Donna Beegle

An Insider’s Perspective: The Donna Beegle Story

For generations, my family has subsisted on minimum-wage employment and migrant work. We
have never been landowners—always workers of the land. My grandparents and parents were
cotton pickers. My family members were predominantly migrant workers who followed the fruit
seasons—picking cherries, berries, potatoes, grapefruit, oranges, beans, and just about anything
else that grew. Sometimes we would go into the woods and pull moss or bark off the trees and
gather pinecones and mushrooms. We did work that didn’t require an education or more skilled
labor; jobs that did not require references or home telephone numbers. Although we worked hard
doing migrant labor work and temporary minimum-wage jobs, we were constantly being evicted,
going hungry, and struggling with poverty.
I was born into a family where no one had been educated beyond the eighth grade. My early
experiences in impoverished schools shaped my views and my expectations for the future. In my
world, education served as a distraction from being able to meet our daily basic needs or from
being close to my family, the only thing I had. I learned early on that education meant additional
“stress” to our family. The stress of trying to arrive on time, of having the right clothing, shoes,
lunch, and materials for homework projects—all these stresses created a perception that
education was not for people like me. I remember silently crying when teachers did not protect
me from teasing and ridicule over my ragged clothes, shoes, and lack of middle-class knowledge.
Thinking of these early educational experiences evokes memories of violence, humiliation, and
the fear of not fitting in.
At twelve years old, I met my future husband, Jerry, who was also from generational poverty.
At fifteen years old, I dropped out of school to get married. When I told my teacher I was
planning to drop out, she told me, “Don’t drop out. Someday you may want to get a job.” The
incentive she was providing to keep me in school—”a job”—had no meaning in the world I came
from. At the time, meanings were not in words for me, but were in people, shaped by the context
in which they lived. A “job” to me meant working long hours, not being respected, little or no
hope for moving up, and being paid a below-subsistence wage. The American belief that “if you
work hard, you’ll move up” was a myth for me and others like me who had little education or
training. I lived the experience that even though you work long and hard, you rarely move up,
you still get evicted, and you often go hungry.
When we married, Jerry was seventeen years old and had only a seventh-grade education
from impoverished schools. He could read and write at about a second-grade level. Jerry and I
both began working full time for minimum wage at a foam rubber factory, but I had to lie about
my age since it was illegal to hire a fifteen-year-old. We moved into a tiny, condemned one-
bedroom house in a neighborhood rampant with poverty.
The Promise of Motherhood
5 My dream for as long as I could remember was to be a mom. If my teacher had known
me better, she would have known the way to motivate me would have been through my desire to
be a mother and be able to provide a good life for my family. My only role models had dropped
out of school very young; every female I’d ever identified with had married very young and had
babies. I did not know anyone who had done anything else, so I was going to do that, too. Thus,

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it is no surprise that my goal in life was to be a mom. For me, having children meant that I would
love them, play with them, and that somehow we would find a way to get by and be happy!
I got pregnant right after turning seventeen. During my pregnancy, I rarely saw a doctor or
had anyone to talk to about the upcoming birth. My first baby, Joyce Marie, was born with a
head full of black hair and dark blue eyes. She weighed one pound, nine ounces, and was eight
and a half inches long. She only lived for nine hours, since her lungs were just too tiny to
survive. I was devastated by her death. Since I had no camera and no way to get one, I have no
pictures of Joyce. All I have to show she even existed are a miniature hospital bracelet and a
birth certificate showing her tiny footprint, which was the size of the tip of my little finger.
When I was eighteen and Jerry was twenty-one, we moved to an impoverished community
with my mom, invalid dad, grandmother, uncle, brother Melvin, his wife Mary, their two
daughters, and my brothers Wayne and Steve. The twelve of us moved into a small house with
boarded-up windows. Since it only had two bedrooms, Jerry and I slept in the laundry room.
Most of us slept on the floor.
