Buckle up, kids. This is not going to be your average YoungNotions comedy blog. Because I have a thing to say, and goddamnit, I am going to say it. You got the comedy version of Romney from Bill the other day, but now, you are going to get Romney’s fuck up from a different angle.

To do this, I’m going to have to talk about a part of my life I don’t like to talk about. Because it puts the father of my child (hereto referred to as BabyDaddy) in a bad light. I call him my BabyDaddy because that’s what he is; the man I was never married to who sired my son. He and I now use BabyDaddy and BabyMama as titles because fuck connotations.

No seriously. Fuck connotations. Connotations set false expectations, force people into boxes that cause even more difficulties in escaping from. Like government assistance.

I had Jared when I was 20. Had I been pregnant a year earlier, I probably would have given him up for adoption. At 20, I debated my options (I don’t do abortions), took stock of where I was at, took into account my BabyDaddy’s wishes to keep the child, and he and I carved out a plan to keep the boy. To try living together, see if a relationship could develop into a marriage. He did ask me to marry him (as is apparently the honorable thing to do), but I declined, because knocking up a chick doesn’t mean you’re compatible as lifemates. Instead, live together, see if we *are* compatible first. He would work, I’d stay home and take care of our child.

Here’s a hint for you guys- it didn’t go well. In fact, it went very poorly.

By poorly, I mean that after 6 months, my BabyDaddy stopped being around the house to the point where I wouldn’t see him for days at a time. It got to the point where there was no food in the house, no diapers left, no electricity. I had no car and no way out. I used a neighbor’s phone to call my mom. The same woman who has insinuated that I’m a whore by using the word, um, “whore.”

So at the risk of facing more emotional abuse, I called this woman. She came and picked up me and my child. I stayed with her for a couple days before getting the call from our landlady that we were about to be evicted. The landlady was very understanding of my situation and did not actually file an eviction, but I had to have all of our stuff out in 3 days. BabyDaddy showed up, and his family moved all our stuff to his sister’s house. Jared and I move into the spare bedroom there, in Mora.

It was here that I became a welfare mom. Because BabyDaddy’s sister couldn’t afford to take care of us, and I had nothing I could do to help. I couldn’t afford daycare to get a job that would pay just enough to have my son in daycare. I had no skills, no prospects, limited security. So I signed up and started receiving benefits.

Once I was receiving benefits and didn’t have to worry about food, I could focus on how to get myself out. It’s a longer story than I have time for here. I moved back down to the cities and snuck into college. It was an accelerated program for a 2 year degree in 16 months. With that degree, I was able to get a job and get off of welfare.

I should mention that in those first few months of my son’s life, when times were tough, BabyDaddy and I tried applying for assistance and we were denied. One of the reasons my BabyDaddy wasn’t around was because he felt like a failure. He couldn’t afford his family, it was hard for him to be around the constant reminders of his failure. He was mostly not around after the essential eviction. Stop by once every few months or so. But I could tell it was hard on him, to face all that shame. He did eventually work past the shame. 2 years later, he asked to be part of his son’s life again, and from that time he has been a loving and supportive father, a partner in parenting our child.

For my part, I refused shame. I had spent my childhood being shamed, and Hell if I was going to let that hold me back. When I talked to social workers and career counselors, some were supportive, but many told me I would fail. One worker told me that I should be ashamed of wasting government resources.

When I went to school, many of the kids there tried to shame me. Some were kind, which I hadn’t expected. To this day, It’s the kindness others showed me that makes me tear up.

This one kid in school tried arguing with me over my right to be there. That the government shouldn’t be paying my way. I had a lot of scholarships and loans (which I am still paying back). The government didn’t pay for my tuition. But I did receive benefits ($650 a month in food stamps and funds. That was food, diapers, rent, electricity, toiletries, EVERYTHING except daycare. I have no idea how this Queen Welfare is pulling it off).

Anyway, this kid is arguing with me, and I mention that his parents are paying for his schooling, not him. And I ask him how he would pay for school if they didn’t. And his answer? His honest to God answer? He would sell his second car.

You know. The one he got from his dad. No, not that one. The OTHER one.

You see, the problem is not that 47% of the population is lazy. The problem is that we have the expectation that 47% of the population is lazy. When someone says that these people need to take personal responsibility, that’s making the assumption that they aren’t. And when a person whose own parents were on assistance makes disparaging remarks about those that are not even on assistance, just not making enough money to pay income tax, he perpetuates the connotation, the expectation of shame against those struggling and working hard, trying to get a leg up in an increasingly larger wage gap. He, who *should* have an idea of how difficult it is to move ahead in this world, and what a little help can do to make that happen, is spitting on that help, and telling people they should suck it up and sell their second car.

I tell you what, kids. This cake is absolutely delicious. I think I’ll have another slice.