A Heart Don't Break Even

I was really unsure if I wanted to write about things I saw during my service term. Though I'm proud to be serving, I think the program has several flaws, chief among them is the feeling that we can be tourists to poverty, giving a year of service only to go back to the comforts of the middle class. Perhaps that's especially true for me, a child of the suburbs and the elite liberal arts. But I changed my mind this week because I need to put words to paper (or e-paper) and wrestle with what I'm seeing. This blog is intended then to talk about a number of issues, with a personal bent. I welcome thoughts, comments, critiques, and laudings.

So why did I decide to start writing?

I consider myself to be a pretty aware person, in terms of structures and statistics and reality. I also consider myself to be a conversationally open person, but not always an emotionally open person. I preface my writing to say that I know poverty exists in America; I argue to friends that it's getting worse. I care about poverty... Because that's what the statistics show. My struggle, then, is coming to terms with what I'm now seeing and feeling.

For my term, I'm spending my time in the West Central community of Spokane. Colloquially, its called the poorest community in the state - though I've never actually seen the report. As part of my placement, my Wednesdays are spent in an afterschool program at the elementary school, and then at a community meal through a church. I've been in the position for a little over 2 months.

The afterschool program wore me down. A student who is normally pretty good really struggled to stay focused. He was tough to engage. I think I learned that he was hungry, and the way he was acting makes me think he probably hadn't had a good meal in a bit. What could I do? Could I mention the community meal I was heading to next? Could I try and get a message to his parents? Could we bring an extra snack for him to take with him? What about his siblings?

Immediately after the program ended and the student ran off, I headed over to the community meal. It was a light night - the beginnings of the month typically are. And yet, the back-to-back programs made it tough for me. I had this feeling of cycle, of a wheel turning and turning, the guests at the meal older versions of the students I had just taught. It was a cycle without an intervention, and without that intervention, one could be in my position fifty years from now and see the same.

A mentor once described West Central as a community that will break your heart. I nodded, intellectually knowing it was true, but not experiencing it myself - yet. But this week, my heart was broken. Knowing that a heart can, metaphorically, break open or break cold, I felt the need to write, to make sure mine breaks open. I can feel both forces within me. The one that disengages, feeling hopeless, seeing individual failings of drug abuse and benefit reliance, systems and institutions that aren't present, aren't effective, and don't build individuals but administer programs. Then there's the other, the compassionate side the sees the uphill battle, the absence of economic opportunity and jobs, the absence of a mental health system, of the police and treatment facilities to handle the drugs, the inadequate schools and community institutions, the absence of healthy food options, of public transportation, and more. 

And so as my heart breaks, I'm working to remember the positive, and the assets. There are great kids in the afterschool program. I appreciate how friendly and community-minded the guests are at dinner. There are a couple organizations with incredible people that are giving their all for this community. And they've accepted me to join them in the struggle. Together, we can build the intervention. Together, we can lift up the community and raise its outcomes and its prospects. Together, we can open our hearts, our doors, and our hands.

Stick with me as we undergo this journey. Hold me accountable to being a part of the intervention. And join me in the struggle.