My solution to the heartbreak of losing my daughter was to get pregnant as fast as possible so
I could fulfill my dream. As with my first pregnancy, prenatal care was not part of my life.
Welfare policy would not allow me to receive benefits if Jerry was in the home. So, when it got
closer to the birth, I lied to my welfare caseworker. I told him that Jerry had left me so I could
get a medical card in my fourth month of pregnancy.
On March 23, 1979, Jennifer Marie was born prematurely. She was immediately put on a
respirator and had an IV inserted into her stomach. When she was eleven days old, the doctors
said she had a hole in her heart and needed heart surgery right away. At this point, she weighed
only four pounds. They told me she would have a 50 percent chance of surviving the surgery,
and, if she lived, she would likely suffer from blindness and/or mental challenges. On the day of
the surgery, I only remember sitting outside the surgery room crying. I was convinced she would
die, just like her sister Joyce.
10 Jennifer survived the heart surgery and was kept on a respirator for two months. Every
day, I would sit and rub her skin. I could not hold her, as she had too many wires attached to her,
as well as recent stitches. She was a beautiful baby with long dark hair and blue eyes. The nurses
moved the IV to her head, and each day they shaved a little of her hair to accommodate it. She
could not make a sound because of the respirator in her throat. She would open her mouth to cry,
but nothing came out. Deep sobs racked my body as I cried for her. I was terrified of losing my
reason for being.
After two and a half months, the doctors told me she weighed five pounds and I could finally
take her home. The University of Oregon Health Sciences University regularly followed the
progress of preemie babies, so they did a free checkup on Jennifer every six months. Her only
lingering problem from her premature birth was that she developed asthma.
Since she was considered high risk, Jennifer was placed at the top of the waiting list for Head
Start, an education program for children in poverty. By this time, I had lost another baby and was
pregnant with my son Danny. Jennifer’s teacher at Head Start, Ms. Susan Proppe-Tong, made
every effort to link our family to resources. She told me about the Women, Infants, and Children
(WIC) nutrition program, and I was able to get juice and milk and healthy foods. I am convinced
that it is due to these resources that my son Danny was born healthy and weighed almost six
pounds.
Because of my own experiences, I had no trust for educators and was suspicious of Jennifer’s
teacher even though she had done so much for us. She consistently went out of her way to

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connect with me. When I arrived to drop Jennifer off or to pick her up, Susan made sure to notice
me and to compliment Jennifer. When someone brags on your child that much, you have to like
her! She established some trust by connecting me to the resources I was desperate for, and, as I
gained trust, I confided to her our family needs. She showed me—and told me—in every way
that she loved my little girl; thus, I began to feel safe and view her as a partner in getting
Jennifer’s needs met. I was able to hear her ideas about how I could help Jennifer learn. She even
taught me what questions to ask to help Jennifer in elementary school. (I did not even know I
could ask questions of school people. I thought we had to take whatever we got. That was what
the world of poverty had taught me.) One of the questions Susan told me to ask was how Jennifer
could be tested for the Talented and Gifted program. I asked that question, and Jennifer qualified
for the program, subsequently getting extra educational support all through elementary school. In
middle school, she was placed in honors classes.
The Reality of Poverty
By the age of twenty-two, I had been through four pregnancies and had two living children. We
still had no health care and suffered from poor nutrition. Many nights our dinner was a spoonful
of peanut butter. During those years, we subsisted on low-wage jobs or welfare—working in
migrant labor, pizza parlors, retail, and manufacturing. We moved from place to place, hoping
for a better life.
15 My marriage ended in 1986 after ten years. When Jerry and I divorced, my functionally
illiterate ex-husband was living in a car that we had bought for $25 at an auction. Unfortunately
for Jerry and men like him, there are few, if any, programs for males in poverty in the United
States.
