Scratch Beginnings_ Me, $25, and the Search for the American Dream - Adam W. Shepard [2]
I also want to point out that I am not going to attempt to strengthen my story by flooding you with a wide range of statistics and information from books or magazines or other periodicals. While this is certainly a research project of sorts and there are points to be made, I feel it is important that I draw only from my own experience.
As you’re going to see throughout the course of my journey, this is not a modern-day rags-to-riches, get-rich-quick story. “I made a million, and you can too!” Nope. That’s too cliché, and, coincidentally, too unrealistic. Mine is the story of rags-to-fancier-rags. I’m not an extraordinary person performing extraordinary feats. I don’t have some special talent that I can use to “wow” prospective employers. I’m average. My story is very basic—simple. My story is about the attitude of success. My goal is to better my lot and to provide a stepping-stone over the next 365 days for everything else I want to accomplish in my life. I aim to find out if the American Dream is still alive, or if it has, in fact, been drowned out by the greed of the upper class coupled with the apathy of the lower class.
So, here we go. You, my audience:
The dad who can use this book when his twelve-year-old is complaining about not having the latest video game.
The fifteen-year-old who doesn’t quite understand why he or she has to study so hard and take “all of these worthless classes that I’ll never use in real life.”
The recent college grad who—drowned in student loans and limited opportunities (and, of course, living at home)—is searching for any little bit of strength and direction.
The seventy-two-year-old grandfather who already has a firm grasp on the concept of my story and has doubtless lived many of these same experiences.
The thirty-two-year-old mother of two who is working multiple jobs just to get by. The one making the sacrifice so her children can have a shot at the American Dream that she gave up on long ago.
You, the underdog, sitting behind the eight ball, wondering when your number is going to be called.
And me, with $25 and my personal belongings on my back, ready for the craziest adventure of my life.
ONE
WELCOME TO CRISIS MINISTRIES
Tuesday, July 25
There was nobody there.
There has always been somebody there to greet me. After every trip I’ve taken, it’s either been Ma or Pops, a friend, a girlfriend, or, once, even a professor.
But not that night.
Nope. All that welcomed me was the humid evening air of Charleston, South Carolina, the rancid smell of urine leaking from the stalls of the train station’s restrooms, and a scruffy looking man gripping a plastic cup half full with coins. That night, I was greeted by a totally new world.
But that was to be expected. I had been preparing for the unpleasant insecurity of this first night ever since my brother had dropped me off earlier in the day at the Amtrak station in Raleigh on his way to work. I had been preparing for my first moment of freedom for far longer than I could remember.
There are plenty of ways to get from Raleigh to Charleston, the city that I had randomly picked out of a hat of twelve other southeastern U.S. cities. You can drive or fly or hitchhike or take the bus. The ambitious, I suppose, could bike or run, but this wasn’t that kind of journey. I chose the train because, economically speaking, it was the most efficient choice. And really, I chose to ride the rail for selfish reasons. I didn’t want to have to bother with good-byes once I got to South Carolina’s premier port city. Surely whoever dropped me off would have hung over my shoulder for a while to make sure everything was okay.
And I’m glad I chose the train. Even if I had somehow known ahead of time that the ride would be uncomfortable and would arrive three