Through a childhood of Food Stamps, Medicaid, and domestic violence shelters, my mom always said we'd make great reality TV. Her name was Fran, and she had one of those "I want to tell you everything" personalities. She told me her life began when my twin and I were born: we were her motivation to break the cycle of abuse she inherited from her family.

I was eleven when I came home to my mother crying in a pool of blood, my father drunk in his lazyboy above her. When we moved to New York, back into his childhood home where his parents beat him for being queer, my father coped with alcoholism and abused my mother. She was used to neglect, being the daughter of a felon and gambling addict. But when her children walked in on her that night, she packed our bags, took us to a domestic violence shelter, and never looked back. My mother fought homelessness and worked 80 hours a week so I could prioritize my education, go to high school, and have a better life than what her parents and husband gave her.

I inherited Fran’s love of writing, so when she died, and a guidance counselor gave me a journal, I filled it with the stories of her sacrifices and love. I transcribed my stories into college essays and became the first in my family to graduate college: an engineer, an orphan, a journaling addict. I wrote everything down, and as writing became a safe space for me to digest my experiences in poverty, I reclaimed my voice and realized my struggles were not due to laziness, greed, or individual fault. My parents’ struggles, which they inherited from their parents and passed onto me, were the result of systemic fans blowing the flames of generational poverty. To forgive my parents for the world of pain and poverty they left me, I needed to understand the systemic barriers to healing intergenerational trauma. Maybe things would be different if my parents could’ve afforded college, if they had access to psychological healthcare in the depths of their addictions, or if the redlined neighborhoods we called home had resources to support women and children. My mother did the best she could, and I didn’t realize this until I cried over the journal where I scribbled her stories in grief.

My mother was an underdog who broke the cycle of abuse she inherited, not by pulling herself up by her bootstraps, but by loving me enough to prioritize my education and safety. After starting a new life at age 52, Fran got a job at the first ever rainbow bagel store in Brooklyn. She started publicizing the bagels, got influencers around the country eating rainbow bagels. Fran established a nationwide catering business, was an empathetic boss who advocated for her workers, and celebrated the queer community.

My mother worked long hours so I could focus on school, even when struggling to pay rent. Socialist policies, like Medicaid, Food Stamps, and Social Security, made this possible for a single mother. She strategized, built connections, and took authorship of her story, deciding that her kids were worth the fight. Fran was a trailblazer whose life-long struggle with poverty, addictions, and abuse bore resilience. When she learned to tap into this resilience, she leveraged her passion to create a safer future. I was lucky and privileged to have her as my mother. I’m grateful for her love, for the abundant support from my school community after losing her, and for the scholarships that let me pursue an education.

Losing my mother was the most painful and destabilizing event in my life, but I’m grateful she gave me the tools to share her story and take authorship of mine. Social mobility began with learning to tell my story, to find power in my resilience and learn from my mother’s bravery.

In the Social Mobility Journal, we are not selling get-rich-quick schemes, disillusioned duties to climb ladders, nor do we blame poor people for poverty. Inequitable policies are the cause of human suffering in the United States, increasing the profits of the wealthiest individuals through tax cuts and deregulation while stifling poor communities’ access to healthcare, education, rehabilitation, and livable income. Making ends meet should not require the formidable overcoming of systemic oppression alone; we need support.

In this journal, we collect individuals’ stories and research to narrate systemic barriers to economic security. Audre Lorde says that self care is an act of defiance for marginalized communities to overcome systemic oppression. True self care does not mean wine nights and face masks; it’s preserving the health and safety of the community who shares our lived experiences. SMJ encourages young people to embrace self love and fight for a stable future in unity. We are strategizing systemic change and uplifting the stories and resources of individuals who can one day turn our strategies into action.

This is an ode to my mother, who although being the best storyteller I knew, never shared her truth with the world. I ask that you speak life into Fran’s story, and I implore you to share yours alongside me. No child should endure the weight of poverty alone, so we’ll journal together, build resources together, and remind ourselves that our resilience is power.