I was now alone, trying to care for my six-year-old daughter (who was in the first grade) and
two-year-old son. It was not long before we, too, were evicted and homeless. The difference for
me and my children was that we could apply for welfare. We were given $408 per month plus
minimal food stamps. With rent at $395, I had just $13 left each month for transportation,
clothing, utilities, the Laundromat, soap, shampoo, and other basic necessities. I was constantly
making impossible choices . . . pay the rent or pay the bills . . . have my utilities shut off or get
evicted. My welfare worker told me I needed money management classes so I could stop being
evicted. The message to me was clear: “Donna, you are doing something wrong. You need to get
it together, to work harder. Do something!” But I did work hard. And guess what? None of the
minimum-wage jobs provided me with a living wage for my little family. All work did for me
was take me away from Jennifer and Daniel, who were my reason for being.
Beginning my Education
When my lights were turned off for nonpayment, I went to a Community Action Agency to ask
for help. I was told about a pilot program that was connected to Mount Hood Community
College (MHCC), near Portland, Oregon. The program, called Women in Transition (WIT), was
designed to be a three-week life skills program for displaced homemakers. Its goal was to help
single women gain an education or skills to earn a living for their families. I went to the program
not thinking it would change anything, but not knowing what else to do. The director had the
wisdom to know that it takes more than three weeks to interrupt poverty. She told the class the
WIT staff would be there to support us whenever we needed them—even after the classes ended.
I used their services for two years and then became a speaker and advocate on their behalf,
sharing how much the program had made a difference in my life. Many of the strategies I teach
today I learned in this program.
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 The four-member program staff began by sharing their own life experiences. I was amazed. I
had never heard the life story of a middle-class person before. I had been so isolated that I had
only known people from generational poverty. I learned that most of the WIT staff members had
gone to the same school for more than three or four months, something I had never done. I
learned that they had never gone hungry, nor been evicted, nor watched family members treated
badly or arrested. At the same time, I came to realize that they were not better than me. They
were people just like me who had different opportunities. And conversely, I was someone just
like them, but I had had fewer opportunities. This was so empowering. If they weren’t better than
me, then maybe I, too, could create the kind of life I wanted for me and my children!
The WIT staff took the time to get to know me and to find out what was important to me.
They taught me by using examples from my life to illustrate the concepts they were introducing.
They also worked hard on improving my self-concept by teaching me that I was somebody, that I
was special. They pointed out that I had accomplished amazing things during my years in
poverty, and they praised my resourcefulness. They began exposing me to possibilities for a
different future than the one that faced me in poverty.
20 The staff helped me with my most pressing needs. With a single phone call, they handled
a crisis that would have taken me weeks to deal with. They linked me with other programs and
built my capacity to have the luxury of learning. I had no idea how much of my brainpower and
energy were devoted to crisis needs until some of those needs were met.
Getting my GED
I came out of the WIT program believing that I had something to offer. At last, I had hope. I
wrote my dream in my diary: “I want to get a GED (general equivalency diploma) and maybe
someday take a journalism class. Then I will be somebody and be able to take care of Jennifer
and Daniel.” My passionate motivation to take care of my two children remained constant
throughout my educational journey.
My emergence from poverty began with my GED. The WIT staff took me to the main
campus of MHCC and helped me to establish relationships with faculty, support staff, and
resource personnel at the college. They knew that going on my own would have been too far out
of my comfort zone. The WIT staff, along with the staff from the GED program, provided me
with a tremendous amount of personal one-on-one teaching. Supported with government
resources to meet my family’s basic needs, was able to reach a milestone and attain my GED.
Graduating with my GED was a huge moment for my family and me. My grandmother,
parents, and brothers all came to the graduation. The ripple effect of my education on my family
began shortly after that time, when my brother began work on his GED. I remember thinking that
the GED wasn’t so bad, that maybe I could get a two-year degree and then I could take even
better care of my two children. I had now been exposed to college and to people who were going
to college. Once again, I met people who were not that different from me or better than me—just
people with different experiences and opportunities.
