Reflection
Writing these papers was both a torture and a blessing. Writing my literacy project was a process of discovery. I had never really taken the time to put into words the lessons and meaning I got from my time in Haiti. It was all just a “feeling” I had jumbled in my mind. Putting it into words was difficult, too. It took many drafts to finally get what I wanted to say into understandable words. However, when I did, the end product was extremely rewarding.
My inquiry project went through a similar process to my literacy paper, however it is the one I am most proud of. In this paper, I was able to write about a topic I am deeply passionate about, in a unique and heartfelt way. I felt like I was able to synthesize research in a manner that really reached my audience and enhanced my opinion. Research papers have always been my complete, and utter downfall. So, having a research paper not only succeed, but also shine really added to the whole experience of it.
If I had the time to revise a paper further, I would probably be my literacy project. My inquiry project held all that it could, I believe, with the point it was meant to make. My literacy project, however, could go on much more. There are countless lessons that those children and people have taught me, as well as many more deeply moving stories to support those lessons. I believe there is much to be said about the tragedy they have endured, and the grace and poise with which they have continued on with their lives. .
My writing process throughout this course has remained pretty similar to my past writing. My thought process, however, has changed a great deal. I start my papers by reading the assignment, and then just thinking about what I want to say. I read the information I need for my opinion or research for my paper, and then I take some time to mull it around in my brain. During this time, connections start to form in my head, and I get an idea to write about. I, then, can sit down and begin to write my paper. The first draft is a word-barf. Anything I think of, any side tracks the paper could take, good grammar, and bad grammar - all of it goes in this first draft. When I edit this draft, I go through and find my strongest line of communication through the writing, and eliminate the rest. Basically, I make it sensible and pretty. Then, I like to have someone read my essay and tell me what to improve, add, or enhance. Afterwards, I make those edits and turn it in, or get another peer to edit it. It's a continual process of improvement.
My inquiry project went through a similar process to my literacy paper, however it is the one I am most proud of. In this paper, I was able to write about a topic I am deeply passionate about, in a unique and heartfelt way. I felt like I was able to synthesize research in a manner that really reached my audience and enhanced my opinion. Research papers have always been my complete, and utter downfall. So, having a research paper not only succeed, but also shine really added to the whole experience of it.
If I had the time to revise a paper further, I would probably be my literacy project. My inquiry project held all that it could, I believe, with the point it was meant to make. My literacy project, however, could go on much more. There are countless lessons that those children and people have taught me, as well as many more deeply moving stories to support those lessons. I believe there is much to be said about the tragedy they have endured, and the grace and poise with which they have continued on with their lives. .
My writing process throughout this course has remained pretty similar to my past writing. My thought process, however, has changed a great deal. I start my papers by reading the assignment, and then just thinking about what I want to say. I read the information I need for my opinion or research for my paper, and then I take some time to mull it around in my brain. During this time, connections start to form in my head, and I get an idea to write about. I, then, can sit down and begin to write my paper. The first draft is a word-barf. Anything I think of, any side tracks the paper could take, good grammar, and bad grammar - all of it goes in this first draft. When I edit this draft, I go through and find my strongest line of communication through the writing, and eliminate the rest. Basically, I make it sensible and pretty. Then, I like to have someone read my essay and tell me what to improve, add, or enhance. Afterwards, I make those edits and turn it in, or get another peer to edit it. It's a continual process of improvement.
Literacy Project
Literacy in Love - Rough Draft
Literacy Project - Rough Draft | |
File Size: | 101 kb |
File Type: | docx |
Literacy in Love - Final Draft
As I sat on the wooden fence surrounding the soccer field in Haiti, I couldn’t help but cry. Johann looked at me with incredulous eyes unable to understand why I was upset over something she had long finished crying about. It was a hot evening, which is typical for June in Port-au-Prince. I was at an orphanage, called Zanmi Beni, and I was supposed to be laughing and singing like the other children currently were. But I couldn’t. The weight of what Johann had shared weighed down on me. So, instead, she and I sat on that fence in the hot summer air.
Literacy has never been a topic I’ve given much thought to. I heard the word “literacy”, and I thought “reading and writing” and went along my merry way. Recently, however, I’ve begun to take a different approach to literacy. I realized literacy could mean anything from a proficiency in music to being a master of politics. It could be someone’s ability to read those around them or write words that inspire great minds. Anything that a person can understand and apply in wondrous ways - that is literacy. Once my definition of literacy started to form, I began some self-evaluation. I came to the conclusion that my literacy was not in anything as concrete as music or politics. In fact, I didn’t even realize my literacy existed until it had already come in and turned my life in an entirely new direction. My literacy was something more powerful than I even realized. My literacy is love.
My literacy began to reveal itself when I was sixteen, and took my first trip, of many, to Port-au-Prince, Haiti. I worked at an orphanage for both disabled and able-bodied children called Zanmi Beni. The children came from a variety of backgrounds; some were orphaned from the horrendous earthquake that hit the country in 2010 and others were victims of poverty, neglect, or their parents’ inability to care for them.
To understand my literacy, and how Haiti shaped it, requires an understanding of my past as well. I was never a very trusting child. Circumstance had taught me to question my surroundings and how long they would be mine. From a young age, my family was placed in situations where my ability to be a child was not a priority, and my ability to contribute and help us survive, was. My father became a c2 quadriplegic in a plane accident when I was four years old. My mother spent her life savings keeping him alive. We moved from hospital to hospital around the country. Finally, he was stable and my mother spent the last of our money remodeling our house into a mini-clinic, with round-the-clock medical care for my father. Once he was home, my father began to be angry and cruel to my mother and me. They soon divorced, and I said goodbye to my childhood home.
A year later, my three year old niece was diagnosed with neuroblastoma cancer. Two weeks later, she passed away. My mother and I moved into my sister’s home to help take care of them as we all tried to recover. I tended to my younger nephew, while my mother tried to keep my sister from running in screaming fits into the streets. Once my sister could take care of her family again, we left. My sister had become angry and aimed that towards my mother and I, while focusing the rest of her energy on giving her children anything and everything they wanted.
From then on, my mother and I moved around as she took administrator jobs in various rehab hospitals. We were bankrupt. This continued for the next eight years or so. We struggled to get by, sometimes living in our car or various hotels. Finally, I was admitted into a boarding school for the arts, and finished my high school education there while my mother found consistent work.
This brings us to Haiti. Arriving in that country, I was a frightened and scarred little girl who thought the world would fall out from beneath her any second. I did not know how to leave my past behind me, so I let it haunt me instead. Some time in Haiti, however, began to change that. I felt a “letting-go” occurring inside me, but I could not yet realize it. I saw love surrounding me, but I could not yet relate to it. I heard laughter and pure joy, but I could not join in. Not yet, anyways. This was the beginning of my literacy. My past that rocked my foundations from day one, and the example of love I could see around me in Haiti – that oh-so-strange combination began to give me a new understanding of the world I live in.
