May 2013
The largest difference between what I witnessed shadowing Peace Corps Zambia and my Americorps tenure: I have had to turn people away, not because they are constantly batting their eyes and cusping their hands in hopes of receiving money or possessions, but for showering me with gifts I simply cannot feel right accepting.
Being the third generation VISTA volunteer, the community members have grown accustomed to the process of accepting us "agents of change" into their communities. Through this process, I've been invited to dinners, sat in on tea parties, and been the sole recipient of a small-scale food drive. I've shown home to bags of produce and home-baked cookies and cupcakes hanging on my screen door with handwritten notes. If I can't ride my bike to work, I've got multiple people nearby who will offer me a ride. It all seems like so much... I don't know... LOVE.
Still... I guess it is understandable, the lengths they go. I've had to consciously stop myself in worrying about money.
So THIS is the poverty cycle poor Americans get stuck in, I thought. Constantly spending their time worrying about how they'll fund the groceries for the week, how they'll send their packages, pay rent and their utility bills, ON TIME. And still have enough money in the bank in case of emergency.
Though what we think about is choice, it's a lot harder to get yourself out of that hole of despair when you're stuck in the throes of it. How do we foster the creativity in the minds of people in order to help them overcome this mental poverty they've become trapped in? A modest economic bump might cause brief moments of elation, but I'm afraid it's much more than that. I'm starting to see, that maybe, it's the support of a community. And education, and learning to live more with less.
But I also know that my position is different. I only strategize because I'm saving money for a trip to Europe, not feeding three kids a day. I cannot fully relate, I can only understand that my thought process is a mere fraction of what people in poverty go through on a daily basis, without ever stepping back and recognizing an opportunity to reverse the cycle.
The money has increased my awareness as well. How do I buy the cheapest vegetables? Well, buy what's in season and what doesn't ride in plastic crates in the backs of over-sized trucks while the driver sucks down energy drinks and whatever type of drug that keeps him awake, alert and driving for days on end to reach its destination. Spending so much time by myself, especially while eating, it's easy to imagine its life story. If only peaches could talk.
The largest difference between what I witnessed shadowing Peace Corps Zambia and my Americorps tenure: I have had to turn people away, not because they are constantly batting their eyes and cusping their hands in hopes of receiving money or possessions, but for showering me with gifts I simply cannot feel right accepting.
Being the third generation VISTA volunteer, the community members have grown accustomed to the process of accepting us "agents of change" into their communities. Through this process, I've been invited to dinners, sat in on tea parties, and been the sole recipient of a small-scale food drive. I've shown home to bags of produce and home-baked cookies and cupcakes hanging on my screen door with handwritten notes. If I can't ride my bike to work, I've got multiple people nearby who will offer me a ride. It all seems like so much... I don't know... LOVE.
Still... I guess it is understandable, the lengths they go. I've had to consciously stop myself in worrying about money.
So THIS is the poverty cycle poor Americans get stuck in, I thought. Constantly spending their time worrying about how they'll fund the groceries for the week, how they'll send their packages, pay rent and their utility bills, ON TIME. And still have enough money in the bank in case of emergency.
Though what we think about is choice, it's a lot harder to get yourself out of that hole of despair when you're stuck in the throes of it. How do we foster the creativity in the minds of people in order to help them overcome this mental poverty they've become trapped in? A modest economic bump might cause brief moments of elation, but I'm afraid it's much more than that. I'm starting to see, that maybe, it's the support of a community. And education, and learning to live more with less.
But I also know that my position is different. I only strategize because I'm saving money for a trip to Europe, not feeding three kids a day. I cannot fully relate, I can only understand that my thought process is a mere fraction of what people in poverty go through on a daily basis, without ever stepping back and recognizing an opportunity to reverse the cycle.
************************
This new form of consciousness has dramatically changed my outlook on food. It had been awhile since I was the sole decision-maker of the shopping list.
When I was little, if my parents so much suggested I swallow a sliced up vegetable, I'd fold my arms in disgust and refuse. And they dared not to wrestle with my stubbornness. I think the first time I ever ate a cooked carrot I was 7 and at my aunt and uncle's dinner table, and contemplated different methods of escape before I finally just relaxed my taste buds enough to inhale the damn thing without having to embrace its awful flavor.
Now all I ever eat are vegetables. And when I walked into the grocery store, depending on the mood, I either laugh or become appalled at a winter squash being sold for $2 a pound. I guess the dichotomy of living in the desert and consuming a vegetable that's harvested in winter makes the irony that much more apparent.
The money has increased my awareness as well. How do I buy the cheapest vegetables? Well, buy what's in season and what doesn't ride in plastic crates in the backs of over-sized trucks while the driver sucks down energy drinks and whatever type of drug that keeps him awake, alert and driving for days on end to reach its destination. Spending so much time by myself, especially while eating, it's easy to imagine its life story. If only peaches could talk.
My 70-year old Miss Maddie Rose :)
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