Overcoming Barriers to Education
Shortly after my GED graduation, I went to my welfare worker and told her I wanted to try to get
a two-year degree so I would not need government assistance anymore. She quickly told me that
the state and federal welfare policies dictate that in order to qualify for welfare I needed to be
available for any minimum-wage job. If I were in school, I would not be available. If I went to
school, the government would sanction me and cut my welfare check from $408 to $258. This
policy is still in effect in all but five states today. The one thing that kept me from giving up was
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the “Section 8” public housing certificate from the Portland Housing Authority given to me by
the WIT program. My class was the only group these certificates had been available to within the
WIT program; public housing assistance is currently available to only 14 percent of those who
qualify.
25 As I sat there crying in the welfare office, I began calculating how my kids and I could
survive on $258 a month. Not having to worry about being evicted was a huge comfort. I knew I
could sell my food stamps for 50 cents per dollar, which would help me pay the utility bills, go
to the Laundromat, and buy shampoo and toilet paper. Still, that life was all too familiar to me. I
did not know what was ahead, but I knew I did not want to stay in the world of welfare and
poverty. I told the welfare worker to “go ahead and cut my check” if that’s what she had to do,
but I was going to school. My welfare check was reduced to $258, but I still managed to survive
by continuing to implement the survival strategies that I knew well: I went to food banks,
clothing closets, and Community Action Agencies.
When the WIT staff connected me with the financial aid office at MHCC, I learned that
someone like me could get money to pay for school. When the community college advisor told
me that I could get financial aid to pay for college, I said, “Why don’t you pull me up on your
fancy-pantsy computer and look at my credit history. Then you won’t want to help me at all.” I
had an attitude, a smart mouth—something you get from not having your basic needs met.
“We don’t look at credit for financial aid,” said the advisor. Astonished, I replied, “Huh?
You give people money, and you don’t look at their credit?” I didn’t live in that world. I lived in
a world where I couldn’t get anything because I had bad credit. That was my frame of reference.
Furthering My Education
With an enormous amount of support from the WIT program staff and my family, I entered the
community college to work on a two-year degree. I was absolutely terrified. I could not write a
complete sentence. The professors wrote words such as “fragment,” “double negative,” and “run
on” on my papers. I did not know what those comments meant, but I knew from the red ink that
they were bad. I was also baffled by most of the words in the incredibly expensive textbooks.
The dictionary was no help; it only gave me more words I did not know. I did not learn what
continent I lived on until I was a junior in college. My knowledge gaps were large and served to
reinforce my internal feeling that I did not belong in college.
Students from poverty are often placed in special-education classes. If they do not know
words or concepts, assumptions are made that they are unable to know them—often equating
knowing the meaning of a word or subject with intelligence. This happens far too often to
children in poverty conditions. But if no one around you uses those words or talks about those
subjects, you’re not likely to understand them. Thus, my ignorance, much like that of all students
from poverty, had nothing to do with intelligence, but everything to do with growing up in
poverty. For instance, I did not have context for subjects such as Watergate. People at the college
would often say to me, “How can you not know this? Aren’t you American?” They did not
understand that while living in poverty, I was in an environment in which hunger and
homelessness forced me to focus on meeting basic needs. Nor did they comprehend that I had
attended impoverished schools where the resources were minimal and the teachers were
overwhelmed, an environment that was rarely conducive to learning.
30 My language also created difficulties in the education environment. I used the word
“ain’t” in practically every other sentence. I did not know when it was proper to say “gone” or
“went” or “seen” or “saw.” I did not know I was not speaking standard English. My only clue
that my speech was different was related to my perception that people judged me as
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unintelligent. I was rarely asked for my opinions or thoughts, and, when I did try to share them, it
seemed no one could hear me. I was invisible and, to many people, expendable. I did not look
“right”, talk “right”, or have the “right” family.
