Confessions of the Working Poor

I work hard, buy quality clothes and know how to fake my way through dinner-party conversations. But behind the scenes, I’m part of a fast-growing Canadian underclass.

- Jeni Gunn

It’s Saturday, just before dawn. As I ascend toward wakefulness, I hear a rhythmic thump-thumping from the floor beside my bed. It’s my black Labrador retriever, Shelby, politely wagging her tail. I cross my bedroom and stub my toe on a wooden hexagonal end table that I found at the side of the road a few days earlier. A month ago, that spot was occupied by a free bookshelf. Before that, a free child’s desk. When I can afford to buy paint, I'll sand the table, paint it and sell it for $45.

I think about my garden project. My basement suite in Victoria, B.C., has a small outdoor space; the homeowners say I can do whatever I want with it. What I want is to grow beans, tomatoes and strawberries, but my collection of donated planters sits empty because I can’t afford soil. Dirt is not in my budget. Officially, only 10 per cent of Canadians are considered poor. But if you measure poverty not just by income but by standard of living, the number rises to roughly 25 per cent—about 10 million people.

I hop in the shower. My mind is already racing: I have a few more weeks left on my contract as an emergency-management coordinator for a community organization, and I need to put the final touches on their evacuation plan. Surveillance for a private-investigation client starts at noon. If there's time, I'll squeeze in a quick landscaping job. Wait, is Tiffany's potluck tonight? It is. That $75 invoice for a real estate blog post hasn't come in. I make a mental note to send an email to the realtor. This means I can't swing a potluck item right now.