This is part one of a two-part story that will conclude next Friday, July 4th. Thanks, as always, for reading and please share your thoughts when you're done. Have a great Friday!
It's Wednesday morning, and I'm heading over to an auto parts store to pick up some paint. Our 1998 Toyota Camry, with 194,000 miles, has an engine that keeps on chugging. However, everything around the engine is threatening to give out. I'm worried that, without some work, I'll be driving it around like Fred Flintstone, legs dangling out through the floorboard.
It's Wednesday morning, and I'm heading over to an auto parts store to pick up some paint. Our 1998 Toyota Camry, with 194,000 miles, has an engine that keeps on chugging. However, everything around the engine is threatening to give out. I'm worried that, without some work, I'll be driving it around like Fred Flintstone, legs dangling out through the floorboard.
I turn a corner, cross the river and a set of railroad tracks, and arrive at my destination. Items purchased, I return to my car about 10 minutes later. Now, parked next to me, is an aging white Nissan Sentra that makes my Camry look like it just rolled off the new car lot. Rust is taking over the body, and the tail pipe is dangling precariously. Music is blaring from an open window. A young woman, probably in her early 20s, has her head rested on folded arms hanging slightly out the window. She does not look up when I squeeze by her to open my car door. I'm tempted to shake her to assure she is breathing.
Suddenly, I hear a faint knock, just above the sounds of the music, on the closed passenger window of the Sentra. I turn and see that there are three young children crowded in the backseat. They range in age from about three to seven. They are not in car seats, and I notice that the floor boards are deteriorating and the seats are ripped, revealing the interior foam of the cushion. They are staring at me with blank faces, and I wave hello before entering my car.
I like to describe Roanoke (population 98,000) as being like most big cities only squashed into a much smaller space. Here, we face challenges similar to those of a big city, however, due to it's geographic size, these challenges are not hidden from sight. The poverty of Roanoke is front and center and obvious to many who visit. Upon moving to Roanoke in 2006, I spent the next four years working in schools in the poorest parts of the city. It was a challenging job, and I would describe my teaching years in Roanoke as largely unsuccessful despite my best efforts. I was conflicted by feelings of sadness and relief as I tendered my resignation in 2010 and opened my tutoring business.
I'm now seated in the front seat of my Camry staring at the steering wheel. I look over at the young woman resting her head. I've seen that look before. She is defeated. The tangled hair, faded white tank top, and dried, cracking hands reveal a woman worn out by life. And, she's so young. In a minute, I will start my car, drive a mile south, and return to my comfortable home. This woman is my neighbor, and I realize I don't understand her life. She is distant to me, as distant as someone living in a foreign country. Her life, her struggle is something I can't comprehend.
These thoughts are swirling in my head, and I find myself thinking about Honduras. I spent two years there, fortunate to work for the Peace Corps where it was my daily job to tackle the issues of poverty. I worked in the schools, spent time in the villages, visited families, spoke with local leaders, and immersed myself in the culture. Slowly, I began to identify the challenges the youth faced and, along with Cristina, was able to garner some success in educating them and preparing them for the future. As these thoughts float to the surface, I realize I'm shaking my head in disgust. What does it say that I better understand poverty in a third world country 2,000 miles away than I do in my own city?
Wrapped in the daily responsibilities of my own life, it's easy to be oblivious to things around me. Raising children, operating a small business, and keeping a household running require time and energy. It's easy to live in a bubble. However, this morning, I'm reminded of the pain and suffering taking place just down the street from my house. I start the car. Backing out, I notice the youngest girl in the backseat is looking up at me. She raises her hand slowly and waves. I wave back, and a huge grin stretches across her face, revealing a beautiful smile. Her eyes follow me as I turn the car.
What will become of that young girl? What does her future hold when already the odds are stacked against her? As I pull away, her smiling face lingering in my rearview mirror, the sad reality hits me, pulls the breath from my lungs: I want to help her, but I don't know how.
Suddenly, I hear a faint knock, just above the sounds of the music, on the closed passenger window of the Sentra. I turn and see that there are three young children crowded in the backseat. They range in age from about three to seven. They are not in car seats, and I notice that the floor boards are deteriorating and the seats are ripped, revealing the interior foam of the cushion. They are staring at me with blank faces, and I wave hello before entering my car.
I like to describe Roanoke (population 98,000) as being like most big cities only squashed into a much smaller space. Here, we face challenges similar to those of a big city, however, due to it's geographic size, these challenges are not hidden from sight. The poverty of Roanoke is front and center and obvious to many who visit. Upon moving to Roanoke in 2006, I spent the next four years working in schools in the poorest parts of the city. It was a challenging job, and I would describe my teaching years in Roanoke as largely unsuccessful despite my best efforts. I was conflicted by feelings of sadness and relief as I tendered my resignation in 2010 and opened my tutoring business.
I'm now seated in the front seat of my Camry staring at the steering wheel. I look over at the young woman resting her head. I've seen that look before. She is defeated. The tangled hair, faded white tank top, and dried, cracking hands reveal a woman worn out by life. And, she's so young. In a minute, I will start my car, drive a mile south, and return to my comfortable home. This woman is my neighbor, and I realize I don't understand her life. She is distant to me, as distant as someone living in a foreign country. Her life, her struggle is something I can't comprehend.
These thoughts are swirling in my head, and I find myself thinking about Honduras. I spent two years there, fortunate to work for the Peace Corps where it was my daily job to tackle the issues of poverty. I worked in the schools, spent time in the villages, visited families, spoke with local leaders, and immersed myself in the culture. Slowly, I began to identify the challenges the youth faced and, along with Cristina, was able to garner some success in educating them and preparing them for the future. As these thoughts float to the surface, I realize I'm shaking my head in disgust. What does it say that I better understand poverty in a third world country 2,000 miles away than I do in my own city?
Wrapped in the daily responsibilities of my own life, it's easy to be oblivious to things around me. Raising children, operating a small business, and keeping a household running require time and energy. It's easy to live in a bubble. However, this morning, I'm reminded of the pain and suffering taking place just down the street from my house. I start the car. Backing out, I notice the youngest girl in the backseat is looking up at me. She raises her hand slowly and waves. I wave back, and a huge grin stretches across her face, revealing a beautiful smile. Her eyes follow me as I turn the car.
What will become of that young girl? What does her future hold when already the odds are stacked against her? As I pull away, her smiling face lingering in my rearview mirror, the sad reality hits me, pulls the breath from my lungs: I want to help her, but I don't know how.