Despite not having the “right” family, my brother Wayne provided support that helped me
complete my two-year degree. Wayne had spent the last twelve years in prison reading and was
amazingly literate. I would write him questions about a subject I was studying, and he would
respond with twenty-five pages or so, using words and examples from our background to explain
the subject matter. I could relate to the examples he gave me because they were in our language
and were drawn from our life experiences. I rarely read my textbooks; instead I read his letters,
and for the most part I did well in my classes.
One day during lunch at MHCC, I stumbled on a college fair. Recruiters from four-year
universities were passing out information. A recruiter from the University of Portland asked,
“What’s your grade point average?” I told him, and he said, “I’ll waive the application fee if you
would like to apply.” My thoughts immediately flew to my kids. Wow, if I could get a four-year
degree, I could really take care of Jennifer and Daniel. Because of the location of the University
of Portland, I knew I could still rely on my mom and dad to take care of my kids while I attended
classes and studied. I could also count on my brothers to help out any way they could. I applied
to the University of Portland and received an acceptance letter shortly after. At this time, the
primary supports that kept me moving forward in the educational system were the safety of
having my housing needs met, the continued support of my family, and having mentors from the
WIT program and MHCC who believed in me and encouraged me.
Mentors, Middle-Class Language, and Meeting Me Where I Was—The Keys to My
Educational Success
My junior year in college, I began attending the University of Portland. In one of my first classes
there, a professor, Dr. Bob Fulford, asked me if I wanted him to correct my grammar. By this
time I had lost my smart mouth and attitude, so instead of responding sarcastically, I said, “Yes.
Please teach me how to talk like you, because no one thinks I am smart. No one asks my opinion.
I feel like no one can hear me.” Dr. Fulford was a language specialist and had done extensive
work on social-class barriers. He did not tell me to go learn nouns, adjectives, and verbs, as other
teachers had done. He knew that what I was doing was, in effect, learning a second language. He
knew that people experiencing poverty were often not exposed to the same topics that middle-
class people talked about. We had a language that related to our poverty experiences. He knew
that we did not say things incorrectly, but rather in ways that differed from ways the middle class
said things—speaking with a sentence structure and language that was clear and consistent but
did not match what was expected of us in school. He knew that for me to learn the meaning of a
word, the word needed to be used in a context that was familiar to me.
Dr. Fulford began correcting my language every time we spoke. He would stop me at various
points in our conversation and say, “Don’t say ‘ain’t,’’’ or “You meant ‘gone,’ not ‘went.’” I
would chant to myself throughout the day: “Have gone; I went.” “I saw; I have seen.” After
some time, he stopped giving me the correct word. He would simply shake his head. I would
reiterate my point, thinking he did not understand, but again he would shake his head, or say,
“No.” Finally, I would realize I was using dialectical grammar and would ask for the appropriate
wording.
35 Dr. Fulford also insisted that I read the newspaper. I protested that I did not know the
concepts or many of the words used in the articles. It wasn’t that I could not understand; it was
that in my education, certain concepts and words had not been taught to me in a way that was
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relevant to my life in poverty. He said I should circle what I did not know or understand and
come see him in his office. Then, he would explain—using familiar language and giving
examples I could relate to—until I understood it. Dr. Fulford also hired me to grade papers. I
now know that he had to grade them again after I had finished them, but the fact that he believed
in and trusted me made me try so hard. Because of him, I learned to write. I also learned that the
other university students made mistakes, too. Before reading their papers, I had thought that they
were perfect students.
After months of intense mentoring from Dr. Fulford, I became fluent in middle-class
language. Now, I am “bilingual.” I speak the language of generational poverty (oral culture), and
I speak middle-class (print-culture) language. Speaking a language requires being literate about
the culture and experiences that are associated with it.
With subsidized housing, food stamps, mentoring from numerous people, and the support
and encouragement of family and agencies, I was able to move forward and become educated.
Today, I can discuss topics frequently discussed by middle-class people, such as literature,
politics, food, and travel, or I can return to my original culture, where the main topics are people,
relationships, and survival issues. Prior to becoming bilingual, I did not understand middle-class
jokes. The references made in the jokes were unfamiliar to me. The feeling was similar to the
one I had when I went to a British comedy club in London during my university studies. British
people were laughing, and there I sat, confused about what was funny.