My literacy took shape two days before our trip came to a close. I was sitting under a canopy of mango trees in the late afternoon. The killer summer heat had begun to cool, and a nice breeze was rustling through the trees. Two of the Haitian children sat with me. One was Ti-Jo (Joseph Junior), an 11-year-old little boy with a bright smile and a sassy attitude. His eyes were also permanently crossed, but I assumed he was born that way. The other was Johann, a 17-year-old girl with a pretty face and a beautiful heart. Johann was sitting on a bench with me, facing me, while Ti-Jo sat on the ground between us. I had been working with the mothers and the children to gather their stories, and Johann and Ti-Jo were two I’d saved for last. Ti-Jo had become like a little brother to me. He and I spent hours playing on my computer (which he transferred into Haitian Creole at one point, and then discovered he didn’t know how to change it back). Johann and I had connected on a more peer-based level, considering how close we were in age. She taught me Haitian dances to Shakira’s “Waka Waka”, and I introduced her to OneRepublic. These were two people I was especially close to, and I wanted them to tell me their stories when they were ready.
Ti-Jo went first. We had watched the little babies play on the playground that lined the mango trees, and his laughter slowly grew quiet as he thought about what he was going to say. After a moment, he began. In his extremely broken English he said, “Do you know how I look like this?” He was referring to his eyes. I said I didn’t. He smiled, but his gaze became haunted. He said, “When the earth quaked, I was with my family. The house fell on me. It was dark and I thought I was gone.” He paused, momentarily to gauge my reaction, as that was our main way of communicating with such a language barrier. Then he continued, saying, “After a long time, I saw light. People got me and took me here.”
He stopped talking and stared up at the trees for a moment. Johann, a forever-helpful translator, filled in the details that Ti-Jo couldn’t communicate himself. She told me he was trapped under the rubble of his house, with his family’s bodies, for three days. When they found him, he thought he was dead, and he almost was. He was hit in the head by the rubble during the earthquake, and his eyes had been crossed ever since. Now, he was Zanmi Beni.
I sat there thinking. This was the same little boy who had smiles at every part of the day. The same boy who stole a pencil, a rarity in Haiti, and sold it for a candy bar because it was the last day of classes and he believed no one would want it anymore. The same boy who played soccer in the pouring rain with me, just days before. Remembering those moments and then comparing them to what he’d just told me was almost impossible. I couldn’t believe that someone who’d been through so much could seem so...whole.
Some time passed, all three of us lost in our own thoughts. Then Johann began telling her story. She is the oldest child in a family of three. Her younger brother, Easman, and their little sister, Shiella, are also at the orphanage. Their mother died of AIDS when Johann was 14. The earthquake killed their father and left them homeless. Johann was left to care for her siblings on her own, but with no parents and no money, they were forced to live like wild dogs eating bugs, stealing, drinking water that flowed down the dirt streets, digging through trash, and sleeping in abandoned fields with no light for miles, since central power is not something found in most of Haiti. They fought, sometimes literally, to stay alive. They continued this way for six months. One day, they stumbled into a field on another blistering afternoon. Only, this field would be their savior. It was the backyard to Zanmi Beni. They were taken in, fed, and had been home ever since.
When Johann finished her story, it was around 8pm, and the children were called to get ready for bed. The rest of my cohort was eating dinner and chatting about their days, but as my evening continued, I felt those stories weighing on my mind. Every mental image of their past haunted me. It seemed almost unreal that those smiling happy children could have been through all of that. I felt so much empathy for these people I dearly loved. Before I knew it, I found myself sitting on the wooden fence surrounding the dirt soccer field, crying.
I felt ashamed. What right did I have to cry for them? Me, a girl who’s always had food and water and a place to sleep. Me, who hadn’t gone through anything close to what these two children had; I had never seen anyone in my life recover from tragedy, yet these people, who had been through the unthinkable, were healed. How could I cry when they had not only survived, but were happy?
It was in this particular state, tears and all, that Johann found me. I couldn’t even look at her, but I couldn’t stop crying either. Finally, she turned my head to hers and smiled, laughed even, and said, “Katie, it’s alright. We’re happy now. We have each other. We love each other. Everything else doesn’t matter anymore."
Those words, simple as they were, taught me more than a lifetime of classes ever could. Something switched in my head, and I realized just how blind not only I had been, but also those around me. I had had my fair share of trials, but I had not let go of them. I had clung to them, and in the meantime had convinced myself that I was living my life happily. But I was wrong. These children, the same ones who had lived through hell, they were the truly happy ones. They took their pain and accepted it. They didn’t bury it, nor try to forget it. Nor did they let it control them. They accepted their past and they began a new day. More importantly, they didn’t let the fear of losing those they loved keep them from living anew. Their losses taught them just how precious and selfless love could truly be. They learned to love and appreciate every smile, every sunrise, every failure, and every joy. They did not shut down but rather gave up their hearts to a love of the world and everything in it.
This realization, this flood of thought and emotion, hit me like a tidal wave. I did not understand it all immediately, however. That came with time; time thinking, time feeling, time healing, and time watching. I went home; lived my life. And then when I returned, I learned it all over again.
Every time I visited, I learned more of what a real love looks like, and my definition of love began to change. I realized my first thought of love being between a guy and a girl was far from correct. I saw that a love, a true love, was one that placed someone before yourself. I saw that love was more than a feeling; it was a deep appreciation for what surrounds us, good and bad. That kind of love, that raw, natural love, is what I saw and learned to appreciate. It is something that heals, inspires, and comforts. It is limitless and powerful. It is humanity’s greatest skill. It is this love that changes things, big things, in this world.
Once I realized what this love is, I realized I had to use it. I had to share it. People say I sound like a lunatic or a dreamer if I try to explain why I spend all of my free time in Haiti with the heat and dirt, or why I want to spend my life helping children who live on the streets. But that is how I chose to use my literacy in love. It moved me to do something greater than my own little existence.
Literacy in love is not conventional by any means. It is something that few understand and even fewer have. Since I have gained this literacy, I began looking at the people around me. I realized so many people in this world lack an understanding of love. They walk throw their lives feigning happiness, but the slightest tumble can throw them into despair. That is not joy; that is deception. That forged happiness is how I lived for sixteen years, and how I can never live again.
Over time, I began to think literacy in love was just something I had made up in my head, and that no one else really shared in. I looked far and wide for the people who might understand what I so intensely felt, but could not put into words. After a while of searching, I realized those people were right in front of me. I’d heard the names of Paul Farmer, Katie Davis, and Doc Hendley many times before, but this time I heard them in a new way. I realized they were those people I had been searching for. But they weren’t walking around my high school or an office building; they were all taking their literacy of love and using it to change the world. They were driven by their knowledge to take on impossible tasks and improve this world we live in. They were already out there doing what I so desperately want to do.
Love is a hard literacy to gain. It is a personal knowledge – different for every person and every heart. However, it is, nevertheless, a form of literacy, because, no matter how individualized, it is still universal. No one can clearly explain an understanding of love because it encompasses so much in so many complex ways. Those you have it, feel it. It fills their hearts and their minds until they think they’re about to explode, and then they go out and do something with it. They teach others about love by showing love. They do not preach, nor do they lecture those who do not understand. They simply do. That is the kind of person my newfound literacy inspired me to be. That is what Ti-Jo’s smiling face and Johann’s kind heart remind me of every time I see them. It inspired me to live for others; for something greater than my daily existence. My literacy taught, and continues to teach me, new things about myself and the world I live in. Above all, it taught me to act through love, in everything I do.
