THE NARRATIVE ARC
I Grew Up Poor in America
The effects of not having enough can be lifelong
When I was in the fifth grade, my mother was unable to take care of me and my siblings. We were poor anyway, and without Mom’s help, things got worse owing to our accident — a fire that injured and incapacitated Mom.
On a family fishing trip, a gas station attendant neglected to cap the propane tank for the camper my folks borrowed from our grandparents. When Mom lit the camper stove to cook dinner, the explosion was deafening.
Mom was blown back onto the little bench by the camper table. We three kids stood outside, screaming and screaming. My father ran from downstream, falling over river rocks, dropping his fishing gear and stumbling in those overall rubber waders. Dad! Dad! We screamed.
He threw down the fishing pole, pumping his arms to run. He leaped in the camper door.
Flames engulfed him. Can you imagine?
The massive fireball and explosion, the gray smoke pouring out the vents. Three children screaming for their mother. Mom was getting burned alive.
Dad threw her out the door through the flames. She barely landed on her feet. She stood, legs shiny red.