Dr. Fulford also linked me with other professors at the university who he knew would “take
care of me” and mentor me to success. One professor, Rick Seifert, a former newspaper reporter,
worked with me extensively on my writing skills. Dr. Barbara Gayle, a speech teacher,
encouraged me to speak about my experiences at conferences. She often spent hours working
with me and found resources to pay for my trips. Cat Warren, a journalism professor, encouraged
me to share my life story and helped me to let go of the shame of being born into poverty.
Because of Cat’s mentoring, I published my first newspaper article, in Portland’s local
newspaper, The Oregonian. The story went out over the Associated Press wire service and was
printed all over the nation.
The doors of opportunity were continually opened for me. Because Dr. Fulford believed I
was special and treated me that way, I was noticed on campus. I was selected for special
activities and opportunities. He even got to know my family and helped my children get
scholarships to athletic camps. When he found out that my dad loved Johnny Cash, he bought
tickets for our whole family to go see his concert. When he discovered that I had never really
eaten in a restaurant, he made it part of my learning to try ethnic food (now my favorite!). He
visited my brother in prison and went to the parole board to help gain his release. Bob Fulford
was the essential model of a mentor. He believed in me. He believed there was a way out of
poverty. He met me where I was, never judging but always moving me forward. Perhaps most
important, he linked me to a network of professionals in the community who continued to widen
my range of possibilities.
40 Part of this mentoring meant encouraging me not to stop with a bachelor’s degree. My
mentors encouraged me to go for a master’s degree. I said, “No way; that’s for smart people.” It
took a long time to undo the messages that I was not smart. I began meeting people in the
university setting, and I would say, “What did you study?” They would reply that they had a
master’s in psychology or some other discipline. I would talk with them for a while and realize
that I was fundamentally like them, despite our different backgrounds. Once again, I was
empowered by the feeling that I could continue my education. The pattern persisted: When I

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attained my master’s degree, my professors and mentors encouraged me to go all the way to the
doctoral level. As a doctoral student, I learned how to conduct research and use knowledge to
better understand and address the poverty conditions that once had prevented me from getting a
good education.
Family Support
Whenever I told my family I was taking more classes, they would say to me, “When are you
getting out?” in the same tone of voice they used with my brother who had been in prison for
twelve years. My family members had never known anybody who had benefited from education.
They had no frame of reference for believing that education can be a good thing or even a
possibility for people like them. That did not mean they did not love me or want the best for me.
They just did not have experiences that indicated that education was the best option for being
successful in life.
It is a commonly held belief among educators that families living in poverty are not
supportive of their children and their education. My research and my personal experiences
indicate otherwise. Families living in poverty may have no frame of reference for education
being a positive influence in their lives, but they overwhelmingly want what they see as “best”
for their children. Support may mean something very different to those in poverty than it does to
those in middle-class society. My family supported me in many ways. They loved me. My mom
and dad watched my kids while I was in school and often did my laundry and cooked for us. My
dad talked with me when I was troubled and helped me parent my kids. My brothers fixed my
broken-down cars or did repairs at my house. My cousins, uncles, aunts, and grandma all pitched
in wherever and whenever they could. There was no one prouder than they were when I received
my doctorate. My entire family knows that without their contributions, I would not be Dr.
Beegle. My family is living proof that it takes all kinds of support to educate students who are
living in poverty.
