I get it. How we came to live in this house, in this neighborhood, is a story for another day, but suffice it to say that, like my daughter, I’ve felt my share of shame and guilt over where we live, worrying I’ll be relegated to a stereotype before people get to know me. And because I’ve felt defined by it, I’ve been ambivalent over our economic situation ever since I got married twenty years ago.
As a BYU freshman living in the dorms, my daughter made up an excuse every time I invited her and her roommates over for Sunday dinner. When I finally pinned her down, she confessed that she was embarrassed. “I don’t want them to see where we live,” she said. It was the same when she recently started dating a boy she met at school. She put off bringing him home as long as possible, wanting to keep her upbringing a secret.
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