Poverty Tested, Prosperity Approved

By Cynthia Haynes Asmond

Poverty Tested, Prosperity Approved is a soul stirring book that reveals factual life struggles due to very limited education. The result of this misfortune is a life of poverty, alcoholism, domestic violence, low self-esteem, and other negative attachments. It expresses the difficulty of being least, while waiting to be recognized by those whom are fortunate in the social realm.

The author, Cynthia Haynes Asmond, once craved the homebody life because she despised the whispers, bullying, taunting, laughing, and finger pointing from others, including family members. Thank God she had a mother who taught her how to survive and keep it moving in spite of her struggles. More importantly, thank God she had a father who taught her how to strive.

Not everyone feels as though they have that person in their life who can encourage them. That is exactly why Cynthia penned this book. Now, through the sharing of some of the most traumatic and intimate experiences in her life, Cynthia is able to inspire others to perform with optimism and a smile, regardless of their situation and circumstance. Poverty Tested, Prosperity Approved is a designated compass for those who are living beneath their privilege, and for those who might be deemed more fortunate in certain areas, but need mental strength and holistic stability. Even if you find yourself in neither of these predicaments, allow this book to be used as a simple tool of inspiration to press forward with inner and outer happiness and peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cynthia Haynes Asmond
• Release date: Jul 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536540888

Book preview

Chapter 1

Born Into Poverty

In Calhoun County, South Carolina, a very rural area located in the outskirts of St. Matthews, during the spring, summer and fall, the cotton and bean fields were always filled with broke folk and folk whom were robbed of their education. A perfect example was my mother. As much as she loved school, having to walk twenty miles to school in the rain, heat, and the cold was a bit overwhelming. When she inquired to her teacher about riding the school bus, she was told that she lived too close to the school to ride the bus. I imagine if Mother was allowed to really respond to her teacher after hearing such an answer, she probably would’ve told her that she didn’t have good judgment when it came to distance.

As a child, Mother knew that talking back to adults was like committing a serious crime. So instead of voicing her inner thoughts to her teacher, she pressed on her way, walking to school daily, all the way up until fifth grade.

With much sorrow, upon her sixth grade year, Mother didn’t return to school. Most of her peers had the same hindrance in common, which was called distance. With all it took for Mother to get to school, her parents saw it more fitting she spent that time helping out with family needs. So ending her education much too soon was the prelude of years to come of her working in the bean and cotton fields. This type of employment continued for Mother as a married teenager. It didn’t end after having her first child either. Even with a husband, my mother was the ultimate bread winner. Her husband—the man who would eventually become my dad—only had a third grade education because he was forced to leave school so he could help his dad work to support their family.

There were other limited uneducated folk. The bean fields and the cotton fields were a dreadful continuation of generational lack, especially during the winter. The winter months were too cold for the employees to work in the fields. There was no cotton in the fields because the cotton seeds were not planted until summer, requiring a long growing season of 120-180 days of frost-free weather. The soil had to be above sixty degrees Fahrenheit. Beans were also frost sensitive and had to be planted during the spring. Therefore, the income for that season in most households was zero dollars, with the exception of the homes that had husbands who drove tractors like my dad did.

Of course there was always the small amount of money that was earned prior to winter that perhaps a fraction of had been saved in a jar, rice sack, or a tin can. Some folk used to bury money in the ground. I call that generic banking.

A real brick and mortar bank by the name of Carolina First existed during this time, but as Mother would say, After taking care of home, nobody had any money left to deposit, and nobody knew how to make deposits anyhow unless they had prior instructions and were permitted to do so if they could afford to.

Very few of the black families owned personal farms like the Smoak family or my father’s parents, Granddad Tap and Grandma Mary, whom were sharecroppers.

My parents worked in the cotton and bean fields a great portion of their lives, even during Mother’s pregnancies. I can’t help but feel discouraged at times knowing that Mother had to work out in those fields while pregnant, especially in the summer time. I imagine my mother was dripping with sweat that soaked her clothing. As soon as she would wipe her face, new beads of perspiration had already taken its place. If the wind blew, it was a hot breeze, not a cool one. There wasn’t a need for a decent hairdo in the field, especially in the summer time. As soon as the day started, any hairdo, except braids, would transfer into a wet, stringy mess. Ungroomed hair at work would be a major crisis for today’s women.

