What If Dreams Are Reserved For The Wealthy?

Musings from a poor, black artist.

I’m poor.

I don’t remember a time in my life where I haven’t been. I don’t tend to talk about this much publicly but an actor friend of mine posted this article on FB the other day and I resonated so much with the premise of the article that I felt to say something about it. With all the talk of diversity these days it is important that we talk about how money and family impact access and success in the arts.

So back to my poverty. I don’t know if we were always poor. Both my parents are educated and I have vague memories of us having a house and a car and not lacking basic things. But I was four years old when my parents separated and the house and car went bye-bye.

Our dad, at my mom’s request, drove us across the bridge that connects Gatineau and Ottawa and dropped us off at the downtown YMCA. It was 1991. I was 4, my brother was 2 and my mother had just made the difficult decision to walk away from a marriage and life that she had built with a man she had loved for most of her life.

I can only imagine the thoughts that went through her head that day and every day since then.

I could write a novel telling you about the slow and steady climb up the ladder of “success”. My mom went on welfare, got an apartment, got a job, started her own non-profit, wrote grants and taught on the side. We went to school, played sports, learned instruments, laughed, played saw new places. But I am fully aware of the sacrifices and help we got along the way.

My violin lessons were group lessons on Saturdays at the local high school that I could walk to by myself. The local boys and girls club is where we spent our summers and weekends. It is also where I learned to swim, do crafts, play pool, basketball, soccer, and had my first leadership experiences. All for a very subsidized price. I know I would not be who I am without the McCann Boys and Girls Club on McArthur road.

I was gifted and had teachers who went out of the way to make sure I was challenged and got the most out of my classes. Even though I went to school in Vanier, which to this day has a less than stellar reputation, I remember my French teachers would bring separate workbooks just for me because they knew I was ahead of the class and needed to be challenged. I never stopped to think that they didn’t have to do that or that they likely paid for those books out of pocket.

We eventually moved east. One step closer to the suburbs. From the ages of 10 to 18 I was in the same place. My mom eventually bought a townhome on our street. We had neighbours would watch me until my mother got home if I forgot my key. My friends were always in our house playing video games with my brother and me, raiding our fridge after birthday parties cause there was always extra rice and peas and my mom was a boss cook.

I knew we weren’t rich, but I think I sometimes forgot we were poor. We had a house, a car, food on the table. We were generous with the things we had. My mom bought a used upright piano and we started piano lessons once a week at home. That one choice, at 12 years old, changed my life in a way that I don’t think any of us could have expected. I just loved to sit and play. When I joined youth band at church I would bring my binder home and just play and sing until the wee hours. When I heard a song that moved me I would find the chords, print them out and learn them.

That piano, those lessons, unlocked my voice. I had always been a singer but there was something about sitting at that bench. There was finally a way to bridge the secrets I wrote in my journal and the melodies that spilled off of my lips. I’m no pianist. But to this day, there is nothing like those weighted keys under my fingers, closing my eyes and just getting lost in a song.

My mom would say that it was important that we be well rounded. She did not get us lessons so we would become musicians. Of course not. I was going to go to university and be a doctor, make real money, take care of myself and my family. But I was gonna be a doctor that could play the piano. Something to show off to your friends. It was a status symbol. I think she thought it gave us some sort of prestige.

Eventually, she told me she could no longer pay for my lessons. I was 17 and had been working for 3 years at that point and I loved it enough that I decided I would pay for it myself. I mean I was already paying for school supplies, my monthly bus pass, clothes, the odd bag of milk, extracurricular activities and whatever my brother needed that my mom couldn’t buy so why not my piano lessons?

I eventually had to stop my lessons January of my last year of high school because I hated my job and was tired of being tired. I finally got my mom’s permission to quit. I had asked her at one point the year before. The new manager at the store I was working at was making my life miserable and I told my mom. I don’t think I told her that I was falling asleep in class and that my teachers were asking about it (Forever bless Mr. Pitre who would sometimes just let me sleep.) Maybe I did, I can’t remember. Either way, I remember telling her I wanted to quit my job. I was sitting in the passenger seat of the car. We had just driven into our parking spot. She stopped the car, looked over to me and said that I couldn’t quit my job because “we couldn’t afford it.”

