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Scattered across Missouri, and the rest of America I’m sure, are thousands of working-class communities that no one ever thinks about. Their curbs crumble into the streets. Their sidewalks, when they have them, are cracked and jagged. The people who run this country, the Wall Street bankers, the politicians, the corporate executives, don’t see those of us who live there. Instead, they see loans, consumers, votes, labor, and occasional cannon fodder. If they looked closer, and chose to make decisions based on our country rather than on themselves, they would discover a reservoir of strength and resiliency that they could organize into conquering every challenge we face.
I know because I grew up in one of these neighborhoods. First on a short street called Cottage Lane, and then a block away on Dunklin Street, in Jefferson City, Missouri. It was a beautiful place to live. All of us kids running in and out of each other’s houses. Black, white, brown. It didn’t matter, we were there together and took care of one another when things went sideways.
I turned eight years old in the midst of all this awesomeness. I remember it well, because it was going to be my best birthday ever — I was going to get a little sister! There were already three of us kids but, seeing as my parents were passionately Catholic at the time, we were born in fairly quick succession and rapidly vacillated between friends and enemies. A couple devastating miscarriages later, and we were going to have a little sister we could spend all our time doting and loving on.
My mother kept saying it was the easiest pregnancy ever, and we counted the days excitedly. Two days before my birthday, she was born. We talked to my parents on the phone. Easiest one yet, my mom proclaimed, the timing was perfect, they hoped to be home for a birthday party. I really was getting a little sister for my birthday this year!
After school, my grandma hurried us to the hospital to meet our new little sister. We each got to hold her as doctors and nurses hustled this way and that. My mom and dad were tense. They told us our little sister just needed a few tests run. Before we knew it, my little sister was on a helicopter to St. Louis, my parents following closely behind in our van. She was on the verge of dying and needed open heart surgery.
That birthday did end up being memorable, but for all the wrong reasons. As an eight-year-old kid, it’s hard not to be selfish, and I remember wondering how, if my sister died on my birthday, would I ever really get a birthday again? We never did extravagant presents as kids, since times were always tight, but every year my mom or grandma would make us a special themed cake. A baseball, a cat, a clown holding balloons… something meaningful for us.
That year, however, my grandma drove me to the grocery store and told me I could pick out any cake I wanted. I was sad, but also kind of excited — I spent hours as a kid ogling the grocery store desserts and wondering what they were like. I walked up and down the display, looking for the biggest brightest smash of frosting I could find. When I finally saw it, I just knew.  It was a beautiful white cake with a massive pile of red flowers flowing out of one corner.
“Are you sure?” My grandma asked, as I told her it was the one. “It’s not really a birthday cake. But if you want it…”
Oh, I wanted it.
I don’t remember what present I got that year. But I remember eating every single ounce of that red flower frosting. How the red dye stained my fingers. And I remember how ridiculously sick I felt after gorging myself and how I swore I would never eat a bite of frosting again as long as I lived.  An oath I’m sure I broke at the next family birthday. Although, to this day I don’t go heavy on icing and have flashbacks if I try.
My sister survived that open heart surgery, several ensuing health scares, another open-heart surgery, and more. It’s hard to capture the toll that takes on a family. Mentally, emotionally, and financially. I remember my mom crying herself to sleep not just because she wasn’t sure if her little girl would survive, but also because she had no idea how they were going to make it financially. Something that we could have never accomplished alone, and only did because we had a community behind us.
For years our mechanic, W, took care of us no matter what ability my parents had to pay at the time. When my parents were run completely dry, a man down at church did their bankruptcy for free. During the time they had to spend at the hospital 150 miles away while my sister fought to survive, people around town took us other kids into their homes and cared for us.
It was during one of these periods, when my parents were away, that the people in our community, many of whom we didn’t even know, did something remarkable to help our family. Something that got them no glory, when they could have just gone about their day without anyone knowing any differently.
Us three other kids were farmed out across town while our little sister was hospitalized in St. Louis, my parents at her side. They were completely broke at the time, waiting on the next paycheck,, and worried about how they were even going to get back home. They pushed it out of their minds, praying for the best, and near the end of that hospitalization they got an unexpected call from a member of my mom’s prayer group. The group, knowing what we were going through, had collected some money to help us get through.
My dad agreed to stay at the hospital so that my mom could go back, pick up the money, see us kids, and get the house ready for him and our little sister to return.
