I currently reside in America’s third poorest county. I
arrived here after living in a slew of other counties, varying in economic
status, but certainly none of them were marked
“underserved”
Now, though, in the midst of poor healthcare and low standards
that are strangling education, I’m finding it near impossible to reconcile the privilege
afforded me by my past homes and the guilt I feel over the disadvantages
afforded to those living here, those whose plane ticket out is far more
difficult to attain than mine will ever be.
I knew how to read before I went to first grade, I was
involved in multiple sports by the time I was 6, I always had electricity, my
parents always had jobs, I never had to wait more than 20 minutes at the
doctor’s office, I was never called an “animal’ by my teachers, no one called
me dumb, no one blamed my parents for my misbehavior, no one claimed my parents
“didn’t care” about my development as a child, no one question the work ethic
of my parents, no one questioned my ability to achieve, my ability to speak, my
ability to write, no one told me, “you can’t reach your goals, leave South
Dakota, play on a competitive soccer team, run a sub 6 minute mile….”
I thought my life was normal, I thought children everywhere
had the same sort of support system I did, I thought every child could read by
the time they were 6, I thought every teacher insisted their students work hard
every single day, I thought healthcare was innate, I thought unpaved roads were
solely for country drives, where trucks reigned. I thought the lifestyle I grew
up with was more or less, very similar to that of most American youth. I
thought “underserved” communities were reserved for poor Islands or tribal
communities in Africa, I didn’t know pockets of America were plagued by such a
title.
Eventually the truths of American born injustice and
inequity were unveiled and, as each veil was lifted, I started questioning
myself and those questions inundated me with feelings of guilt. Why was I born
into a financially stable family? Why was I taught how to read at a young age?
Why did I never have to worry about food? Why was my closet always full of
clothes? Why was I so loved? What makes me different? Each question begged the
same answer
I don’t deserve these privileges.
These have been gifted to me per my lot in life, per the community I grew up
in, per my parents and perhaps, even, per my race.
And then, there are my students. Most days, I feel as if
America has turned its back on my students, Mexico won’t claim them. They’re
growing up in a place that seems so other- worldly to me, a place where low
expectations accompany the stray dogs that litter the road. They are innovators
and entrepreneurs, humanitarians and novelists, but as a society, we’re failing
them because we’re not teaching them how to hone their skills, how to actualize
their potential.
I get really angry when I think about the lot my students
have been given, I’m angry that more people aren’t outraged by it, angry that
people who are in power to change it, choose apathy instead, angry that I can’t
save them, even though I try really really hard. Beyond anger, though, I’m
confused. Why is the story of this community so unknown? The answer, as a
writer, is frightening.
This story is so hard to tell.
As my time here dwindles, I’m stuck with one last
responsibility: figure out how to tell this story, with grace and benevolence,
just as my students deserve. I’m not
sure how this relates to love, I’m not sure what I’m learning about love through
this experience, but I hope that when the story is recorded, it will simply
speak love, the love my students deserve, the love they need.
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