Literacy has never been a topic I’ve given much thought to. I heard the word “literacy”, and I thought “reading and writing” and went along my merry way. Recently, however, I’ve begun to take a different approach to literacy. I realized literacy could mean anything from a proficiency in music to being a master of politics. It could be someone’s ability to read those around them or write words that inspire great minds. Anything that a person can understand and apply in wondrous ways - that is literacy. Once my definition of literacy started to form, I began some self-evaluation. I came to the conclusion that my literacy was not in anything as concrete as music or politics. In fact, I didn’t even realize my literacy existed until it had already come in and turned my life in an entirely new direction. My literacy was something more powerful than I even realized. My literacy is love.
My literacy began to reveal itself when I was sixteen, and took my first trip, of many, to Port-au-Prince, Haiti. I worked at an orphanage for both disabled and able-bodied children called Zanmi Beni. The children came from a variety of backgrounds; some were orphaned from the horrendous earthquake that hit the country in 2010 and others were victims of poverty, neglect, or their parents’ inability to care for them.
To understand my literacy, and how Haiti shaped it, requires an understanding of my past as well. I was never a very trusting child. Circumstance had taught me to question my surroundings and how long they would be mine. From a young age, my family was placed in situations where my ability to be a child was not a priority, and my ability to contribute and help us survive, was. My father became a c2 quadriplegic in a plane accident when I was four years old. My mother spent her life savings keeping him alive. We moved from hospital to hospital around the country. Finally, he was stable and my mother spent the last of our money remodeling our house into a mini-clinic, with round-the-clock medical care for my father. Once he was home, my father began to be angry and cruel to my mother and me. They soon divorced, and I said goodbye to my childhood home.
A year later, my three year old niece was diagnosed with neuroblastoma cancer. Two weeks later, she passed away. My mother and I moved into my sister’s home to help take care of them as we all tried to recover. I tended to my younger nephew, while my mother tried to keep my sister from running in screaming fits into the streets. Once my sister could take care of her family again, we left. My sister had become angry and aimed that towards my mother and I, while focusing the rest of her energy on giving her children anything and everything they wanted.
From then on, my mother and I moved around as she took administrator jobs in various rehab hospitals. We were bankrupt. This continued for the next eight years or so. We struggled to get by, sometimes living in our car or various hotels. Finally, I was admitted into a boarding school for the arts, and finished my high school education there while my mother found consistent work.
This brings us to Haiti. Arriving in that country, I was a frightened and scarred little girl who thought the world would fall out from beneath her any second. I did not know how to leave my past behind me, so I let it haunt me instead. Some time in Haiti, however, began to change that. I felt a “letting-go” occurring inside me, but I could not yet realize it. I saw love surrounding me, but I could not yet relate to it. I heard laughter and pure joy, but I could not join in. Not yet, anyways. This was the beginning of my literacy. My past that rocked my foundations from day one, and the example of love I could see around me in Haiti – that oh-so-strange combination began to give me a new understanding of the world I live in.
My literacy took shape two days before our trip came to a close. I was sitting under a canopy of mango trees in the late afternoon. The killer summer heat had begun to cool, and a nice breeze was rustling through the trees. Two of the Haitian children sat with me. One was Ti-Jo (Joseph Junior), an 11-year-old little boy with a bright smile and a sassy attitude. His eyes were also permanently crossed, but I assumed he was born that way. The other was Johann, a 17-year-old girl with a pretty face and a beautiful heart. Johann was sitting on a bench with me, facing me, while Ti-Jo sat on the ground between us. I had been working with the mothers and the children to gather their stories, and Johann and Ti-Jo were two I’d saved for last. Ti-Jo had become like a little brother to me. He and I spent hours playing on my computer (which he transferred into Haitian Creole at one point, and then discovered he didn’t know how to change it back). Johann and I had connected on a more peer-based level, considering how close we were in age. She taught me Haitian dances to Shakira’s “Waka Waka”, and I introduced her to OneRepublic. These were two people I was especially close to, and I wanted them to tell me their stories when they were ready.
Ti-Jo went first. We had watched the little babies play on the playground that lined the mango trees, and his laughter slowly grew quiet as he thought about what he was going to say. After a moment, he began. In his extremely broken English he said, “Do you know how I look like this?” He was referring to his eyes. I said I didn’t. He smiled, but his gaze became haunted. He said, “When the earth quaked, I was with my family. The house fell on me. It was dark and I thought I was gone.” He paused, momentarily to gauge my reaction, as that was our main way of communicating with such a language barrier. Then he continued, saying, “After a long time, I saw light. People got me and took me here.”
He stopped talking and stared up at the trees for a moment. Johann, a forever-helpful translator, filled in the details that Ti-Jo couldn’t communicate himself. She told me he was trapped under the rubble of his house, with his family’s bodies, for three days. When they found him, he thought he was dead, and he almost was. He was hit in the head by the rubble during the earthquake, and his eyes had been crossed ever since. Now, he was Zanmi Beni.
I sat there thinking. This was the same little boy who had smiles at every part of the day. The same boy who stole a pencil, a rarity in Haiti, and sold it for a candy bar because it was the last day of classes and he believed no one would want it anymore. The same boy who played soccer in the pouring rain with me, just days before. Remembering those moments and then comparing them to what he’d just told me was almost impossible. I couldn’t believe that someone who’d been through so much could seem so...whole.
Some time passed, all three of us lost in our own thoughts. Then Johann began telling her story. She is the oldest child in a family of three. Her younger brother, Easman, and their little sister, Shiella, are also at the orphanage. Their mother died of AIDS when Johann was 14. The earthquake killed their father and left them homeless. Johann was left to care for her siblings on her own, but with no parents and no money, they were forced to live like wild dogs eating bugs, stealing, drinking water that flowed down the dirt streets, digging through trash, and sleeping in abandoned fields with no light for miles, since central power is not something found in most of Haiti. They fought, sometimes literally, to stay alive. They continued this way for six months. One day, they stumbled into a field on another blistering afternoon. Only, this field would be their savior. It was the backyard to Zanmi Beni. They were taken in, fed, and had been home ever since.
When Johann finished her story, it was around 8pm, and the children were called to get ready for bed. The rest of my cohort was eating dinner and chatting about their days, but as my evening continued, I felt those stories weighing on my mind. Every mental image of their past haunted me. It seemed almost unreal that those smiling happy children could have been through all of that. I felt so much empathy for these people I dearly loved. Before I knew it, I found myself sitting on the wooden fence surrounding the dirt soccer field, crying.
I felt ashamed. What right did I have to cry for them? Me, a girl who’s always had food and water and a place to sleep. Me, who hadn’t gone through anything close to what these two children had; I had never seen anyone in my life recover from tragedy, yet these people, who had been through the unthinkable, were healed. How could I cry when they had not only survived, but were happy?
It was in this particular state, tears and all, that Johann found me. I couldn’t even look at her, but I couldn’t stop crying either. Finally, she turned my head to hers and smiled, laughed even, and said, “Katie, it’s alright. We’re happy now. We have each other. We love each other. Everything else doesn’t matter anymore."
