Growing up my family consisted of myself,
my mother, my brother, my sister, and my
stepfather. My biological father was never
involved in my life. Neither of my parents
worked, so we were dependent on public
assistance to survive. My stepfather was an
abusive alcoholic and, as a result, domestic
violence and substance abuse issues were
things I experienced or witnessed on a regular
basis. Being beaten or kicked yourself, or
watching your siblings and mother being hit
and choked, are not things you can forget and
just move on with your day; particularly when
you are a child, and you don’t understand why
things have to be this way.
I remember moving around quite a bit as a
child, I had always thought it was because
my parents liked to live in different places,
but later I realized it was due to being evicted.
I remember sharing bath water with my
siblings because my mother had to heat it in
pans on the electric stove because we had
our gas shut off. Or staying huddled in one
room with blankets hung on the doors to keep
heat in that room because we were heating
it with a kerosene heater. I was grateful for
the child support my biological father paid
every month. He paid $25 for me and $25
for my brother. There were many times that
the child support gave us food to stretch to
the beginning of the month when the next
assistance check would come in. I remember
the Minerva Police Department giving us
coats, hats, and gloves one winter and I was
so happy to have the warmth. We often would
have to turn to others for assistance with
utilities, food, clothing, and rent.
My earliest memory of school as a child was
coming in from recess and, as all of us kids
were filing in, the teacher pulled me aside.
The teacher got down on one knee and began
to wipe dirt from my face. As she did this,
she was berating me about being dirty, about
having dirty clothes and asking me if I want
to be like my parents and “be on welfare
my whole life.” I don’t remember everything
she said but I remember how it made me
feel, I felt an extreme amount of shame and
helplessness. I remember thinking, it’s not my
fault my parents don’t work. I turned 50 this
year and every time I think of this incident, I
can remember those feelings. You feel a lot
of different emotions growing up in poverty-
shame, fear, anxiety, helplessness, and anger.
A Child’s
Dream for a
Brighter Future:
Matt Kreitzer’s Story