I do not agree with the notion that people from poverty have to leave their family behind to
become educated or middle-class. Harriet Goldhor Lerner (1989) writes that you cannot “not
communicate with your family.” She says it will impair other relationships in your life. I did
have to violate some of the values I grew up with. I was taught that if I had space on my floor,
someone should be able to sleep there. If I had extra beans, someone should be eating them. If I
had two dollars and you needed one, I should give one to you. When my financial aid came, I
often had to lie to my family and tell them I had no money. If I had given them the financial aid
granted for my educational expenses, I would not have had gas to get to school or money to buy
my books. Many nights I cried myself to sleep knowing that my brother’s heat was shut off or
my mom was out of milk and bread. I stayed sane by promising myself that someday I would be
in a position to help my entire family get ahead—not just Jennifer, Daniel, and me. If I did not
say no, we would all stay trapped. Even though I did have to abandon some of my values, I never
abandoned my family and they never abandoned me.
Jennifer
While I was getting my education, my daughter was also getting hers—both in school and out.
As a freshman in high school, Jennifer was offered a scholarship to an elite Portland-area private
school, Catlin Gabel. There, Jennifer became fluent in French and traveled to France—twice.
Jennifer found a way to fit in with very privileged kids through joining the volleyball team (and
later becoming captain) and through acting in and directing plays. She often told me it wasn’t
easy fitting in with those who had so much more than we did. She would say things to the
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students from privilege like, “You paid what for that sweater? Do you realize that would buy
someone’s utilities for two months?” “Look at our science class and all this equipment. There are
only seven of us in the class. In my old school, there were forty-five kids, no equipment, and we
shared one textbook.” Jennifer knew poverty firsthand. She was fourteen when we finally got out
of public housing and off food stamps. She had so many people she loved still living in poverty
that she was compelled to help raise awareness that not everyone has the same opportunities.
45 At seventeen and a half, Jennifer was invited to interview at Columbia University. I tried
to convince her that she didn’t want to go to New York. I gave her a long list of reasons why she
would not like it. I did not want her to leave Oregon. She pleaded with me and showed me how
she could get financial assistance to pay for the trip. Jennifer spent a week in New York. She
called me after a few days and said, “Mom, I have crossed off all the reasons on your list for not
liking New York. I even talked with the admissions director for two hours about poverty. I love
the school. I have been writing poetry in the outdoor cafes, and I have been going to the theater. I
LOVE NEW YORK! This is where I want to go to college.”
One week after Jennifer came home from New York, she was killed in a car wreck. She was
traveling 30 miles an hour in a 1962 Volvo on a bridge with metal grating. It was raining, and
when she hit the brakes, her back tires slid, causing her to spin into the other lane. She was hit by
a raised truck and did not have a chance. When I lost my daughter, I also lost a huge part of me. I
ache for the loss her death represents, for the changes I believe she would have made to this
planet, because, in many ways, Jennifer was much wiser than I am about how we could be a
more inclusive society and treat all people more humanely.
I am eternally grateful that I had Jennifer for seventeen and a half years. I am also grateful
for all the people who helped our family move out of poverty—people who went beyond their
job descriptions and did not judge, but truly helped us to access resources and to envision
possibilities. Without them, I know Jennifer would never have attained the potential she realized.
Most people in poverty never get to know they love theater, or enjoy writing poetry, or have the
pleasure of traveling to France. Few get an opportunity to be all they can be. My Jennifer did. I
share her story to challenge anyone working with people in poverty to look for the “Jennifers” in
their life.
My Life and Family Today
Today, I live in Tigard, Oregon, with my husband, Chuck, and my two youngest children, Austin
(who is nine) and Juliette (who is eight). My favorite thing in the world is talking and playing
with my kids.
My son Daniel, now twenty-four, lives minutes away. I really enjoy watching him mature
and pursue his dreams. When Daniel was fourteen, he was counting silently on his fingers. I said,
“Danny, what are you doing?” He said, “Mom, in fourteen years, I should have my doctorate.”
Danny’s dad has a seventh-grade education. Danny struggles with learning difficulties, but he
believes in himself and is surrounded by the support needed to succeed in education.