Those words, simple as they were, taught me more than a lifetime of classes ever could. Something switched in my head, and I realized just how blind not only I had been, but also those around me. I had had my fair share of trials, but I had not let go of them. I had clung to them, and in the meantime had convinced myself that I was living my life happily. But I was wrong. These children, the same ones who had lived through hell, they were the truly happy ones. They took their pain and accepted it. They didn’t bury it, nor try to forget it. Nor did they let it control them. They accepted their past and they began a new day. More importantly, they didn’t let the fear of losing those they loved keep them from living anew. Their losses taught them just how precious and selfless love could truly be. They learned to love and appreciate every smile, every sunrise, every failure, and every joy. They did not shut down but rather gave up their hearts to a love of the world and everything in it.
This realization, this flood of thought and emotion, hit me like a tidal wave. I did not understand it all immediately, however. That came with time; time thinking, time feeling, time healing, and time watching. I went home; lived my life. And then when I returned, I learned it all over again.
Every time I visited, I learned more of what a real love looks like, and my definition of love began to change. I realized my first thought of love being between a guy and a girl was far from correct. I saw that a love, a true love, was one that placed someone before yourself. I saw that love was more than a feeling; it was a deep appreciation for what surrounds us, good and bad. That kind of love, that raw, natural love, is what I saw and learned to appreciate. It is something that heals, inspires, and comforts. It is limitless and powerful. It is humanity’s greatest skill. It is this love that changes things, big things, in this world.
Once I realized what this love is, I realized I had to use it. I had to share it. People say I sound like a lunatic or a dreamer if I try to explain why I spend all of my free time in Haiti with the heat and dirt, or why I want to spend my life helping children who live on the streets. But that is how I chose to use my literacy in love. It moved me to do something greater than my own little existence.
Literacy in love is not conventional by any means. It is something that few understand and even fewer have. Since I have gained this literacy, I began looking at the people around me. I realized so many people in this world lack an understanding of love. They walk throw their lives feigning happiness, but the slightest tumble can throw them into despair. That is not joy; that is deception. That forged happiness is how I lived for sixteen years, and how I can never live again.
Over time, I began to think literacy in love was just something I had made up in my head, and that no one else really shared in. I looked far and wide for the people who might understand what I so intensely felt, but could not put into words. After a while of searching, I realized those people were right in front of me. I’d heard the names of Paul Farmer, Katie Davis, and Doc Hendley many times before, but this time I heard them in a new way. I realized they were those people I had been searching for. But they weren’t walking around my high school or an office building; they were all taking their literacy of love and using it to change the world. They were driven by their knowledge to take on impossible tasks and improve this world we live in. They were already out there doing what I so desperately want to do.
Love is a hard literacy to gain. It is a personal knowledge – different for every person and every heart. However, it is, nevertheless, a form of literacy, because, no matter how individualized, it is still universal. No one can clearly explain an understanding of love because it encompasses so much in so many complex ways. Those you have it, feel it. It fills their hearts and their minds until they think they’re about to explode, and then they go out and do something with it. They teach others about love by showing love. They do not preach, nor do they lecture those who do not understand. They simply do. That is the kind of person my newfound literacy inspired me to be. That is what Ti-Jo’s smiling face and Johann’s kind heart remind me of every time I see them. It inspired me to live for others; for something greater than my daily existence. My literacy taught, and continues to teach me, new things about myself and the world I live in. Above all, it taught me to act through love, in everything I do.
" WE NEED NEVER BE HOPELESS BECAUSE WE CAN NEVER BE IRREPARABLY BROKEN" |
Inquiry Project
Poverty: Through the Eyes of the Beholder - Rough Draft
Inquiry Project: Rough Draft | |
File Size: | 114 kb |
File Type: | docx |
Poverty: Through the Eyes of the Beholder - Final Draft
Poverty manifests itself differently in the life of every child who must endure it. Time, length, age, environment, family, and many more affect it. The way that poverty is experienced differs for every soul that must endure it. Therefore, to talk about poverty and its effects on a child’s life in generalities would be a grand oversimplification of a much more complex and heartbreaking problem. The pain that poverty creates are so complex and difficult to understand, that simply describing them could never allow us to reach a full understanding. So, instead, I am going to introduce you to someone who is very special. Her name is Emma. She is eight years old and lives in Rut, Wyoming. She was born to a single mother and has three little brothers and sisters. She lives in poverty, and this is her story.
Emma
At 6 o’clock in the morning the loud weeeooooeeeeoooo of passing fire trucks wake me, just like every morning. I yawn and moan, not wanting to move. My stomach aches from hunger and I know that when I start moving it will only get worse. But the longer I stay in bed the more mother will yell at me to get moving. So, I get up. The wooden floor is filthy. I can feel bits of dirt grinding beneath my feet, and splinters threatening to stab my toes as I walk. The air is cold. I might as well be outside. The breezes blow through the apartment as it would a tree. The room is dark as I dress myself. My hair is getting long and knotted. I brush it out but it doesn’t seem to help the look of it much. I can’t seem to get rid of the shining glaze forever on my scalp and the cracked palms and feet – all telltale signs of a kid who doesn’t get to bathe enough. (hooks)
I have to hurry to wake up the others before it is time to leave. I look across my tiny room at my sister, Mia, still completely asleep. I shake her awake as she whines at me to leave her alone. But I ignore her and tell her to get dressed. Then, it’s on to the babies. I hate this more than anything because the babies always cry when they have to wake up this early. Baby Joe lies in his crib beside my bed. Little Cassie lays sound asleep in the bed Mia just occupied. They share it. I start with her first, nudging her awake and sitting her up in her bed. I slowly dress her in her torn, pink dress and brush out her blonde curls. She’s no help at all since she’s still half asleep and moves like a little rag doll. I can hear her stomach growling, echoing mine. I stand her up and tell her to go to Mia. Now it is Joe’s turn. The bars on the crib are bare metal and painfully cold on my arms as I reach in to pick him up. He starts to cry as I lift him out of his bed, but I hurriedly shush him down to a whimper as I quickly dress him and place him on my bed.
Together, the four of us move from our room to the living room where mother sits, reading the classifieds for anything better than “waitress,” which is the position she currently holds. This desperate search for a job is fueled by two motives: paying bills and being able to afford going out. Apparently, mother realized that with no husband, she had to work or be homeless. That could never be allowed to happen, for as long as we had a roof over our heads, mother could justify teaching us to “act middle class.” The only problem is she isn’t sure how the middle class should act, having never been around them herself. (hHooks). So, instead, she corrects our behavior as much as she can. No complaining about being hungry. Wake up on time and don’t fuss. Don’t bother mom when she’s tired from work, and so on.
We walk into the kitchen and each grab some cereal. I look and realize there’s an apple on the counter, a luxury in our house. Cassie and Mia smile as I cut the apple into small bites, being careful to avoid the bruises and rotten parts of the fruit. The cereal is then poured into bowls and eaten without milk, since it went bad over a week ago, and mom hasn’t been able to afford more. As we finish out breakfast, we grab tour toothbrushes from the cup by the kitchen sink. We have to brush our teeth under mother’s supervision, to make sure we do not use too much water. (hooks). We only get small sips to rinse our mouths. There’s nothing else to drink in the mornings.
At 7:25, I ask mother if she’s ready to leave, since the buses come at 7:30. Mom jumps off the couch, yelling “Why didn’t you tell me what time it was earlier?!” In seconds, her shoes are on, she’s lifting Joe, and hustling everyone out the door. Joe, Cassie, and Mia go to the apartment across the hall. A mean old lady, Mrs. Hollen, watches them during the days as a begrudging favor to mom. Mrs. Hollen hates kids. Really, the old woman provides some water, snacks, and a place to stay. Mia watches the little ones, and keeping them quiet. Mia told me she dreams of going to kindergarten or pre-school, but the closest one is an hour away, so mother tells us it’s a waste of time and money. So until first grade comes around, she’s left spending her days at Mrs. Hollen’s, watching the babies.