Mother’s strong will to help my dad make a living and support their children enabled her to remain in the fields. Although she was pregnant, constantly sweating in the heat, holding her back as she experienced back pain and belly cramps at the same time, God sustained her until she could find better employment.

Now days the average wife would rather be pampered and have the red carpet rolled out in front of her to take a diva walk. I can only envision what it was like being pregnant back in 1954. Bending over until you’re tired, and then crawling on your knees from row to row from sunrise to sunset, dealing with morning sickness, all types of insects, surrounded by snakes, dust and sand. Then of course there was the scorching sun beaming down on top of the straw hat. That will never make sense to me. What I know is my mother, even pregnant, knew how to be an asset and not a liability. She never believed in begging for anything.

In the summer of 1963 and the month of July, my entrance to the earth was nearing. Mother was finally able to vacate the fields for a spell. She’d already had four children prior to my birth. Before I was born, she said she used to cook, get in bed, and eat. She’d then place her plate beside the bed and take long naps. This routine continued until I was born in that very same bed where she napped. When it was time for my birth, it was a very difficult labor. I was almost born in the hospital because the midwife, Ms. Clara, told Mother that I wasn’t moving toward the birth canal during contractions when my mother was pushing, or on my own. Mother had to be shaken and constantly oiled with mineral oil vaginally.

Finally a breakthrough happened. Thanks to Ms. Clara, my delivery took place in a two-room shack in Calhoun County, South Carolina at about 3:00 a.m. on Friday, July 19, 1963. I weighed eight pounds, and my little crib was a dresser drawer. Infants are never given the choice of the family they would prefer to be born in. God makes that choice for good reasons; reasons that the human brain cannot in depth comprehend.

My mother was given suggestions about what my name should be from her mother-in-law as well as a niece. Mother’s niece wanted my first name to be Clay, because that was her name. Her mother-in-law wanted my first name to be Mary, because Mary was her name. Mother declined and waited a few more days until something better came to mind. My first cousin, Crotelle, suggested Cynthia, and my mother accepted. I will always cherish Crotelle for giving me my name and for being my godmother.

I was now the new baby on the block that everyone wanted to visit. This type of celebration of birth was the norm back in 1963. Everyone said that when I was born, it was like the block party of the century for our neighbors and relatives. Everybody wanted to hold me, kiss me, and take me home with them, in spite of poverty. It’s really good to know as an adult that my birth was a positive distraction in the midst of difficult times.

I wasn’t celebrated with balloons, party whistles, music, or even a banner. My parents couldn’t afford those pleasurable items. But what I was celebrated with was joy and love. Everyone lived in the moment, so as soon as the newness of my birth wore off, the thought and evidence of a bigger strain was on my family, especially financially, because Dad was the only bread winner in the house, still farming, grossing $25.00 per week. The rent was $30.00 per month, the light bill was anywhere from $12.00 to $15.00 per month, and $10.00 afforded the family of two adults, four children, and an infant at least six bags of groceries. The only thing I could drink was milk from Mother’s breast. It was heaven made formula; the only beverage my parents didn't have to pay for.

Since Mother always cooked soul food—even for breakfast—and made a lot of Kool-Aide, homemade iced tea, or we just had plain water, milk and corn flakes were pretty foreign in our home. Money was scarce. Although things were dirt cheap, we still needed clothes and shoes. Mother wasn't the panicky type. Instead of complaining about our lack of funds, she always said, Trouble don’t last always, or The Lord will make a way somehow. For some good reason, we always believed her, because before Mother would even finish reciting those words, she’d already have an alternative, like circulating the same clothes and shoes among the girls and the boys each day. Or when our shoes would fall apart, she knew how to mend them together with a piece of wire or thread long enough so our bare feet wouldn’t touch the ground as we walked. She did what she had to do to tide us over until she was able to shop at the thrift store again.

Mother was mentally strong and a prolific thinker. With the very little money she had to work with, she definitely worked that chump change indeed. Every Saturday morning my mother would be the first customer to arrive at the thrift store to choose the best hand-me-downs for her family. She accepted the fact that she wasn't financially able to shop next door at Savitz Department store like some others could. But she believed that she one day would.

There were times Mother would make her own pattern and use a needle and thread to make her something to wear when it was time