50 Two of my brothers have received bachelor’s degrees. Three still struggle with literacy,
but they now know they can learn, because their sister did. I have cousins, nieces, and nephews
who are becoming educated. I have a number of cousins who grew up homeless who now have
bachelor’s degrees; some are entering graduate school. I have a niece who wants to be a
pediatrician (not a word my family even knew before—and not someone we had ever taken our
kids to!). For most of my family members, education has a new meaning. It used to mean only
stress, but now it means opportunity.

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 Though some family members have moved out of poverty, there are still those who live on
disability checks of $600 per month and temporary and minimum-wage jobs. I love my family
and am very close to them. I practice what I teach in my relationships with family—I help them
with everything I personally can, and I build resources by connecting them to mentors and new
opportunities. I am their advocate when systems that are set up to help them are not meeting their
needs.
Professionally, all of my work is devoted to ending poverty. I am president of
Communication Across BarriersTM, a consulting firm devoted to improving relationships and
communication across class, race, and gender barriers. I am also the founder and CEO of
PovertyBridge, a Portland-based non-profit organization that is focused on providing
opportunities for people in poverty. I speak, train, and consult nationwide with anyone who
works with or is interested in making a difference for people from poverty backgrounds and
those who are currently living in poverty. I combine life experience, eighteen years of working
on poverty issues, and my research to help people and organizations gain better knowledge about
what they can do to make a genuine difference for those they serve.
When asked why I do this work, my response is always the same: “How can I not do it? I
know too much to be silent.” I know what it is like to go through life feeling like there is no hope
and like no one cares. I grew up watching the people I loved not being treated very well by
people in organizations that were supposed to help them. I saw my mom cry time after time
when she was told she did not have the right paperwork or correct identification to get food or
shelter. I saw my dad work sixteen hours a day and saw him cry when his pay would not cover
the rent and groceries for our family. I saw my grandma sleep on the ground in a cherry field,
exhausted from picking since 3:00 a.m. I watched my brothers try to hide their fear and anger
when they saw our parents could not get any help to feed us—the fear and anger that eventually
led some of them to incarceration. I cried my heart out when the judge sentenced my beloved
middle brother and best friend to prison. I hurt to my core when I saw the fear on my six-year-
old child’s face when we were evicted and became homeless. I will always do work that makes a
difference for those who have not had genuine opportunity. I learned this not only from my
experience, but from the example set by my friend and mentor Dr. Bob Fulford.
Dr. Bob Fulford died of a heart attack the day I received my doctoral degree. At his service
were many of Bob’s previous students who were like me: steeped in an oral culture, mostly from
poverty, ill equipped for the traditional education system. One after another, those students told
stories of Bob making them feel smart, making them believe they could succeed, building the
supports and networks to make it happen, and seeing only their strengths and not their
weaknesses. Many people would say that it was not Bob Fulford’s job to teach a junior in college
not to say “ain’t” and how to write a sentence. Bob often said, “I go to work every day to
educate. For Donna Beegle, that meant something a little different than for other students. It
meant starting where she was and keeping the high expectation that she would become
educated.” He would then tell anyone who would listen, “The real question is, did she get
educated?” With a grin, he’d nod and say, “And then some.”
I share my successes, and my gratitude for the help of Bob Fulford and the many others along
the way who stepped outside of their job descriptions, because I know that too many people in
poverty never have these chances. Every day, their potential is thrown away when we do not
think outside of the box, or consider the context of poverty and ask, “Am I setting people up for
success?” Herbert Gans (1995) says in his book War on the Poor that we keep asking people in
poverty conditions to act middle class when they do not have the resources to do so. What we

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have to do to help people in poverty reach their potential may not be in our job description. It
may not be what we are trained to do. But if we are clear about why we are in a helping
profession, we are much more likely to do the right thing as opposed to doing what we have
always done. If we are clear about why we go to work and what outcomes we seek to achieve,
we will do what Lisbeth Schorr (1988) advocates in her book Within Our Reach: Breaking the
Cycle of Disadvantage: We will provide a comprehensive, flexible approach that meets people
where they are, not where we want them to be.

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