Mom and I race down the stairs to the bus stop. It’s 7:30. I board my bus, for the hour-long drive to the nearest public elementary school. Mother boards the city bus heading to work. We won’t see her again until well past 11 o’clock tonight.
The ride to school is where I can finally sleep. I sit in the very back, where the other children from my neighborhood sit. Jamie, a girl from the apartment building next door, is already asleep. Her hair looks like mine, straggly and uncut. She leans her cracked elbows against the cold metal side of the bus to help with the stinging. It doesn’t help much, but it numbs them for a while. I sit across from her and quickly fall into a light doze.
An hour later, the shaking of the bus as it bounces over speed bumps bangs my head against the window. We’re here. The children at the front of the bus start to gather their things. They’re talking, laughing, and getting excited to get off of the bus. I look out the window at the “Windale Elementary School” sign in silence, waiting until I’m forced to move again.
As I get off the bus, the day begins. I file into Miss Lemon’s room, along with the other second grade students, for our English and reading lessons. I sit at my desk, looking around at the other girls and boys. I can’t help but notice the other kids shining hair and clean clothes. Jessica, a girl who’s native to Windale, looks at me with a pinch in her nose. I know I don’t smell as good as Jessica, who’s basically an over-dressed flower. So what I didn’t get a bath last night? There wasn’t enough water for my siblings and I to bathe—s - so I let them use the water we had. I wouldn’t mind it as much if the other children didn’t have to say something about it. But girls like Jessica always find a chance to look right at the teacher and say, “ewwwwww Emma smells grrrrross!” I wish I could keep my cheeks from burning red, or just smack her. But hitting her would just end with me in timeout or, even worse, silent lunch. (Kozol) Hopefully, if I just sit here, I can disappear. They’ll find someone else from my neighborhood to pick on and I can just work on reading.
Amy Lemon (Miss Lemon)
Seeing a child chastised makes me ache. I know children like Emma can’t help that they smell a little sour, and their hair isn’t perfectly clean. I also know children like Jessica could afford to spend a little more time learning their letters and less time pointing out what’s wrong with Jamie and Emma. Sadly, as their teacher, I cannot always go to their strong defense. I only play moderator between the different classes of eight year olds I happen to have all in one classroom. (hooks) These children go through a long process just to get to school every morning. Emma, at eight years old, is the caretaker of her three smaller siblings. Each morning she comes to school with her stomach rumbling, trying to sit as still as possible to stop the hunger pangs. She’s bused an hour away from home, into something like a different world. (hooks) In Windale, luxurious houses and boutiques replace dirty streets and apartment buildings. This isn’t where she’s comfortable, but it’s better than where she was.
Before this school year, Rut Elementary school was still up and running, albeit, barely. It was one of the poorest schools I’ve ever witnessed. The classes were crammed full of students of many levels, all listening to the same teacher drone on and on about each subject. The children didn’t move around for hours at a time and they definitely didn’t learn anything (Kozol)., Many of the teacher’s weren’t even certified, but were hired for lower pay than certified teachers (Kozol). Children were taught, drilled, and scrutinized over the material covered in standardized tests. Grammatical and spelling errors that I, personally, find endearing and part of the children’s learning, were forbidden. They are faced with the daunting task of preparing for a test. They experience none of the joys of learning or using their knowledge to create something new. The school could not afford the moments taken to enjoy learning and the environment of the classroom (Kozol). The entire school needed free or reduced lunch, but the community, as a whole, couldn’t support it. They were all children from the projects, just like Emma. The teachers both certified and not, had no time to listen to child-like stories. There was no asking of questions or fun games, and if a child couldn’t give a succinct enough answer, their teacher would cut them off and call on someone else. As a result, test scores were low and the joy of learning was nonexistent. The lower the test scores, the more the teachers drilled the kids on the test material. There was no fostering of talents, no encouragement. They taught to increase their own benefits, not the children’s. (Kozol)
Now, these children face an entirely new set of challenges. The foremost being that they are now forced to see a world better than their own, children with things they do not have, and an education they might not be able to truly receive. Being placed into a better school does wonders for their education and their chances at college, right? However, Emma is still looked at with disdain for her rough, cracked skin and her loud, grumbling stomach. The other children from Rut sit down at lunch and inhale every bite of their food, and some of whoever will share. Emma should be doing the same, but her dignity seems to keep her hand slow and her chewing even. That probably comes from her mother. Put another section about the mother and her point of view – that’s all that’s missing here The single encounter I’ve had with her left a bitter taste in my mouth as I watched her hand her two-year-old over to Emma for safe-keeping.
I want to help her. I want to help all of them. At least Windale can manage to provide them free lunch, but that’s not enough. One week, I gave all of the children extra snacks to take home for the evening,; just so those little ones could have some food in their stomachs’ for the night. But that does nothing in the long run. I can’t afford to send home food every night. The children of wealthier families will have to throw it out as their mothers call it “junk food”. For Emma, however, it could be all they have.
The advances are small, but significant. Free lunch, along with integrating children from the projects, areis two steps this school would never have taken three years ago. Many parents and students who have been at this school for years believe bringing in the children from Rut is a detriment to the school and their children. However, many of these parents are misinformed, or not informed at all, about the struggles these children face. I’ve begun raising awareness and consideration for these children, along with some of the other teachers. Sadly, parents are biased and judgmental. I can’t count the times I’ve heard the words “white trash” in these halls since it was decided that “those” children would be coming here. The judgment and the stereotypes are asinine enough, but blaming the children for an upbringing they couldn’t control? It baffles me, yet it’s how many of these parents behave. There’s still a long way to go to get these children the help and care they deserve.
Emma’s Mother
Having Emma in school is both a blessing and a curse. She’s the oldest, so the other children need her. She’s the only one who can keep Joe calm, the only one who can get Mia to eat the nasty cereal we have in our cupboard. Cassie is learning to watch after the others, but she’s still too young. She needs an adult around to make sure no one gets hurt. But Emma is only eight. She’s in the second grade… when I was in the second grade my biggest problem was writing my “How To Story” in Language Arts class. I was lucky. Emma’s not, and that is all my own doing. I am the one who left a home of wealth and comfort. I ran off with Emma’s dad and then, when I got pregnant, he just kept running. I treid to go home, but my parents wanted nothing to do with me. I was the embarrassment of the family, the child who ran off with some deadbeat and got knocked up. They couldn’t bring that girl to the church prayer group meetings. They couldn’t show that girl off at the monthly garden meetings hosted in our spacious living room. They couldn’t even look at me.. So I found a job, and another boyfriend. Days blended together into months, and years, and the next thing I knew I was still in the exact same, miserable place but with four children to support and only my eight year old little girl to help me do it.
I never cared about how the poor were taken care of before. I was always well provided for, so when I saw children with dirty hands and hair in my classrooms I just saw dirt. Not a child in need of food or help. The big fight for children, when I was growing up, was to stop single-parent households. The big call for a two-parent household and proper childhood development. (Yarrow) Eventually, movements like the law requiring absent parents to pay child support right from their paychecks started to take effect. (Yarrow) People started realizing how hard it is for one parent to provide for the entire family. Even then, they don’t know the harsh reality of it. I never did, until it became my life.
