By Jennifer Kathleen Gibbons
The Welfare office was depressing. This wasn’t a surprise; welfare offices are not known for their cheeriness or décor. The carpet was worn and tired, so much so I couldn’t tell what the original color was. All the clerks looked worn and tired. There were toys in one corner, with a Disney version of Alice in Wonderland book on the floor. On the wall was a television blasting Family Feud, Louis Anderson yelling “Survey said!” I wished Louis would come on down and do a routine in the office. They needed some jazz hands, some cheer.
I was grateful the TV was set on Family Feud rather than CNN, which was broadcasting coverage of the Lacy Peterson case all day/night long, along with horrifying images of Iraq being bombed. I tried concentrating on my Nick Hornby novel. I knew it was going to be a depressing experience so I wanted something funny to read. All I could think was what am I doing here? I should not be here. This isn’t me. I’ve worked since I was sixteen years old. Fifteen years later, I was in a welfare office. It made no sense. However, I was having no luck finding a job. An unpaid internship became hellish. I’d been sending resumes out daily, no luck. I’d gone through my skimpy savings. Welfare was the last resort. Continue Reading…