Nadine Kristel C. Arraiza
SSN186.7763
Prof. Allen R. Stevens
February 12, 2009
“Poverty.”
The greatest lessons I have learned as an adolescent were cultured within the
narrow side streets of Payatas, Quezon City; a major slum area from my homeland, the
Philippines. I just thought that although this initial experience was a far 4 years ago,
somewhere within this incident, someone can decipher the same lessons I had learned,
and maybe find some new teachings of their own. I think this community, these people,
and the incidence of poverty in general, whether from experience or observed should be
made open to the world, so that more and more can understand the situation that is shared
by a majority of the urban population. Find your own conclusions and make your own
solutions, but be sure to share. Because this is our world; not mine, not yours.
It was my senior year in high school and we had an outreach outbound activity and
for an hour or so I did nothing but stare blankly into the view outside our school bus
door. Beyond the door was a small alleyway, and across that was a small G.I. sheet
structure. I saw slippered feet dash, and market baskets being lugged around; I heard the
loud shouts of the drunken men, the incessant chattering of the women, and the playful
screams and laughter of the children; I inhaled the scent of murky water mixed with
laundry detergent encompassed in the area, and an eerie sort of unnatural humidity filled
the air. Although their homes were compacted together leaving only passage ways
serving as pseudo roads; as none of the structures were above two stories, sunlight shone
brightly within the area. It was hot, truly, but it was precisely this humidity and distinct
smell of detergent that stuck best in my mind.
We have been talking about the inner cities in America for a month now. And
although the United States and the Philippines are thousands of miles apart, they both
have this issue as their common denominator. The inner city for me is comprised of a
dynamic community of hundreds if not thousands of people who are there not by choice,
but rather out of the necessity of living. Their poverty is the path they think they must
endure. It is the supposed cleansing of their souls so they may, one day join their God.
That was, and it must have been the paradigm of most of the God fearing individuals in
the community as well. It is precisely that point that made me realize that Karl Marx was
right. Religion, as in the case of Catholicism, is truly merely an opiate of the people. If
they truly believe that God would allow them to be tested by poverty, as a prerequisite to
paradise, then we would not have a merciful God, but rather a cruel professor. Weren’t
we as individual human beings given the God-given gift of rationality and free will? We
were given the innate capability to make something of ourselves. We must remember
though that our goal is not merely to be the best we can be, but rather that we be the best
we can be, for others. The goal was never individual, but rather a collective goal for
society in general. We are here to MAKE THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE, but again,
in the eyes of everyone else, they are nothing more than society’s outcasts that the world
deigns to let survive. Their dignity is shattered. Once you think of yourself less than your
constituents, then your capability suffers, and your being becomes greatly disordered.
Rewind back to that time when I was inside the school bus. I wasn’t able to mingle
with the others for I was sick, and if I had stayed longer where there was no shade, I
would’ve passed out. Of course, being trapped inside a metal vehicle while the heat of the
sun was blaring outside, didn’t do me much of a good anyways. It was 1 in the afternoon,
and the heat did nothing for my fever. I felt dizzy and so I decided to go outside and sit
by the town’s chapel door right by the shade, hoping for some breeze. Stereotypical
members of the urban poor community passed by me and asked if I was okay. I would
nod my response, but they would spiritedly query further on my condition, asking if I was
really okay. After a few minutes, my teacher arrived in a hurry. She said that one of those
who had queried me earlier had told her that I looked terrible and that I should be bought
to a hospital (which wasn’t really needed!) immediately. My teacher then took me into
the depths of the community, a trip that I would re-tread over and over again since that
time. A kind stranger took me to her home, a 2x2 meter space of corrugated G.I. sheets
with a piece of plywood stuck at the back wall creating a pseudo double decker bed. All
that was within the space was a table, a few cushions, a small gas stove and a cabinet.
She apologized for her home, and asked if I would like to rest first. She directed me to the
bottom "bunk" of the makeshift bed, which was layered with a thin cushion and torn
sheets. Now, fast forward to something that happened just a few days ago. I was on my
way home, feeling sick, inside an NY subway, the 7 train line to be exact. Three stops
from my base station, a typical homeless man walks inside and does his typical speechone that he probably mutters a hundred times in a span of a day, to ask for some change.
