a poor girl growing up in the SWATS, my basic needs weren’t always met. And that’s no discredit to my parents; they did the best they could with what they had.

But still.

Waking up without power or not having enough to eat for dinner — if we even had dinner — is enough to make a growing child frustrated.

I vividly remember the summer after I finished kindergarten. There wasn’t much to do except play outside, but it was hot as hell! It was even hotter inside my family’s apartment, though.

One afternoon, one of my friends and her little sister stopped by and asked if I could play outside. I had to beg my mom to let me out the house. It was so stuffy in there, I was suffocating! She let me go, but there wasn’t much to go to.

As soon as I stepped out the building, the beads of sweat that lined my forehead rolled down to my eyes.

My friend’s little sister wanted to go to the Candy Lady to get some freeze cups, but we didn’t have any money. Wasn’t no use in asking our parents, either. We already knew they were broke as a joke.

And I think that was my breaking point.

My parents never had money for anything I wanted, and I gave up asking ’cause I already knew the answer. There was this one day in particular when I wanted something from the ice-cream truck, and I started to go to my house, but I stopped dead in my tracks. I just couldn’t take another “no” and I wasn’t finna waste my time. I stood by and watched all of my friends get chips, pickles, and cones — and they ate all that shit in my face.

But anywho…

The Candy Lady trip sounded like a good idea. It was hot as hell and I could’ve really used a freeze cup. And I ain’t ate all day? My mom was gonna fry chicken for dinner that night, but we didn’t have breakfast or lunch. Just some stale ass peanut butter cracker things and I was sick of eating those. (That tap water was clutch, though.)

How were we gonna get some money for the Candy Lady?

I aimlessly checked my surroundings and then it hit me. My eyes landed on a trash can and I promptly told my friend and her little sister that we were gonna take out people’s trash for a dollar — or whatever change they would give us.

We were out there for at least 6 hours. I left my house around noon and folks were coming home from work when we finally made enough to go to the Candy Lady. We made enough to split it into $2 for each of us, and we still had a bunch of coins left over that we let her little sister keep. $2 was just enough to get everything I wanted at the Candy Lady, and I had a couple quarters left over. To this day, it was the best money I’ve ever made.

Why?

Because it was the first time I actually earned something. I mean, I earned my good grades in school, and I earned other intangible things, but earning money is a different type of feat.

What we were doing wasn’t the most glamorous way of making money, and it was definitely a risk behind it, seeing as how everybody kept telling us to “be careful” because we “might get kidnapped.” Yet, I still wanted to do it. I wasn’t gonna stop until I made enough. To say I was determined is an understatement.

All I kept thinking about was the money.

We got more no’s and unanswered doors than anything, but for the people that answered and allowed us to take their trash out, it meant a lot. We were just three little girls tryna get a snack from the Candy Lady, and I’m glad they understood that and supported us.

That day was long and hard, but totally worth it in the end.

There are times when I reflect on my childhood and when I share my experiences, I receive mixed reactions that still throw me off to this day. Some people feel sorry for me, some people look at me in horror, but I’m honored by where I come from.

Why?

It made me a worker. A hustler.

There is nothing I enjoy more than working. Being able to earn your own money, and pay for your own wants and needs is a special freedom; when you sit around and wait on others to take care of you, you put your fate in their hands. You’re a dependent; whoever cares for you owns you. They control you. You don’t eat unless they feed you. You can’t see unless they give you light. You can’t have anything if they don’t give it to you.

So I work, and I’ll work my ass off for my freedom.

Those who know me know that if nothing else, I’ll find a way to make ends meet… But now-a-days, I’m learning that there’s so much more to it than that.

Stay tuned…