Coming home to hungry children - screaming, running, crying – it’s too much for me. But it happens more often than not. I work three jobs, from 7 o’clock in the morning until midnight. Waitressing, answering phones, and cleaning offices after hours – I’ll do anything that will pay me. When I come home, my bones hurt. My feet are twice their normal size, my arms are weak and limp, my head is pounding, and all I want to do is collapse and sleep for months. But each morning, I wake up again at 6:30 and do it all over again, seven days a week. Still, we barely get by. My children are more hungry than not. We can’t even afford enough water for them all to bathe on a regular basis. It’s pathetic. I’m embarrassed, but what else can I do? I’m doing all I possibly can to help them, but it’s never enough.
Emma
When lunch comes around I get really excited. As we get into lines, the teacher asks us walk towards the cafeteria slowly. We have to stop at the end of every hallway to make sure we stay in line. I hate every single stop. I just want to get there and get something to eat. The walk down one hallway takes forever. I dream of warm pizza and fish sticks as we make our way to the cafeteria. I get my food and we all sit down at the tables. The other project kids eat so quickly I can’t even see them swallow. It’s gross. Mother always told us we should never eat like animals, no matter how hungry we are. If we ever take less than ten seconds per bite, we’re eating like low-class kids, and that won’t be tolerated. I’m starving, but I count every bite. One, two, three, four, five.. sixseveneightnineten. I couldn’t help it. I’m starving. And so goes my lunchtime. I don’t talk to anyone; I might lose count and give them even more reason to hate me. The city kids all talk amongst themselves, looking at us and laughing or pointing. Jamie gets angry and threatens to throw peas at them, but I don’t mind it. I’m getting food. Yes, the pizza’s cold and the peas are crunchy, but it’s food. I won’t complain.
I like the rest of the day much more than I like the beginning. Miss Lemon has us read a story on the “magic rug” in the middle of the room. The story is about a witch who’s trying to find little piggies and make them into pies. We all get to read along on certain pages and the draw our own version of the ending. It’s fun. Recess is next. As usual, the city kids all play together leaving the project kids and me to our own devices. I prefer this to the hitting that usually went on at my old school. Everyone hated each other when we were there, even more than they do here. At least here, with the city kids hating us, we have a common cause. Jamie and I play tetherball and swing on the swing set until the return bell rings. After recess, the day passes quickly. Before I know it, it’s time to pack up and load onto the bus.
The ride home is a struggle. I start my homework while we drive because once I get home there won’t be time. Jamie does the same, but she gets really carsick. She can only write one word before she has to look out the window for a while. At least it’s a long drive. The teachers always disapprove of how messy our homework is. Miss Lemon always says, “I know you can do better than this.” But the bus is bumpy. It’s not our fault.
Once we get home, I head up the stairs to get Mia, Cassie, and Joe from Mrs. Hollen’s apartment. The stairwell always smells like pee and cigarettes. (Kozol) Mom says it’s because of the guys upstairs. They’re always screaming late at night. The smaller children from the other apartments run up and down the stairs with bare feet, carrying little bouncy balls and rocks. Mother calls them the “low-class children”, but we play with them anyways. There’s nowhere else to go play. When I get to Mrs. Hollen’s door I knock as loud as I can and wait until Mia opens the door. She looks tired and her eyes are red. Joe is lying on the floor crying and I know Mrs. Hollen must have been yelling at them. I quickly help Mia get the little ones’ things and we hustle into our own apartment. I give Mia my Fruit Rollup Miss Lemon slipped into our cubbies as we left today to make her feel better. Cassie and Mia go play with the other children on the stairs while I give Joe a bath and sing the song we learned in school today. It’s “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” but it’s the second verse not the first one, which anyone could sing.
When they’re done playing, Mia and Cass come inside, complaining about being hungry. I tell them to shush, what would mother say if she heard them fuss? But I quickly make two things of EasyMac for us all to share. I realize we only have one left, but by then it’s too late. I decide not to tell mom about it. She can find out later.
When it’s time to get everyone ready for bed things get crazy. Joe is tired but hungry, so instead of sleeping he cries. And cries. And cries. Mia and Cassie want to take baths, but they can’t tonight. It’s my turn. To get back at me they don’t do anything they’re told. They don’t put on their pajamas, they don’t brush their teeth, and they yell and fuss. Mother gets home past 11 and no one is asleep, including Joe who is still screaming from his crib. Mom yells at me, telling me she works hard all day and just needs some peace and quiet, but there’s nothing I can do. The babies yell because their stomachs hurt. My stomach hurts. My head hurts and I just want to sleep but I can’t. I start to cry. My mother yells more. She doesn’t understand…
Three hours later, I’m finally in my bed. Joe sleeps soundly in his crib. Mia and Cassie snuggle together in their sleep to keep warm. I wrap blankets around myself, hoping my body heat will thaw my toes. “The day’s finally over”, I tell myself. But then I realize it will all start again tomorrow.
Emma
At 6 o’clock in the morning the loud weeeooooeeeeoooo of passing fire trucks wake me, just like every morning. I yawn and moan, not wanting to move. My stomach aches from hunger and I know that when I start moving it will only get worse. But the longer I stay in bed the more mother will yell at me to get moving. So, I get up. The wooden floor is filthy. I can feel bits of dirt grinding beneath my feet, and splinters threatening to stab my toes as I walk. The air is cold. I might as well be outside. The breezes blow through the apartment as it would a tree. The room is dark as I dress myself. My hair is getting long and knotted. I brush it out but it doesn’t seem to help the look of it much. I can’t seem to get rid of the shining glaze forever on my scalp and the cracked palms and feet – all telltale signs of a kid who doesn’t get to bathe enough. (hooks)
I have to hurry to wake up the others before it is time to leave. I look across my tiny room at my sister, Mia, still completely asleep. I shake her awake as she whines at me to leave her alone. But I ignore her and tell her to get dressed. Then, it’s on to the babies. I hate this more than anything because the babies always cry when they have to wake up this early. Baby Joe lies in his crib beside my bed. Little Cassie lays sound asleep in the bed Mia just occupied. They share it. I start with her first, nudging her awake and sitting her up in her bed. I slowly dress her in her torn, pink dress and brush out her blonde curls. She’s no help at all since she’s still half asleep and moves like a little rag doll. I can hear her stomach growling, echoing mine. I stand her up and tell her to go to Mia. Now it is Joe’s turn. The bars on the crib are bare metal and painfully cold on my arms as I reach in to pick him up. He starts to cry as I lift him out of his bed, but I hurriedly shush him down to a whimper as I quickly dress him and place him on my bed.
Together, the four of us move from our room to the living room where mother sits, reading the classifieds for anything better than “waitress,” which is the position she currently holds. This desperate search for a job is fueled by two motives: paying bills and being able to afford going out. Apparently, mother realized that with no husband, she had to work or be homeless. That could never be allowed to happen, for as long as we had a roof over our heads, mother could justify teaching us to “act middle class.” The only problem is she isn’t sure how the middle class should act, having never been around them herself. (hHooks). So, instead, she corrects our behavior as much as she can. No complaining about being hungry. Wake up on time and don’t fuss. Don’t bother mom when she’s tired from work, and so on.
