Don't Judge Because of Poverty:Judge For Personality

Recently, I read an essay, "By Any Other Name," by Santha Rama Rau portrays conflict in cultures from her early youth.It made me think back to my childhood as I read each line. I just wanted to cry out, I know how you feel! Although, we were worlds apart, we shared a hurt within a child's soul.

Ultimately, some people do not realize the devastating effects they can have on another individual by being judgmental and not taking into considering the other individuals lifestyles, backgrounds or cultures.

Instead, people judge others by their looks, their affluence, financial status, or as simple as the clothes they wear, and worse yet, even today, the color of skin. Come on; be honest with yourself for a moment.

Have you ever seen a person in rags standing on the street corner with their sign asking for help? What was your first thought? Poor Guy? Or was it, "Boy he's so pitiful and filthy looking; he needs a bath and you may feel he could probably get a job if he only clean. If, at the grocery store, you see a mother and children in rags, what are your thoughts then?

When I was in the third grade we moved to a small town in Idaho and I attended a new, strange, school. My mother was single with four children and we were "labeled" a poor family I guess we were, in respect to what money we had, but love was more important to us than any possessions could hold.

On my first day of school as my mother was registering me, the receptionist asked my mother, "Doesn't that child have a better outfit she could wear to school?" My mother and I just looked at each other with that knowing thought, only we could shared about our family. Mother's response was that she would see about mending my skirt later that evening. My mother finished the paper work and handed it back. The woman asked if the name my mother wrote down was indeed, my full name.

"Yes ma'am". Surprised, she suggested that we think about altering my name so I would not be teased, and others would have an easier time pronouncing it. The receptionist added "Your daughter looks as if she has enough issues, and you gave her a name like Roberta Annette Marie Buitendyk?" As the woman started walking us down the hall to my new class room, I could see the tear in mom's eyes as the receptionist shook her head. Although, in that moment in time, I did not fully understand the judgment and ridicule placed upon my mother. But I did know we were not like other people and there were rules for people like us.

Therefore, I felt as Rau did her first day at school when she described the headmistress's inability to cope with Indian names. As a result, Rau's name was changed for others gratification. Why was her cultural background ignored? The justification made, ignored culture, ignored values, as well as depriving ones own personalities for fear of being reprimanded for being an individual. Further, Rau tells that all Indian children's names were changed to English names. It, too, reminded me of the occurrences that took place at my Idaho school and it was not that I was different by the color of my skin nor was it because I was from another culture or belief. No it was because I was a poor white child without a father that I was labeled. I wondered what it all meant and I soon found out.

For example, Rau states that "If, at a young age, a person's ethnic name is stripped and changed by authority, one develops a curious form of dual personality". "She remembers a detached and disbelieving concerns in her life as Cynthia, her English-given name; she did not accept it as her own". I think that I, too, developed a questioning type of dual individuality. It was not because of a name change as Rau experienced, but by our financial status, our move to Idaho and the harsh realities from judgments that life brought us.

Before Idaho, I grew up with my long-time friends in Little Rock, Washington and in Idaho I had to start all over, but by being judged first. When I took my first steps into the classroom, the teacher gasped and all was silent while the children just stared. Perhaps this is normal for a class to stare and ponder at a new student, but I felt silently interrogated. My mother waved goodbye but on the inside I was begging for her not to leave me. As I watched her leave I felt abandoned and left to fight for my rights even if I was a poverty stricken without chose. We do not choose how we are raised or whom we are raised with. We come into the world with optimism and hope as a baby. I would have to show them I was more than my birth given name and I was more than the poor clothes I was made to wear, because society had already placed judgment on our family, mainly, because of appearances

The teacher introduced me to the class using my first and last name. It seemed like instantaneous laughter broke out into the class and one of the boys yelled, "She's a dyke!" "Look at her clothes," was another comment. I could only stand there with tears rolling from my eyes as the teacher regained control of the class and made them all apologize to me. But nonetheless I was being judged like Rau had. I was from a poor family being ridiculed and plagued because of the expectations of society.

Another example from Rau was "Even at that age it was apparent to all of us that friendship with the English and Anglo-Indian children was out of the question" Furthermore, for me, it was also obvious that poor children did not have friendships with the upper class children. It seemed as if there were rules although unspoken they were felt. I went almost a year to the Idaho school without any friends and being called names, but my life changed dramatically in the fourth grade. A newcomer arrived at our school, a pretty Hispanic girl named Angela. She, too, like me, was judged and ridiculed by the native Idaho students. One day after school I had seen her on the play ground crying. I felt so terrible for her, since I knew how she felt, as I, too, had once stood there experiencing her pain and I remember thinking, "how could people be so mean?" I walked over and hugged her. I told her that it would soon be OK because eventually someone else would come along. I ask her if she would like to be friends and from that day on, we were inseparable and any other new children that came to school there we seemed to protect. Our lives had changed for the better! Although we were still judged by the others, we at least had each other-someone that would not be judgmental. Like Rau said, "She remembered it all very clearly, but it all happened to a girl called Cynthia.". I, too, remember it all very clearly. But it all happened long ago in a place called Idaho.