Feeling lighter than she had in months, my mom rolled into town on fumes. With tears and hugs she accepted the generous gift, filled up at the gas station three doors down from our house, and made a beeline for the store. For the first time in a long time she would be able to get everything she needed.
She took her time filling up the cart, picked out ingredients for our favorite meals, and daydreamed about how she would surprise us since we didn’t know she was in town.
On the way to the register, she stopped in an aisle to look at something for one of my siblings. While her back was to the cart, someone grabbed her purse and ran off with it. The only money she had in the world was in that purse. Food for her kids. Heat. Water. Gas. The joy of our reunion. All gone.
She frantically told the manager. They called the police. She could hardly tell the officer a thing, she was sobbing too uncontrollably. Eventually, between her broken replies to his questions and the manager’s interjections, he pieced together what had happened. He searched the area and found her purse in the restroom.
He handed it back to her. Everything was there, except the money.
He stood back and copied the information from my mom’s driver’s license, now that she had it back, while she collected herself.
“Is everything on here right?” he asked, “In case something turns up?”
“Yes,” she sobbed, taking it back from him. He walked her to the car.
“Everything’s going to be ok, ma’am,” he said as she got in, “It’ll work out.”
She nodded, feeling like there was no way it would ever work out, closed the door, and drove home. Empty handed.
She says it was the darkest moment of her life, which hadn’t been particularly easy. Her husband was hours away at a hospital with their little girl clinging to life. She had nothing to offer the other three of us, so she didn’t even call to say she was in town. What do you do when you receive charity and then lose it? Where else is there to turn?
The phone rang. She answered out of habit. Her friend Joni was on the other line. My mom broke down immediately and told her friend what had happened. That she just needed to be alone. And she laid down. She laid there that afternoon. Ignoring the world. Ignoring the phone if it rang. She drifted into a haze.
She woke that evening to the sound of the doorbell ringing. Groggily, she debated whether or not to answer it. Before she could decide, there was a banging at the door.
“Coming…” she warbled, and made her way to the door, tear streaked and bedraggled.
When she opened it up, the policeman was standing there.
“I’m sorry to bother you ma’am,” he apologized, “but I wanted to come check on you, after everything you’ve been going through. And make sure you’re ok.”
“Thank you,” she replied, “I think I’ll be ok,” she added, trying to smooth her hair and wipe away her tears so that he would believe her.
The officer nodded.
“I think so, too,” he said, handing her an envelope. “From some of us down at the station. Just to be sure.”
My mom gave him a puzzled look.
“Well, good-bye now,” he said, and walked away.
“Bye.”
My mom closed the door and looked in the envelope. The officer had spent the afternoon collecting from guys he worked with. And he wasn’t the only one. The father of my mom’s friend, Joni, lived about thirty minutes away and had spent that afternoon collecting from his neighbors and members of his church. That night he brought the collection by. And so did others. Word had gotten around and the people in our community made us whole again. 
No one would have noticed if they hadn’t and many of those who contributed didn’t even know who we were. They just knew that we were in need, and there was enough extra in our community in those days for people to take care of one another.
Despite the hardship, it was a beautiful time. For months acquaintances, strangers, and friends brought food by the house. More than we could ever eat. I sat on the couch in the evenings and watched it roll in, meeting so many new people and feeling their love. They took care of us. Lasagna, spaghetti, casseroles… Goodness gracious, the casseroles! I remember sitting on the couch and praying one day after a particularly long string of casseroles: “Dear God, please, please, let someone bring a lasagna tonight!”
Most of the people who helped us had no more money than we did. They, too, were living paycheck to paycheck and knew that if disaster struck — a car accident, a temporary layoff, a broken boiler, a medical emergency — it could easily be them. But they helped us anyway.
That spirit still lives here. Many years later, W’s mechanic shop, the shop where they had helped my parents and so many like us, was drowned by a freak flood. The property didn’t require flood insurance, and everything he had in that establishment, his entire life and existence, was destroyed. The community came together and rebuilt it. And he’s still there, taking care of the next generation of families. 
I don’t pray for lasagna anymore. I pray that our leaders finally find the courage to make decisions that support communities like Jefferson City’s east side, rather than decisions that support their campaign donors who strip our communities for parts and leave us less capable of taking care of one another.

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