For Impoverished Teens, Time is of the Essence

As a troubled teen, I was but one among thousands of the desperate throngs of impoverished teenagers seeking any way out of poverty. Like most of my friends in the housing projects, I experienced a growing outrage at the living conditions in the cramped concrete compound, reserved exclusively for the needy. I lashed out at those who treated me as a third class citizen. Such was life on the margins of society. That we were deliberately isolated was without doubt among those of us who lived there.

Poverty victims toil in the background of the tourist havens of my old hometown, Nashville, living in grey concrete neighborhoods that were well known by the locals as a dangerous place to avoid. Without so much as a car or bus fare I walked the streets every day, stopping at every restaurant, factory or retail store within miles of my home in the housing projects. Always, my worst fear was to be left behind by a failure to plan for my future. I prayed nightly that the dreaded day would never arrive when I would be forever trapped in the cycle of poverty.

In the days since I lived in those neighborhoods of east Nashville, there has been a growing awareness that time itself was the critical factor for breaking the cycle of poverty. How one took advantage of that valuable time was the unspoken marker of who got out and who got stuck. Getting past your past is a yearning for poor children, but few will find the courage to make the right choices and sacrifices necessary to escape.

Early on, I learned that no one was going to come to our home and rescue us. My grandmother was fond of saying "God helps those who help themselves." Life had taught me that she was right, so I wasn't surprised when we were left to defend ourselves against our father's frequent drunken rages. The middle class avoided our neighborhoods. My seven siblings and I were accustomed to living on our own. The only escape was through hard work. That's what I did to survive-I kept busy working every job I could find. I didn't care what I was paid. Any job would do; any amount of money would suffice. When you have nothing, something is better.

Crime seemed the easiest way out, but it was always short-lived. My friends eventually got caught and then they would be gone. Even still, crime was a prime subject of conversation in my neighborhood. Many of my friends were gone, locked into prison cells, but others, like me, walked the streets day after day looking for work, crying out for help as we contemplated our despair. The only certainty was that no one would answer our cries. It was self-evident that out of thousands of poor people who lived in our housing projects, hard work was the only way to confront economic inequality.

Every city has a hidden or not always talked about place where they provide housing for the poor population. But, when you are part of that poor population, and you are a teenager, you can't help but notice that people are looking past you-turning their heads for the brief moment that they pass by. They were the ones who could hop in a car and drive off, but driving off wasn't an option for us. There was only one way out-hard work. I didn't care what the job paid, or what kind of work I had to do. Staying out of trouble and having money in my pocket was a powerful motivator, even more than pride itself.

That sentiment wasn't shared by the vast majority of my family members and friends, but they didn't seem to be upset with my ambition either. I figured they thought I was just another fool who thought he could beat the odds stacked against the poor. Giving up a stake in the future is the bizarre equality among poverty victims.

Even today, many of my family members do not understand me. A person, who successfully escapes generational poverty, is rarely comfortable or even welcomed when they return to visit old friends and family. I have moved on, while they have remained stuck in the culture of poverty. There is so little we have In common. Our language and behaviors are different, and their sense of low self-worth has made them more angry and ashamed, when there is no reason for anger and shame,

Some family members poke fun at me for my belief that there is a Divine hand behind my escape from poverty. But all my brothers and sisters have already noted the absence of a human one.

"Never question the ways of the Lord," Aunt Bertha frequently said to me. But I also knew that Mamma Pearl was right as well. "God helps those who help themselves." To me, that meant common sense is the gift of wisdom granted to us by God, who gives every person, no matter than circumstances, the ability to know the difference between right and wrong. I couldn't afford to wait for the eve of crisis to seep permanently into my life, like the freezing rain that found its way into the cracks of our roof during cold winters. I didn't have time to waste. Every waking moment had to be spent toward a focused goal of escaping poverty.

Most of the people that live in impoverished neighborhoods are vulnerable to low expectations, violence, addictions and crime. So it always comes down to making the right choices in life. Especially for the generationally poor, time is of the essence.