I Hate Poverty...

...No, I love poverty. Maybe I’ve been out in the sun too long and my brain is fried up. How can one possibly hate and love something like poverty? Wouldn’t someone who cares about God, the world, and others, hate poverty? You’d think so. What kind of person could love it?

The abject Mississippi Delta area poverty of Louisiana and Arkansas was a large experience for me. I’ve walked through poverty in the inner-cities, the Appalachian Mountain rural-type areas, and Native American reservations throughout the western two-thirds of the U.S.A. After almost sixteen thousand miles I’ve seen it all, though truthfully, I’m not even close.

There is much precipitation in the Delta region, thus I looked for a roof of some type over my head most nights. I hate poverty because many of the rodent-infested, filthy, leaky roofed homes for roaches and legions of mold and mildew that I usually frequent were inhabited by other human beings. I hate it because they were living in the same places that no one should live in, but me. My life became more difficult because of them. How dare they?! I hate poverty!

The abandoned-looking places in most of the rest of the country were just that, abandoned. One doesn’t have to be a rocket-scientist to figure an abandoned building out. Imagine the explaining I had to do upon looking in the window of an “abandoned” looking house in the Delta, only to have someone stare back at me. I hate poverty!

May none of you ever have to live in most of the places I’ve frequented the past three and a half years. May none of you because of skin color, nationality, lack of education, low I.Q., mental problems, a terrible upbringing, or any other circumstances have to live in abject poverty. There’s already way too much abject poverty and if you start living that way I’ll have even more competition for a roof over my head. I hate poverty!

Also the real poor parts of this country don’t yield very many coins for me to pick up. How dare those poor people not throw money out the way regular folks do, and how dare some person pick up whatever monies are on the pavement before I get there? I hate poverty!

I love poverty, man I love it! The Native American lands of New Mexico and South Dakota bring back fond memories. Those two places are tied for the best areas I’ve been to for the entire walk. In comparison, every other area is in last place.

On the reservations, in amongst all the poverty, alcoholism, drug use, and despair, people were really nice to me. They didn’t avoid me, or strike out at me, and they offered many rides, water bottles, and food. They acted more like the person Jesus describes when he asks, “And who was the neighbor?” than most Christian folks.

To this observer it seems like poor folks reach out more than middle class or rich folks. Why is it people of moderate means or the wealthy tend to wait until the walk is on the news or in the paper before reaching out? I wish we’d remember when we used to hitchhike or didn’t have much. Maybe then we could empathize with the physically needy. It seems like the more we have the harder it is to relate.

I was in Kansas City, Missouri, walking the main road through deplorable conditions and a hundred percent African American population. No one messed with me, people were helpful, and one 20 year old young man gave me two dollars. I love poverty!

The walk proceeded through a very rural part of Texas where there were a few occupied dilapidated trailers. An elderly white woman yelled at me to stop as she exited her abode and slowly approached with something in her hand. It was a half of an apple pie and yes, it was good. I love poverty!

Another time in Texas I was walking through a smaller city where the socioeconomic conditions were very poor. A small about-six-year-old Hispanic boy walked towards me and held his hand out with ten pennies in it. Yes, I took his money. I love poverty!

Once during wintertime a ghetto-style laundromat was home for me in a Louisiana town. About eleven p.m. I was awakened by an old black man bending over me with a warm towel he’d taken from his dryer. It was a cool night and his words were, “This will keep you warm.” Then he gave me a ten dollar bill. I love poverty!

Just two months ago, while walking Illinois, I was hanging out in a bank for a while as a depositor friend tried turning the coins I found along the road into a check to feed the hungry. The coins were “mutilated” according to the head teller, and rejected. Truly about 25% of the coins were nicked up, beat up, bent, mostly worn out, and seriously no longer the correct color. Truly the other 75%, although found along the highway, were good enough for any of us to receive as change from our local stores. They were all deemed “mutilated” by the head teller at my friend’s local bank. It was like the “good” ones were guilty by association because they hung out with the “bad” ones. I know we do this sort of thing with human beings, but has it come down to our money also? Is nothing sacred anymore?

Maybe someone can help me out concerning loving or hating poverty. I want to be able to take a stand on this subject and quit sitting on the fence. I’m confused. Please help me!

Till the next time...

In Christ’s love,

Don