I have a vague memory of someone asking me at some point in my 20s why I didn’t have any savings if I had been working through high school. The simple answer is my job was supplemental income and no one had told me to save any of it. I had been trained since I was a child to live hand to mouth, pay check to paycheck. To this day there are very few periods of my life that have not been that way. And they were always short lived.

The more complex answer would point out that the idea of managing money implies that there’s enough money to manage. When there is never enough to cover every expense, something is always a little late, something always gets pushed aside. Being poor is about financial triage and sometimes — oftentimes — savings gets put behind more pressing issued like food or housing.

I graduated. We moved to a bigger house in the suburbs. We had made it! On paper at least. I got into all three universities that I applied to and moved to Quebec city for school. The plus side of being the oldest in a single parent household was that I knew how to cook for myself. I didn’t have to eat out which likely saved me a lot of money. Going to school in Quebec was also a boon because everything was so much cheaper than in Ontario. So with my student loans, grants, a generous line of credit I was able to live without working.

It also allowed me to send money home when necessary. I remember being on the phone with my brother on the bus ride home for a break and telling him I could give him some cash for a school dance. Or the time my mother called to ask if I could send her money to help buy winter coats and cover utilities. And I did. It never crossed my mind that all of the money I had was fake (OSnAP Anyone?), or that it wasn’t my responsibility as a child. In my mind, that’s just what you did. That’s how family works.

My second year of school, my student loans came in late so, I couldn’t buy all my textbooks on time. I was resourceful but that only went so far. I remember the day one of the staff members in the Christian club I was in surprised me with my data text book.

I cried.

October of that year my mom had a stroke. I barely finished the semester and ended up dropping out of school. I was a mess. In hindsight, I definitely needed counseling and should have been more vocal with my needs. But I was 19, stubborn AF, had probably been managing anxiety and depression for years without knowing and had major trust issues. Furthermore I had spent my entire life up to that point learning to minimise myself and my needs. Being told not to share my “business”. Fearing that I would be a burden. Those are very difficult things to understand and unlearn. Especially for a 19 year old whose life had just been turned upside down. So I retreated into myself. I knew that I had all this debt, but no one had taught me what to do with and I didn’t think I would have to deal with until I was older and had a degree and real job. I was in way over my head.

My 20s were a series of bad financial decisions, exacerbated by my family life, mental health and the quasi-cult I called my church home. I still cringe at the thought that there was a time in my life where I tithed 20% of my minimum wage income to that place. The things I could have done if I had put that towards debt or in a savings account.

But hey, you live and you learn.

Now here is where that article kicks in. Many people in similar situations would not have ended up where I was. But the problem I had was that I was smart, talented, had dreams and was told all my life that with hard work I could do whatever I wanted to do. So rather than to get a good job or go back to school for a skill that could lead to a stable future, I studied music for a year and went to Bible college.

No one told me that those were careers better suited for the white and wealthy. I truly believed that if I was faithful, worked hard and paid my dues then I would eventually be fine. I had also learned over the years to be resourceful and creative with what I had. I knew how to go without and I was willing to make sacrifices if I needed to. Like I mentioned before, one thing I was very bad at was asking for help. So I wouldn’t tell anyone that I couldn’t afford food, or bus fare or glasses.

I would make it work.

I remember one day my roommate opened my cupboard and saw that it was empty. She told our other roommate and when I got home they gave me a big speech about pride and one of them took me to the grocery store and told me to get what I needed. When she could tell I was holding back, she reiterated that she wanted me to shop like I would if she wasn’t paying. I can still see the image of those oranges at the cash and the memory still brings me to tears.

And then there were people at church who would just know. Elderly ladies would sometimes shake my hand and leave me a 20 or even write a check. A dear friend and mentor would regularly drive out of her way to drop me off at home, give me sheets of bus tickets or invite me over for a meal. When I made the decision to become a missionary, she was the first person to make a gift. She had been putting it away just for me. Little did she know that her small gift paid my rent that month.

