Zinida Moore sits on her plush brown couch on a Tuesday afternoon in November. The sounds of the busy Englewood thoroughfare outside seep into her two-bedroom apartment. She keeps her phone next to her, and it dings regularly. Most people in her life know that these early-afternoon hours are the best time to reach her. It’s the only time of the day when she is both awake and not working.
Moore, 41 at the time, leans back into the couch. She’s exhausted, but that’s nothing new. For much of the past two decades, she has held more than one job at a time. Lately she’s been working at both the Walmart in Chatham and a nearby Dollar Tree. At Walmart, Moore stocks shelves and checks inventory from 10 p.m. to 7 a.m. From there, she takes an $8 Uber to the Dollar Tree, where she opens the store at 7:30 a.m. and works until 1:30 p.m. “I get tired, but then I think about my kids,” says Moore, who has three children at home. “They’re my motivation.”
Working multiple jobs is how Moore has long managed to cobble together enough income to supply her kids with basic necessities at home and for school. Her financial stability has always been precarious, and she worries that one emergency could quickly spiral her into even deeper debt.
A flat-screen television is encircled by family photographs. In one, Moore lies on a bed surrounded by her kids, their heads forming a triangle around her. A dual frame features a photo of the high school graduation of her oldest child, Reggie, 23, and a school picture of her 16-year-old daughter, Ziniya. The windowsill is covered with trophies that celebrate Ziniya’s cheerleading, Reggie’s football days, and the creative writing of her youngest, Ryan, who is 11.
Working multiple jobs is how Moore has long managed to cobble together enough income to supply her kids with basic necessities at home and for school. And then there’s the not-strictly-necessary stuff—trendy clothes, trips to the movies, money for the mall—that she wants them to have. It all adds up. Her financial stability has always been precarious, and she worries that one emergency could quickly spiral her into even deeper debt.
Moore’s phone dings. It’s Ziniya. She needs a new uniform for her cheer squad. Her text breaks down the cost of each piece: $45 for an oversize hair bow, $25 for a collar, $110 for shoes, $125 for the backpack. Then there’s the rest of the uniform. All told, it will run $630.
In previous years, Moore might have sent out a text to family and
