Kelsey Merriam

The small, dingy bedroom is littered with boxes and dirty clothes. I sit propped against an overloaded table and watch the ever-moving, mischievous 10-month-old as he crawls among the well-loved toys. He gives me a slobbery, practically toothless grin and squeals in delight as I stick my tongue out at him. He has no concept of his impoverished living situation. His mother does. 

Though only 20, Mary knows the transitory life of temporary residences. I suppose she and her son both are “ever-moving.” And yet, somehow, she flashes me a smile that is just as bright as her baby boy’s. She smiles while she sits next to her unemployed 20-year-old husband in the cramped bedroom. 

While I worry about homework, she worries about her inevitable change of residence. While I worry about balancing my schedule, she worries about tense relations with her patronizing mother. And when I selfishly worry out loud to her, Mary is somehow still sympathetic, never once criticizing me as the privileged, white, middle class American I am. 

Getting to know her in high school was like watching a chain of dominoes fall. One violent encounter with her drunken mother followed another. I grew accustomed to calls, late-night gas station rescues, and weekend-long sleepovers at my home. 

The summer after we both graduated high school, Mary no longer lived with her mother, instead traveling between different friends’ homes. We used to talk about college together. But after a while, I stopped asking. I knew she wouldn’t be going. I knew she couldn’t. And that was before Mary got pregnant. 

“It seems inaccurate to suggest that this was when her life became difficult. It always was.”

Had she been born 10 miles north across the county line in the affluent community of Johns Creek, her options might have been greater. But in Norcross, she became a statistic; just another teenager. 

But what can I do about it? With my family’s limited income, we can’t pay away Mary’s problems and there are few she can turn to for financial help. Mary says she understands. But I don’t. Why are there endless resources for those who might not fully appreciate those assets while those who need the support struggle to get by? 

Wealth inequality is no new story, but there are new stories of it every day.  That some have plenty while others just down the street could only dream of not being in want, hardly fits the definition of “the American Dream.” While equal wealth distribution is not feasible, something must be done. 

Though I can’t begin to try to solve this country’s wealth inequities, helping people become more aware of how these gaps affect us all is a start. Simply being aware of the situation could be a beginning to ending the plight of those whose distressed clothing was not intentionally purchased that way.