For the longest time, I wore contacts because it was cheaper in the short run, to buy a box every 4 months or so than to drop the 500$ to buy a pair of glasses. But this was taking its toll on my eyes so one fall I decided to forego my bus pass for a month and refocus what extra money I had to buy glasses. I walked EVERYWHERE that month. And I mean everywhere. That is how I learned that it took 1.5 hours from my job to church one way.

I could go on and on but the real thread for me was the generosity of those in my life. Friends, strangers, pastors, my friends’ parents. I would not have survived my 20s without them and even then I still swam in debt, helped out my brother, and eventually my mother, when they needed it. I stressed about money. The reality is most of my peers even on their most broke day, were living at home or could move back or could simply call for help. That is something no one should ever take for granted.

I quit my job as a missionary two years ago for personal health reasons, but in hindsight, I should have left after my mom had her second major stroke in 2014. I was fundraising my salary, hating every moment of it and barely making enough for me, let alone a whole other human being. I worked 3 jobs that fall, was cranky all the time, spent more time in the ER than I wanted and accrued credit card debt like you wouldn’t believe. The one sweet thing that happened in those years is that I finally paid off my student loans. It took much longer than it should have but it was a victory and I celebrated it.

Fast forward two years and I’m 31, I live in a city that’s MAD expensive and I know that the only reason I survived my first year in Toronto is that I have some of the most amazing, generous, supportive and loving friends. And I don’t take that lightly. I often say that “breaking down is a luxury of the rich. In all the shit I have experienced, I have never allowed myself to fully break down. I would push whatever debilitating emotion was there to the side and press on cause ain’t nobody was going to go to work for me. Last fall was one of the darkest seasons I have ever experienced and I could not have had the space to navigate it the way I did without certain people stepping in. I recognize that not everyone in my position has friends who will just send them hundreds of dollars if they need it without asking questions.

Sometimes I wonder what the fuck I am even doing and then I remember these people who have invested in my life because they love me and they believe in me. This is better said in French, but the day I pull down my first star from the sky, it will be in their honour. My victories belong to them as much as they do me because I couldn’t have them without a roof over my head or food in my stomach. I’m blessed beyond measure and the symphony of my life is an ode to their goodness.

This week, I gave notice at my first “real” job. I was making a salary, had benefits and I know that some of my friends were so happy that I would finally be “stable”. Every time someone mentioned how happy they were for me I felt this tension in my gut. Cause I hate it. I’ve had this job for 6 months and I have hated it for 5. It isn’t necessarily the work. It’s the fact that I use none of my skills, I am regularly understimulated, and I know that the 40 hours I spend there I can’t spend on creating for myself. Look, I know that some people would have killed to be in my position. But like I mentioned earlier, I have this problem. I am passionate about things that aren’t immediately, if ever, lucrative. And in the last year, I added to that list. Let me tell you. Acting is a rich person’s domain.

I don’t care how you slice it. It’s expensive. Days off for auditions, clothing, character shoes (Did you know those things cost like HALF A GRAND? I died a little when I heard that. And no I do not own a pair.), headshots, resumes, MAKEUP — I’m just gonna take a moment to talk about how much makeup I have gone through in the last year and a half. I am on my 4th bottle of foundation this year. Those things cost 50$ a pop. Let’s not get started on contouring, blushes, brushes…like holy hell. I need an account for makeup alone. Okay, rant over. Now, where were we? Oh yes, dance classes, acting classes, tights, and some theatre companies will have you pay for costumes! (I’m not hating. I get why. I just can’t afford it)

Since I started my full-time job I have been in 3 full plays and a cabaret. I have been asked more than once by cast mates “How do you do it?” How do I work 8–5, go to auditions, rehearse and memorize music and lines and show up for 80 hours of rehearsal and 3- 5 shows a week. The answer is I don’t how I just know I have to. Because if I didn’t, my job would have murdered my soul. I have the dreams of a rich kid and the drive of a fortune 500 CEO. What the fuck am I supposed to do?

