Then Mom looked back at me. “We won’t be homeless. Dignityville will be our new home. We’ll be on the forefront of a new way of living. You heard what he said. Someday, there’ll be lots of Dignityvilles.”
“I get that, Mom, but that’s far in the future. Right now the people in Dignityville aren’t on the forefront of anything, except homelessness.”
The wrinkles around Mom’s eyes deepened. “Are you worried about what your friends are going to think?”
It wasn’t just my friends; it was everyone. We may have been having a tough time financially, but as long as we were at Uncle Ron’s, at least we had a home. “We just don’t belong there, Mom.”
“That’s a mindset, sweetheart. You need to think positively about this.”
Positive thought . . . yoga . . . meditation . . . those were her things, not mine. “Okay, you want to know the truth? Yes, I am worried about what my friends are going to think. I’m worried what everyone’s going to think. Because basically, they’re all going to think we’re losers.”
“If they’re real friends, it shouldn’t matter,” Mom said.
Just then Dad caught my eye in the rearview mirror. The look he gave me told me to stop arguing and go along with it.
“Have we ever done wrong by you?” Mom asked.
I sat back and didn’t answer. It was hard to remember the last time I’d felt this miserable. For most of my life—at least until I was twelve or thirteen—my parents had made the important decisions for me. Since then we’d shared decisions, or I’d made them on my own. But looking back, I couldn’t remember them ever deciding something for me that was so totally, absolutely misguided.
11
The next morning I got up early to clear brush and chop wood with Ron’s neighbor again. While in the bathroom I glanced outside and saw Mom and her brother strolling across the backyard toward the tennis court. I had a feeling they’d gone outside because Mom didn’t want the rest of us to overhear what would be said.
As I watched, I tried once again to make sense of what Mom was thinking. How was it possible that a home as beautiful as this, with its own swimming pool and tennis court, was filled with negative energy, while a tent camp of homeless people was filled with the positive stuff? And yet, if I was really honest with myself, I’d felt it too. Maybe because that Aubrey guy was so full of enthusiasm and hope, two emotions that were severely lacking in Uncle Ron’s household.
But I still couldn’t see myself living in Dignityville. Living in a rec room sucked, but it was way better than a tent.
While I couldn’t hear the conversation Mom and her brother were having, my uncle’s body language made it look as if he was arguing against Mom’s plan. Had I been asked to predict, I would have thought he’d pretend not to like it, but secretly be pleased to get rid of us (or at least rid of Dad). But Ron’s hands were on his hips and he kept shaking his head as if he absolutely wouldn’t hear of it.
Go Ron! I thought hopefully.
Finally, Mom put her hand on his shoulder and said something that ended it. Ron hung his head, and Mom hugged him. I could almost hear what she was saying. Something like: I appreciate you wanting us to stay, and no matter what happens, you’re my brother and I’ll always love you.
Damn . . .
* * *
Later that afternoon we once again parked on the street across from Dignityville. Only this time the car was packed with clothes, camping gear, and supplies. The only difference between us and the Joads was that they’d had a beat-up old Hudson truck and we had a beat-up old Subaru.
Mom looked over the seat at me. “Ready?”
“No.”
In the front seat Mom and Dad shared a quick glance.
“We don’t have to do this today,” Dad said. “We probably have enough money to spend a few nights in a motel. The problem is, once we run through that we’ll still wind up here, only with nothing in our
“I get that, Mom, but that’s far in the future. Right now the people in Dignityville aren’t on the forefront of anything, except homelessness.”
The wrinkles around Mom’s eyes deepened. “Are you worried about what your friends are going to think?”
It wasn’t just my friends; it was everyone. We may have been having a tough time financially, but as long as we were at Uncle Ron’s, at least we had a home. “We just don’t belong there, Mom.”
“That’s a mindset, sweetheart. You need to think positively about this.”
Positive thought . . . yoga . . . meditation . . . those were her things, not mine. “Okay, you want to know the truth? Yes, I am worried about what my friends are going to think. I’m worried what everyone’s going to think. Because basically, they’re all going to think we’re losers.”
“If they’re real friends, it shouldn’t matter,” Mom said.
Just then Dad caught my eye in the rearview mirror. The look he gave me told me to stop arguing and go along with it.
“Have we ever done wrong by you?” Mom asked.
I sat back and didn’t answer. It was hard to remember the last time I’d felt this miserable. For most of my life—at least until I was twelve or thirteen—my parents had made the important decisions for me. Since then we’d shared decisions, or I’d made them on my own. But looking back, I couldn’t remember them ever deciding something for me that was so totally, absolutely misguided.
11
The next morning I got up early to clear brush and chop wood with Ron’s neighbor again. While in the bathroom I glanced outside and saw Mom and her brother strolling across the backyard toward the tennis court. I had a feeling they’d gone outside because Mom didn’t want the rest of us to overhear what would be said.
As I watched, I tried once again to make sense of what Mom was thinking. How was it possible that a home as beautiful as this, with its own swimming pool and tennis court, was filled with negative energy, while a tent camp of homeless people was filled with the positive stuff? And yet, if I was really honest with myself, I’d felt it too. Maybe because that Aubrey guy was so full of enthusiasm and hope, two emotions that were severely lacking in Uncle Ron’s household.
But I still couldn’t see myself living in Dignityville. Living in a rec room sucked, but it was way better than a tent.
While I couldn’t hear the conversation Mom and her brother were having, my uncle’s body language made it look as if he was arguing against Mom’s plan. Had I been asked to predict, I would have thought he’d pretend not to like it, but secretly be pleased to get rid of us (or at least rid of Dad). But Ron’s hands were on his hips and he kept shaking his head as if he absolutely wouldn’t hear of it.
Go Ron! I thought hopefully.
Finally, Mom put her hand on his shoulder and said something that ended it. Ron hung his head, and Mom hugged him. I could almost hear what she was saying. Something like: I appreciate you wanting us to stay, and no matter what happens, you’re my brother and I’ll always love you.
Damn . . .
* * *
Later that afternoon we once again parked on the street across from Dignityville. Only this time the car was packed with clothes, camping gear, and supplies. The only difference between us and the Joads was that they’d had a beat-up old Hudson truck and we had a beat-up old Subaru.
Mom looked over the seat at me. “Ready?”
“No.”
In the front seat Mom and Dad shared a quick glance.
“We don’t have to do this today,” Dad said. “We probably have enough money to spend a few nights in a motel. The problem is, once we run through that we’ll still wind up here, only with nothing in our
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