We walk into the kitchen and each grab some cereal. I look and realize there’s an apple on the counter, a luxury in our house. Cassie and Mia smile as I cut the apple into small bites, being careful to avoid the bruises and rotten parts of the fruit. The cereal is then poured into bowls and eaten without milk, since it went bad over a week ago, and mom hasn’t been able to afford more. As we finish out breakfast, we grab tour toothbrushes from the cup by the kitchen sink. We have to brush our teeth under mother’s supervision, to make sure we do not use too much water. (hooks). We only get small sips to rinse our mouths. There’s nothing else to drink in the mornings.
At 7:25, I ask mother if she’s ready to leave, since the buses come at 7:30. Mom jumps off the couch, yelling “Why didn’t you tell me what time it was earlier?!” In seconds, her shoes are on, she’s lifting Joe, and hustling everyone out the door. Joe, Cassie, and Mia go to the apartment across the hall. A mean old lady, Mrs. Hollen, watches them during the days as a begrudging favor to mom. Mrs. Hollen hates kids. Really, the old woman provides some water, snacks, and a place to stay. Mia watches the little ones, and keeping them quiet. Mia told me she dreams of going to kindergarten or pre-school, but the closest one is an hour away, so mother tells us it’s a waste of time and money. So until first grade comes around, she’s left spending her days at Mrs. Hollen’s, watching the babies.
Mom and I race down the stairs to the bus stop. It’s 7:30. I board my bus, for the hour-long drive to the nearest public elementary school. Mother boards the city bus heading to work. We won’t see her again until well past 11 o’clock tonight.
The ride to school is where I can finally sleep. I sit in the very back, where the other children from my neighborhood sit. Jamie, a girl from the apartment building next door, is already asleep. Her hair looks like mine, straggly and uncut. She leans her cracked elbows against the cold metal side of the bus to help with the stinging. It doesn’t help much, but it numbs them for a while. I sit across from her and quickly fall into a light doze.
An hour later, the shaking of the bus as it bounces over speed bumps bangs my head against the window. We’re here. The children at the front of the bus start to gather their things. They’re talking, laughing, and getting excited to get off of the bus. I look out the window at the “Windale Elementary School” sign in silence, waiting until I’m forced to move again.
As I get off the bus, the day begins. I file into Miss Lemon’s room, along with the other second grade students, for our English and reading lessons. I sit at my desk, looking around at the other girls and boys. I can’t help but notice the other kids shining hair and clean clothes. Jessica, a girl who’s native to Windale, looks at me with a pinch in her nose. I know I don’t smell as good as Jessica, who’s basically an over-dressed flower. So what I didn’t get a bath last night? There wasn’t enough water for my siblings and I to bathe—s - so I let them use the water we had. I wouldn’t mind it as much if the other children didn’t have to say something about it. But girls like Jessica always find a chance to look right at the teacher and say, “ewwwwww Emma smells grrrrross!” I wish I could keep my cheeks from burning red, or just smack her. But hitting her would just end with me in timeout or, even worse, silent lunch. (Kozol) Hopefully, if I just sit here, I can disappear. They’ll find someone else from my neighborhood to pick on and I can just work on reading.
Amy Lemon (Miss Lemon)
Seeing a child chastised makes me ache. I know children like Emma can’t help that they smell a little sour, and their hair isn’t perfectly clean. I also know children like Jessica could afford to spend a little more time learning their letters and less time pointing out what’s wrong with Jamie and Emma. Sadly, as their teacher, I cannot always go to their strong defense. I only play moderator between the different classes of eight year olds I happen to have all in one classroom. (hooks) These children go through a long process just to get to school every morning. Emma, at eight years old, is the caretaker of her three smaller siblings. Each morning she comes to school with her stomach rumbling, trying to sit as still as possible to stop the hunger pangs. She’s bused an hour away from home, into something like a different world. (hooks) In Windale, luxurious houses and boutiques replace dirty streets and apartment buildings. This isn’t where she’s comfortable, but it’s better than where she was.
Before this school year, Rut Elementary school was still up and running, albeit, barely. It was one of the poorest schools I’ve ever witnessed. The classes were crammed full of students of many levels, all listening to the same teacher drone on and on about each subject. The children didn’t move around for hours at a time and they definitely didn’t learn anything (Kozol)., Many of the teacher’s weren’t even certified, but were hired for lower pay than certified teachers (Kozol). Children were taught, drilled, and scrutinized over the material covered in standardized tests. Grammatical and spelling errors that I, personally, find endearing and part of the children’s learning, were forbidden. They are faced with the daunting task of preparing for a test. They experience none of the joys of learning or using their knowledge to create something new. The school could not afford the moments taken to enjoy learning and the environment of the classroom (Kozol). The entire school needed free or reduced lunch, but the community, as a whole, couldn’t support it. They were all children from the projects, just like Emma. The teachers both certified and not, had no time to listen to child-like stories. There was no asking of questions or fun games, and if a child couldn’t give a succinct enough answer, their teacher would cut them off and call on someone else. As a result, test scores were low and the joy of learning was nonexistent. The lower the test scores, the more the teachers drilled the kids on the test material. There was no fostering of talents, no encouragement. They taught to increase their own benefits, not the children’s. (Kozol)
Now, these children face an entirely new set of challenges. The foremost being that they are now forced to see a world better than their own, children with things they do not have, and an education they might not be able to truly receive. Being placed into a better school does wonders for their education and their chances at college, right? However, Emma is still looked at with disdain for her rough, cracked skin and her loud, grumbling stomach. The other children from Rut sit down at lunch and inhale every bite of their food, and some of whoever will share. Emma should be doing the same, but her dignity seems to keep her hand slow and her chewing even. That probably comes from her mother. Put another section about the mother and her point of view – that’s all that’s missing here The single encounter I’ve had with her left a bitter taste in my mouth as I watched her hand her two-year-old over to Emma for safe-keeping.
I want to help her. I want to help all of them. At least Windale can manage to provide them free lunch, but that’s not enough. One week, I gave all of the children extra snacks to take home for the evening,; just so those little ones could have some food in their stomachs’ for the night. But that does nothing in the long run. I can’t afford to send home food every night. The children of wealthier families will have to throw it out as their mothers call it “junk food”. For Emma, however, it could be all they have.
The advances are small, but significant. Free lunch, along with integrating children from the projects, areis two steps this school would never have taken three years ago. Many parents and students who have been at this school for years believe bringing in the children from Rut is a detriment to the school and their children. However, many of these parents are misinformed, or not informed at all, about the struggles these children face. I’ve begun raising awareness and consideration for these children, along with some of the other teachers. Sadly, parents are biased and judgmental. I can’t count the times I’ve heard the words “white trash” in these halls since it was decided that “those” children would be coming here. The judgment and the stereotypes are asinine enough, but blaming the children for an upbringing they couldn’t control? It baffles me, yet it’s how many of these parents behave. There’s still a long way to go to get these children the help and care they deserve.
