I’ve racked my brains on certain nights on
what it truly means to be in a state of poverty. I’ve come to the conclusion
that it is so much more complex than I had ever previously imagined. And living
in America, I didn’t really imagine anything of it, to be honest. The most I
thought about it was the one time I gave the homeless guy outside my apartment
in San Francisco some old blankets and comforters during the winter. Even then
I think it’s more thought than most? No one really likes to think about something
so sad. The blanket thing was a quick fix to make me feel good about myself.
Finally this cold homeless dude can sleep warm just for one night. Happy
ending. Forget about it the next day when I go to work.
Because I have never lived in a state of
poverty I am able to afford this pleasant existential contemplation. I don’t
want to sound like I am spiting myself for being privileged, but I guess I am,
because it’s hard not to when you’re surrounded by this. I can do the what-if?
pity thing because I haven’t ever experienced starvation or being seriously ill
but resisting going to the old busted hospital clinic because I can’t afford
tylenol.
I keep looking at my neighbors’ lives and
comparing it to mine. “What is it that I have that they don’t?” It bothers me when I come to the harsh
conclusion that I have a whole lot more than they do. I hate discriminating
against people. I hate making people feel like they are beneath others. But the
fact that I was born where I was, just by birthright, has given me so many more
opportunities. Why is that? It’s not fair
The other day, the old owner of one of my
current dogs (whom I retrieved from a life and death situation) was stumbling
drunk from drinking liters of moonshine in the rain. Her two younger daughters
were hanging out in my house with Bota. I’d say they’re about 3 and 10 tops.
Both look like little smurfs to me. Not more than three feet tall, both of
them. The younger one, Manitra, always comes to my house in her little pigtails
and says, “CLUMPF! CLEMPF!” and giggles and runs away because she can’t say my
name right.
I’ve never been a big fan of their mother ever
since I saw the way she treated animals. Needless to say, all the dogs she’s
ever had are dead. Not one puppy has made it longer than a month. Her husband
usually drunkenly bashes their little puppy heads in with a shovel when he’s
back in the village (he lives in the capital for work). Anyhow, this lady is
usually drunk everyday. She talks gibberish when she’s drunk. She has a bad
“reputation”.
It is pouring rain and it’s about 5pm,
everyone is home from work and all the kids are playing in my house while their
parents prepare dinner (if they have any). She leaves the epicerie, or store,
where she’s been drinking heavily and stumbles along the path home. Shortly
after making about ten clumsy steps, she falls in the mud and rolls down the
hill where people’s cassava fields are. Her clothes are soaked and dirty, and
the rain is slamming.
A bunch of kids at this point come running
into my room towards the window to watch her in the distance. They start pointing and laughing because she looks like a fool and and is too
incoherent to stand up. It’s always a spectacle when a drunk is around,
sometimes the kids will slap them in the face and pull on their ears when they’re
passed out on some random person’s yard. But this lady was being belligerent to
everyone who was trying to help her up.
So finally she sloppily pulls herself up,
walks about five feet, and falls on the ground again. The kids start
hysterically laughing. Startled, I suddenly look down at Loba, her oldest ten
year old daughter. Tears are pouring down her face as she helplessly watches
her wasted mother among the sea of laughter and naïve criticism from her less
than ten year old counterparts.
I didn’t really know what to do, so I
scolded all the kids and kicked them out of my house except for Loba, her
younger sister, Bota, and their cousin, Rija. I picked Loba up and just held
her close to my heart. She seemed relieved to have someone hold her so she held
onto me too. I told Rija to take the two girls home, they didn’t need to see
their mom like this anymore. He said no they’ll probably sleep with his family
tonight. Their mom can be unpredictable when she’s been drinking, he explains.
I’ve learned that you must pick and choose
which projects would most likely be sustainable. It takes a lot of money, work,
and communication to get things running correctly. And even with those
variables accounted for, things still manage to fall apart.
The reality is there will most likely be no
one who will help Loba in her lifetime. I know I won’t. It is impossible to help
her and change her life given the context of her toxic family and the limited physical
and social infrastructure in Madagascar.
So like I said I’ve racked my brain over
and over mulling on what poverty is. I don’t know what the textbook definition
is, but children like her, though they break your heart, are the face of
it.