No one pays him any attention, given that the cart I was in was only halfway full. He
prances around till he gets close to where I was seated. In front of me was a Hispanic
family: a Mom who looked deprived of a good night’s sleep, 2 toddlers who were seated
beside her and a baby, sleeping on her stroller, on her other side. The man murmurs
something to the mother and produces two quarters from his pocket. “I have kids as well,
and I know how hard life is.”, he says while giving the quarters to the kids. After that, the
train reaches its next stop and he jumps out with such vigor, which is really quite unusual
for someone who has not gotten what he wanted, and even shelled out some of what he
was asking for, in the first place. Both these experiences have heightened my senses
which lead me to remember the parable about a rich woman and a beggar that I have
heard quite a few times before. The reason I found for that phenomenon was that it was
only during times of epiphanies that I bother to slow down and simply experience the
multiple sensations opened to me. Lying/sitting, there is nothing to take into account but
your body, and what it feels. Thus, in moments like those, I am open to feel. I am open to
see, to smell, to taste, and to hear the sensations we take for granted. It's as if the world is
for us to grasp, but we forget that in reality, it is the world that grasps us.
I believe that one of the reasons why the generalized middle class does very little to
alleviate poverty is because instead of seeing poverty as a social disease, they see it as an
aesthetic lack. Instead of seeing poverty as a manner of being, a cancerous form of
existence, it is reduced to merely a bad work of art to be hidden away in a storage closet,
or burned in a back alley. We see proof of this in the fact that the government, and even
middle class home owners who live close to depressed communities, are fond of walling
off said communities, creating facades of concrete to mask the low areas behind them.
The urban poor are evicted from their homes, and are thus forced to live in cluster houses
again hidden, in faraway places. Poverty is hidden. Of course, most of every country’s
poor exist far from the metropolises to begin with. They exist in peripheral provinces,
provinces known only to the metropolitan middle classes for resort towns or theoretical
land masses studied in Geography. They are hidden by their anonymity. That is all
poverty is to the minds of the other classes: Bad Art. To them it is crude, and not to be
bothered with. It’s not worth looking at; rather, it is to be hidden if visible. Such is my
experience in regards to poverty. Sadly, it truly is a hidden world; that of the urban poor.
And I shall end this with a simple story which I thought would best incorporate the
lessons I have learned from our discussions.
*A man was seen to be standing waist-deep in the mud. Few people went past him, not
even caring to help him get out of it. The man stared blankly into the faces of people
walking by him. Some were staring, some didn't mind. Some looked at him like he had a
disease and was needed to be avoided. The man's spirits were suddenly lifted up when he
recognized a familiar face rushing towards him. Thinking that he would finally be helped
out of the mud, the man reached his hand out. His friend did the same in return, but
instead, he reached out to grab a handful of mud, and slapped it on the man's face.
"I've been watching you for weeks getting yourself into so much trouble, doing the most
vile, stupid things, and now this? What were you thinking? What are you doing just
standing there? After everything I thought about you, you were not the person I expected
you to become. You were supposed to set an example, but what are you doing? The last
thing I need is another disappointment in my life!"
The man said nothing in return, and it was too late before he was able to explain, as his
friend had already stormed out, leaving him there, with mud dripping on his face.
Suddenly, a stranger held out his hand, lifted him up, and offered him a clean napkin to
wipe off his mud-dripping face. The man thanked him, and told him that he'd been in the
mud for hours. He then explained, that it was as simple as having so much going on in his
life, was in the brink of losing his sanity, and, while deep in thought, did not notice the
deep puddle of mud he was about to walk on, when he fell on it, and for some reason
forgot how to get out, as stupid as it sounds. The man then questioned the stranger on
what made him act otherwise, when even his own friend treated him as unexpectedly.
The stranger chuckled, and then said, "Well, it’s as simple as your explanation too. One, I
don't know you, and I assumed there was a reason why you were stuck in the mud and
didn't get out of it yourself. I have no right to judge you, regardless. But in contrast to
that, Two- I have been in the same situation years ago, so I know what its like to be in
your position, and I am someone who doesn't wash my hands clean of my mistakes. I am
a better man now, and I owe it to those experiences, and its best shared with everyone
else going through something similar. I am, after all, still just a man, no matter how I've
changed for the better. And three, well, sometimes, the only way to help someone out of
something is to simply help them out. Slapping you with what you are already in
wouldn't help you in any way. For every man knows where they are in their lives, they
just can't be aware of it when they can't even remember why they're there in the first
place. All they need is someone to help them get out of it, someone to help them realize
and clean up, especially when they can't do it themselves. When a person is waist-deep in
something, you shouldn't push them lower now, should you?”*