How affluence can limit understanding of the intricate web of the causes of poverty.

by Chris Scott

Chris Scott

I didn’t know you could make a house out of trash. I came upon just such a thing while walking in the village of Los Cedros, Nicaragua, one summer in high school. Black plastic trash bags, rusty tin, and an assortment of objects constituted a hovel of sorts where a mother and her three children lived. A couple of chickens tied to wooden posts bobbed their heads in the summer heat.

A nearby well covered by rotting wood sat half hidden by tall grass. I looked in between the planks covering the hole expecting to see water. I saw mud and green sludge. I accidentally startled one of the chickens resting nearby and its feathers ruffled. I looked down to see an infection festering on the chicken’s back. The bones that run in between the feathers popped out of this scabby orifice.

The trio of kids who called the hollowed out pile of trash their home gobbled up the Clif Bars I passed out to them as if they were far more precious than semi-tasteless protein snacks. As I tore up the food one of the little girls followed the movement of my hands with two of the greenest eyes I have ever seen.

 My first encounter with poverty in Los Cedros opened my eyes to another part of the world. Much like the brick wall of humidity that greeted me when I first stepped out of the airport in Managua, the sight of the slums in Los Cedros let me know I had entered a new world. These Nicaraguans are poor by any standard, but especially by my own.

I am ignorant about how 99% of the world lives. I went to a private high school. I graduated high school as one of a class of 105:101 white and four blacks. I have never felt unsafe or afraid in my neighborhood, and my friends never experienced living in a poor community. I recognize this is bittersweet. True hunger never gnawed at my stomach, and basically all of my wants and needs have been met. Missions trips and service projects are the narrow window through which I view those in poverty. I live in my own little world, not an ethnically and economically diverse Earth with seven billion people. Regarding income distribution, racial tensions and reparations (what I do know came from reading this article from The Atlantic), I have little to no authority or experience.

I can count the number of black people I developed friendships with on not one hand but one finger. Reading articles and watching informative YouTube clips can only take me so far. I understand intellectually there is a massive gap between how much the average white person makes and how much the average black person makes. I understand also these inequities began in our country’s racist past. But a person can look at a raging battle from miles away with a telescope and observe what is happening. He cannot, however, feel the heat of the explosions or hear the screams of the dying.

To tell a good story, a true story, I will have to get closer. I will have to learn much more. This, after all, is the very reason I came to college. A story must be first experienced, lived and documented before it can be told. I think that is why journalism is a noble profession. A journalist is first and foremost a storyteller. Graphs and census data desensitize, because there are so many different variables to consider. But someone’s story can bring attention to what really matters. Statistics and income gaps can be worried over all day. The people they represent are what are important.