Friends have texted me that they’re worried about me and that the pace of my life isn’t sustainable. But I need my job to live and I need my art to live. And even then, if I’m honest, I am not fully fulfilled in my creative endeavours. Even though on paper, as a newcomer to this industry, I am doing well. I am not creating in the ways I know I can and I desire to. I can’t afford to. I am barely sleeping as it is. While everyone is talking about how great I’m doing and how talented I am, I am playing characters that I don’t fully resonate with, and I am working for and with people who are lovely, kind and generous but don’t have the same concerns that I do.

I don’t just want to be your big black girl with a gospel belt. I don’t want to be “sassy”. I hate being the only black person in the room ALL THE TIME. I know I have SO much more to offer. I get new ideas all the time. I want to start podcasts, write plays and films. I want to publish books and produce records, learn to dance, play guitar.

I want to own my OWN shit.

I’m SO tired of helping wealthy white folk create more wealth for themselves. How is this changing my future, my nieces future or the future of those who are like I was growing up? It’s not. It doesn’t. It won’t. And the truth is money makes this industry work. Money buys you time. Money buys you skills. Money buys you connections. And for many people like me, the price is often just too high.

So when I see the line about wanting diversity on a posting, I roll my eyes. When people complain about not being able to produce certain shows or the lack of representation in theatre, I shake my head because most of them have only scratched the surface of the problem. I have heard people say that some theatre companies only want “trained” actors and I just want to scream “THEN YOU DON’T WANT BLACK ONES!”

It means that you don’t want me.

Cause I wish I could join your classes or go to your schools, but I look at the price tag and think that is more debt that I don’t know I could ever get out of. So I coast on my skills and talent, read tons, ask a lot of questions and show up to every room that will have me. Cause it’s the only thing I know to do. I can’t call my mom and ask her for 400$ to take a workshop. Nor can I really afford to take the time off to show up to your weekly class from 1–5 on a weekday.

Now I know that some POC will say differently. I get it. I have friends who are wealthy who come from homes of colour. I am not one of those people and there are so many others like me. Our voices deserve to be heard as well. Our stories deserve to be told. To be funded. But many of us never get there. Many of us go home. Give up on our dreams. Or get a good job and stay longer than that year we promised it would be. We get used to the regular check, and the dreams fade. Others do “make it”, but it’s at the cost of their health and their relationship or they resign themselves to playing caricatures in the name of having a “career”.

Those don’t feel like viable options for me. If I could find a way to be happy showing up to an office Monday- Friday 9–5, trust me, I would probably do it. But I’m not. And on the flip side, I am tired of being tired and I am starting to see the time slip by.

I read that article about how this writer “made it” and it low key made me angry. But I know it’s not their fault their parents are wealthy. Just as much as it’s not mine that my parents aren’t. But sitting here at 31, having hustled pretty much all of my life, I admit that I’m growing weary. I am starting to think about the kind of life I want to settle in to. The home I want to build. My nieces are growing up so fast, and I think about how they are going to pay for school in 12–14 short years. My mother is in a nursing home which was all she could afford with her disability cheques. It’s not what I dream of for her, but I can’t do more than I’ve done at this point.

On the surface, it feels like I have to choose.

Every once in a while this memory from high school crosses my mind. I was in 10th-grade history class and our teacher Mr. Leach looked at us and said, “If your parents are poor then you’re probably going to be poor. If your parents are rich then you’re going to be rich.” I never forgot those words. Sometimes I feel like they haunt me. I know in the back of my head that if it’s just about money, I have the skills and connections to fix that right now. I could move back to Ottawa, get a job, and have a completely different life in even as little as a year or two. But I fear that the comfort would swallow me whole and I would never cross that finish line. Plus something in me dares to believe, to hope that I can have it all. That I don’t have to choose. That if I hold on just a little while longer, there will be light on the other side. That to live well off one’s craft, is not solely the domain of the white, the wealthy or the lucky. But that it can be my reality too.