Emma’s Mother
Having Emma in school is both a blessing and a curse. She’s the oldest, so the other children need her. She’s the only one who can keep Joe calm, the only one who can get Mia to eat the nasty cereal we have in our cupboard. Cassie is learning to watch after the others, but she’s still too young. She needs an adult around to make sure no one gets hurt. But Emma is only eight. She’s in the second grade… when I was in the second grade my biggest problem was writing my “How To Story” in Language Arts class. I was lucky. Emma’s not, and that is all my own doing. I am the one who left a home of wealth and comfort. I ran off with Emma’s dad and then, when I got pregnant, he just kept running. I treid to go home, but my parents wanted nothing to do with me. I was the embarrassment of the family, the child who ran off with some deadbeat and got knocked up. They couldn’t bring that girl to the church prayer group meetings. They couldn’t show that girl off at the monthly garden meetings hosted in our spacious living room. They couldn’t even look at me.. So I found a job, and another boyfriend. Days blended together into months, and years, and the next thing I knew I was still in the exact same, miserable place but with four children to support and only my eight year old little girl to help me do it.
I never cared about how the poor were taken care of before. I was always well provided for, so when I saw children with dirty hands and hair in my classrooms I just saw dirt. Not a child in need of food or help. The big fight for children, when I was growing up, was to stop single-parent households. The big call for a two-parent household and proper childhood development. (Yarrow) Eventually, movements like the law requiring absent parents to pay child support right from their paychecks started to take effect. (Yarrow) People started realizing how hard it is for one parent to provide for the entire family. Even then, they don’t know the harsh reality of it. I never did, until it became my life.
Coming home to hungry children - screaming, running, crying – it’s too much for me. But it happens more often than not. I work three jobs, from 7 o’clock in the morning until midnight. Waitressing, answering phones, and cleaning offices after hours – I’ll do anything that will pay me. When I come home, my bones hurt. My feet are twice their normal size, my arms are weak and limp, my head is pounding, and all I want to do is collapse and sleep for months. But each morning, I wake up again at 6:30 and do it all over again, seven days a week. Still, we barely get by. My children are more hungry than not. We can’t even afford enough water for them all to bathe on a regular basis. It’s pathetic. I’m embarrassed, but what else can I do? I’m doing all I possibly can to help them, but it’s never enough.
Emma
When lunch comes around I get really excited. As we get into lines, the teacher asks us walk towards the cafeteria slowly. We have to stop at the end of every hallway to make sure we stay in line. I hate every single stop. I just want to get there and get something to eat. The walk down one hallway takes forever. I dream of warm pizza and fish sticks as we make our way to the cafeteria. I get my food and we all sit down at the tables. The other project kids eat so quickly I can’t even see them swallow. It’s gross. Mother always told us we should never eat like animals, no matter how hungry we are. If we ever take less than ten seconds per bite, we’re eating like low-class kids, and that won’t be tolerated. I’m starving, but I count every bite. One, two, three, four, five.. sixseveneightnineten. I couldn’t help it. I’m starving. And so goes my lunchtime. I don’t talk to anyone; I might lose count and give them even more reason to hate me. The city kids all talk amongst themselves, looking at us and laughing or pointing. Jamie gets angry and threatens to throw peas at them, but I don’t mind it. I’m getting food. Yes, the pizza’s cold and the peas are crunchy, but it’s food. I won’t complain.
I like the rest of the day much more than I like the beginning. Miss Lemon has us read a story on the “magic rug” in the middle of the room. The story is about a witch who’s trying to find little piggies and make them into pies. We all get to read along on certain pages and the draw our own version of the ending. It’s fun. Recess is next. As usual, the city kids all play together leaving the project kids and me to our own devices. I prefer this to the hitting that usually went on at my old school. Everyone hated each other when we were there, even more than they do here. At least here, with the city kids hating us, we have a common cause. Jamie and I play tetherball and swing on the swing set until the return bell rings. After recess, the day passes quickly. Before I know it, it’s time to pack up and load onto the bus.
The ride home is a struggle. I start my homework while we drive because once I get home there won’t be time. Jamie does the same, but she gets really carsick. She can only write one word before she has to look out the window for a while. At least it’s a long drive. The teachers always disapprove of how messy our homework is. Miss Lemon always says, “I know you can do better than this.” But the bus is bumpy. It’s not our fault.
Once we get home, I head up the stairs to get Mia, Cassie, and Joe from Mrs. Hollen’s apartment. The stairwell always smells like pee and cigarettes. (Kozol) Mom says it’s because of the guys upstairs. They’re always screaming late at night. The smaller children from the other apartments run up and down the stairs with bare feet, carrying little bouncy balls and rocks. Mother calls them the “low-class children”, but we play with them anyways. There’s nowhere else to go play. When I get to Mrs. Hollen’s door I knock as loud as I can and wait until Mia opens the door. She looks tired and her eyes are red. Joe is lying on the floor crying and I know Mrs. Hollen must have been yelling at them. I quickly help Mia get the little ones’ things and we hustle into our own apartment. I give Mia my Fruit Rollup Miss Lemon slipped into our cubbies as we left today to make her feel better. Cassie and Mia go play with the other children on the stairs while I give Joe a bath and sing the song we learned in school today. It’s “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” but it’s the second verse not the first one, which anyone could sing.
When they’re done playing, Mia and Cass come inside, complaining about being hungry. I tell them to shush, what would mother say if she heard them fuss? But I quickly make two things of EasyMac for us all to share. I realize we only have one left, but by then it’s too late. I decide not to tell mom about it. She can find out later.
When it’s time to get everyone ready for bed things get crazy. Joe is tired but hungry, so instead of sleeping he cries. And cries. And cries. Mia and Cassie want to take baths, but they can’t tonight. It’s my turn. To get back at me they don’t do anything they’re told. They don’t put on their pajamas, they don’t brush their teeth, and they yell and fuss. Mother gets home past 11 and no one is asleep, including Joe who is still screaming from his crib. Mom yells at me, telling me she works hard all day and just needs some peace and quiet, but there’s nothing I can do. The babies yell because their stomachs hurt. My stomach hurts. My head hurts and I just want to sleep but I can’t. I start to cry. My mother yells more. She doesn’t understand…
Three hours later, I’m finally in my bed. Joe sleeps soundly in his crib. Mia and Cassie snuggle together in their sleep to keep warm. I wrap blankets around myself, hoping my body heat will thaw my toes. “The day’s finally over”, I tell myself. But then I realize it will all start again tomorrow.
…
A world like Emma’s is just one example of millions of hardships children in poverty must face today. There are 16.2 million children in the world today living in poverty (“Institute for Research on Poverty”). Many are given responsibilities no child should have to carry. They are looked down on and given no help. Those who do not understand them judge them for the actions of their parents or guardians. However, there are countless ways to help and fight for the wellbeing of these children. It does not lie solely on the child’s parent or guardian, who might be in just as much trouble, if not more, than the child is. Our ability to make a difference in these children’s lives can be on a large or smaller scale. The community, as a whole, canme have a profound effect on a child’s life, whether it is by offering to help a single family, or establishing an after-school program for children in the projects. There are countless ways. We can all make a difference in these children’s lives, just as Miss Lemon worked to make a difference in Emma’s. Emma’s story is just one example. It is one drawn from research and reading, but also from what I have seen through my own eyes, in other children’s lives and my own. There is no magical solution to eliminate poverty, but there is always something that can be done to help those who suffer from its affliction. We, as individuals and as a society, just have to find the courage to act.