When I was younger, I reacted to hunger and poverty from the
safety of distance. What little I could
discern about these concepts came from news snippets over the radio,
photographs and videos on the TV, random articles in newspapers or magazines, a
book or two, and possibly even classroom lessons. Yet the emotions I had were as abstract as
the concepts themselves. Sure, I felt
outrage. I felt anger. I felt sadness. I felt helpless. But overwhelmingly, I felt distant.
Today, the hunger and the poverty stared me in my face, and
they left me winded. When a 5-year-old
boy comes into class crying out of hunger because his parents have yet again spent
all the money on alcohol but not on food for him and his siblings, it messes me
up. When a preschooler hits his
classmate because he is so hungry and he wants to get that last spoon of rice
on the plate, it messes me up. When we
send a child home for the weekend not knowing if he or she will even have food
to eat over the next two days, it messes me up.
But overwhelmingly, it now feels personal.
I work with these little ones. I see their scrawny bodies and their hollow
cheeks. I see them cry and I wipe their
tears. I see the teachers stuff food
into the children’s pockets so their stomachs will not hurt at night from the
emptiness. While my heart aches for
them, I also feel like I am finally able to do something for them. Because the issues are no longer far
away. Because the reality is now mine.
It is no longer about me feeling. It is about me doing.
...
