In 1988 I separated from my husband. At the time of our separation I was 29 with two small children. One child was still breast-feeding, and the other not yet in school. My husband and I had just claimed bankruptcy from a failed business venture. With no job, money or credentials other than a high school diploma, I thought I had missed the boat to a decent future. It would take a full year to work through the haze of transition to see that life still held opportunities for me and my children. It was a tough year, which made me feel more shame than pride with my life. The only way to survive was to get financial help from the government. “Mother’s Allowance” is what it was called at that time. The term was a stigma in itself, and caused me to feel ashamed. I had, and still do a strong sense of pride, and I dearly needed some during that time.
At first the money was a relief, as I wouldn’t have to move and I was happy to tell my mother that “yes, I can take care of the kids". But the regular visits and probing questions from the social service worker became a humiliation. She always came in the door with a smile but her eyes were looking everywhere but at me. Looking for signs of a man, of money, of broken rules, every question had the underlying intention of determining whether I was cheating the taxpayers. "Has your husband seen the children? Where has he been living? Has he given you any money? Why NOT?! When are you going to divorce him? Being obliged to answer such intimate questions to a complete stranger helped me know that it was time to change my circumstances.
There were other women in the townhouse development were I was living that were in the same circumstance as me. Some of them terrified me and some of them inspired me and all of them I noticed, were looking for another man to get them out of their circumstances. The ones that terrified me looked like old pros to the system. Embittered by a stagnant life, abandoned dreams and lost hope. Their hair was dull and matted, their voices deep and raspy from the constant stream of cigarette smoke swirling in and out of their lungs. They would walk down the street in track pants so old that you could no longer distinguish what the original colour or shape had been; tops so baggy that the whole side of their torn, graying bras could be seen clumped underneath. “Hey girl” they’d rasp “You seen my brats anywhere?” followed by a flemmy cough. "When I get my hands on ‘em they’s gettin’ an ass kickin”. I would freeze when I happened upon one of those encounters, and I always managed to make some senseless response which would make me want to run and hide…if I could only unfreeze myself.
I was also a little scared of the women that inspired me too. They seemed strong and confident and always busy doing something. They were going to school or working or going on dates. They had friends coming and going all the time and their kids were polite and friendly, neatly dressed. They had their dreams, and I thought that they would be the ones that would show the way! I watched all of these women; the worn out ones and the still strong ones change their lives and dreams at the drop of a hat with the appearance of a new man. For a while it seemed that they had it all together, I envied them and felt somehow less than them. But then, the man would go and they would fall apart for a while and then start rebuilding their lives anew. It happened over and over again and is always added more problems than solutions to their lives.
Before we separated, I told my husband that being wife and mother wasn’t enough for me and tried to explain that I felt the world was calling to me to do more. I wanted to be out there being a part of it all. My husband was deeply offended by my feelings and I felt the crush of walls closing in tight on me. Now that I was freed from his resistance I was not so eager to be with someone else to add more problems than solutions to my life.
So onward it was, where I didn’t know, but I did know that at least for the time, I was going to be alone. It was about this time that it occurred to me that if I were to fulfill my desire to be successful, independent and to participate in the world I would have to actually do something about it. It was during lunch with a friend that the idea of school came up. Within days I was registered in the community college for the Business Accounting program. It was late in the season, and I was told that the program was full but was fifth on the waiting list. If someone dropped the program I would be accepted, so I waited, knowing that I would be accepted.
I continued to enjoy the freedom of the summer, knowing that once fall came and I was in school, life would change dramatically. I didn’t have a car at the time and the college was on the other side of the city. It would mean some mornings I would be getting the kids out of bed at 5:00 a.m., carting them off to the babysitter and catching the first bus of the day to make the 8:00 a.m. classes. But I was eager; the call finally came from the college saying there was an open spot the program. Life surged through me again and hope filled my heart. The details of babysitters, bus schedules, class schedules, and all the details of life as a single mother fell into place and a new chapter of life had begun. I was there in the moment relishing the challenge and beginning to dream of the new doors that would open. I felt power surging through me again and for the first time in a while felt a sense of pride.
