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I am impossible, according to Obama. My life can’t happen according to the race and poverty pimps in the Democrat party. Yesterday, trying to help the incompetent Coakley in MA, Obama said that the attendees have to vote for Coakley so that “everyone has opportunities, not just the privileged few.” I wished at that moment that God strike him down for such blatant lies. Obama and his cronies are directly threatening all I’ve built and I literally hate them for it.

I grew up in a very poor home, far poorer than anything Obama ever experienced. Unlike the poor today, the poor in the 70’s and 80’s didn’t have cell phones and internet—and not simply because those items didn’t yet exist. At that time, welfare didn’t send enough to afford permanent luxuries. I didn’t have a house telephone until I moved out on my own.

My parents divorced when I was six. My mother attended school, ostensibly to train to be a legal secretary, but when she graduated she decided she really didn’t like law and went on welfare. From the time I was seven to this very day, my mother has spent more time on public assistance of one sort or another than off. While I was young she always tried to have enough “earned income” to qualify for the EITC but she didn’t hold a job more than a few months. She always had an excuse—the boss was against her, she wasn’t feeling well enough to go to work, ad nauseum.

The welfare lifestyle goes like this. The day the welfare check and food stamps come in, you’re in high cotton. Cakes, fat pork chops, coca cola, stuffing, and rented movies rule the day. Everyone is happy.

Two weeks later, food is dwindling. The movies have gone back to the store and the days slide by in idleness.

Three weeks later, all that’s left is rice and black-eyed peas morning, noon and night. If she didn’t pay the light bill three weeks earlier, the lights are probably turned off by now and there isn’t even PBS on the 13 inch black and white TV to pass the time. Everyone is crabby.

The few days before the welfare check and stamps arrive are the worst. The beans have run out and all that’s left is plain rice and water. Crabbiness morphs into outright warfare that abates only when the junk food and rented movies reappear.

The cycle starts again, and years pass in this fashion.

The worst days for me were the days I stepped off the school bus and found all my meager belongings piled on the sidewalk because she hadn’t paid the rent for three months and we were evicted. Inevitably something was broken, I didn’t know where I’d be sleeping that night or the next, nor whether I should even bother doing homework since a school change was more likely than not.

I didn’t return to school after eighth grade. I spent my nights partying and days sleeping it off, sometimes with a male. I hitchhiked around the country for a while beginning at age thirteen.

My mother decided, when I was 14, to marry a convict in a maximum security prison for running guns to South America. I wasted countless weekends in the visitor’s room of the prison among the most heinous of criminals. Thinking she would make some easy money, my mother hatched a plan with her convict husband to smuggle pot into the prison by packing my vagina with baggies. Thanks be to God, she couldn’t get the money for the first purchase.

Once I moved out of my mother’s house I established contact with my father, who was building a successful career as an engineer.

After numerous failures and mistakes, I married my first husband at 20 and had our daughter ten months later. We remained poor but we worked and I thought we were climbing out of the welfare life. Then my husband became violent and after months of 911 calls, he abandoned us. Because we were living in my mother-in-law’s rental I was left with my 11 month old daughter, no money, no home, nothing.

At that point I consciously decided that I would not force my little girl to live as I had lived. I would do whatever I had to do to make sure she had food, a safe, stable home and all that she needed. We moved in with my father for a few months and, after passing the GED and enduring multiple threats from my ex-husband, I decided to move across the country and start college.

It was hard, harder than I could begin to describe. I worked evenings at McDonalds and grocery stores, then third shift at Kinkos, anywhere I could make enough to pay the rent and lights and grocery bill. I took out huge student loans—dropouts don’t qualify for scholarships and Pell grants don’t begin to cover tuition, much less books and daycare—and attended classes at a local technical college.

When I started school my mother and her family insisted it was folly. I was wasting my time studying mathematics and physics and biology, they insisted, and when the student loans came due what would I do? My maternal grandmother advised me to find a man with a decent job, marry him and forget my foolish goals.

It happens that I did find a good man, a fellow student who worked two jobs and attended classes, but when we married I didn’t drop out. I’d learned my lesson, and nothing less than complete self-sufficiency would do.

Their attitudes began to shift during my junior year, and when I graduated from a four-year college, Phi Beta Kappa, magna cum laude, everyone suddenly wanted to take some credit for my achievement. That night, during the graduation party, I barely restrained myself from standing up and demanding they stop lying. They didn’t support me until it was obvious that I was going to finish and their claims of support—moral and financial—were infuriating.

I found a job at a large health insurance company and have been there six years. My daughter, now 18, doesn’t remember living anywhere else, and my 12 year old son has lived in the same home his entire life. They’ve never been forced to change schools. They’ve never experienced an empty refrigerator and the only time they spend the night in the dark is after a storm. My husband and I will celebrate our 15th anniversary in a few months. I have succeeded.

I know how to escape poverty, and it hasn’t a thing to do with “spread[ing] the wealth.” Escaping poverty requires hard work, hard work, and more hard work. It requires rejecting the attitudes and habits in which one has been raised. It requires perseverance.

None of which may be purchased with another’s tax money. None of which may be spread from those who have it to those who don’t.

EVERY AMERICAN has the opportunity to escape poverty or enter poverty solely upon the choices made each and every day. To say otherwise is an intentional, malicious lie.

And I hate them for that lie.

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