Thankful...everyday.

Sometimes I feel like all my memories are neatly filed in manila folders, divided into separate categories somewhere between the more scattered thoughts in my mind. Every now and then, I take inventory of their contents, making sure I haven't overlooked the details, as I file away the newer info (what's already been accepted and reflected on). Then the occasional emotional earthquake hits, throwing everything off, from my circadian rhythm to my breathing patterns; that's when everything organized gets scattered and tossed onto the floor. These unexpected shakes and quakes wake me up, and force me to clean the mess, or what would appear to be mere scraps of paper to a detached observer (though I'd never think of throwing any of them away, despite their dusty surfaces or wearing edges). What makes them so priceless, though they may be tinged with an interesting mix of salty tears and sweeter moments? Their inability to lose the countless lessons they teach.

There's an overflowing folder labeled childhood memories, and not until recently have I had the courage to open it up. I decided it was time to start sorting through it, while carefully taking note of the dates and emotions they're attached to; I don't want the events to inaccurately overlap and form erroneous stories of the past. So where do I begin? At the beginning...if I start from there, it's harder to lose my way.

One of the first learning lessons involves maintaining a thankful spirit in spite of any circumstance. I don't necessarily remember this memory as well as I'd like, but my mother shared her version of it with me. Unintentionally, she revealed how I could easily make it one of my own because of its ability to offer the kind of wisdom I'd need to make life meaningful. Why I can't remember it is partly due to the fact that after its occurrence, my mother did everything she could to avoid my knowledge of the struggle that gave birth to its existence. This struggle is poverty, a word I never used and didn't know applied to my mother and me, but now, thankfully, it's only associated with a memory.

The first few years of my life were the hardest for my mom and me, at least financially. In a desperate and hungry state, she'd search for change underneath our couch cushions so that she could buy milk. She wasn't working, and she was probably still married to my dad, who failed to pay her child support after their divorce. During my toddler years, I'd wear the dresses I outgrew as shirts, and a pair of little pants underneath. I also came to discover what food stamps were, and even got into the habit of asking my mother when we'd get new ones. Thankfully, my grandparents were a big help during this time; they allowed us to move in until my mom could get on her own two feet.

Thanks to a government program, my mom was trained to work as a legal secretary. We moved out of my grandparent's place around that time, and my mom continued keeping our financial situation hidden from me. Even if she had a broken-down car that needed repairs, or clothes that didn't fit right, she made sure I went to the best schools wherever we lived, that usually meant dishing out ridiculous amounts of money to a private school. She also made sure I knew how to speak English before starting kindergarten, because she didn't want me to struggle the way others have as a result of not being fluent speakers of the language. But I'm out of school now and, thankfully, I'm even out of college...with an English degree. What a surprise! And what a blessing it is that I can say any of these last few statments.

I'll never know what it's like to search underneath couch cushions, desperately hoping to find a few coins so that I can feed myself and my child. I'll never know what it's like to have to apply for welfare, or struggle to get financial/medical assistance because of a language barrier. But I'll always know what it's like to have more than I had before, and how can I not be thankful for that ?