Culture of Poverty?

I recently attended a lecture on poverty, or more precisely, the presenter’s interpretation of some of the implications associated with poverty in 21st Century America. Although the material presented was, for the most part a regurgitation of postmodernist philosophy with revised lexicons (but mostly the same content) there was one notable exception. For it seems to me that the presenter was attempting to argue that folks who live in poverty are victims of their realities and that over time this fact has culturalized the experience. When I challenged this assertion, there was some backpedaling on the part of the speaker but as the lecture continued it became clear to me that I was being asked to stipulate that, generally speaking folks who live in poverty in America are in fact victims. Well, on the ride home and in the days since that presentation I have considered these ideas and having done so must reject them.

One of the principle reasons for my dismissal of this notion is that it seems to me that were I to accept this theory I would be helping to perpetuate the victimization mentality, an action which I am loath to take. I believe that Sartre had it right when he argued that claiming victimhood-or in the case of the above reference presenter, foisting victimhood upon another are acts that are associated with Bad Faith. And to state the thing simply it seems to me that this is not a good thing.

Another reason for my rejection of the thesis has to do with a recent visit I made to the Amish country in Pennsylvania. Here are folks who; it could be argued lead an existence that appears to be one of poverty by design, their Quaker faith aside they seem to assume a simplification of living that Thoreau would understand. And when I juxtapose their brand of contrived poverty against the so-called culture of poverty spoken to above it seems to me that the latter notion falls flat. For in the case of the Amish, they actively choose (read: an act of empowerment) to lead their lives in the manner in which they do, while it could be argued that many of the American poor often feel fated (read: an act of relinquishing power) to their existence. As an important aside, the above referenced presenter would have us attempt to develop an understanding of this that leads to the conclusion that these folks are victims of this mindset. After all, there were generations of children who were raised in this reality therefore overtime this Culture of Poverty developed. Of course this fails to explain the storied examples of Americans, born into poverty who managed to make choices which led to their achieving great things. Culture of poverty, I think not, Culture of Victimization, perhaps.

When I audited this talk, which was billed as masters-level course material I have to admit to feeling a bit out of place. For although the presenter was an academician most of the audience were clinicians in various social work disciplines. And it appeared that they were ready willing and able to gobble up the material as gospel truth. As I mentioned above much of the stuff had to do with ideas associated with postmodernist philosophy, therefore it seems to me that they can’t be faulted if some of those ideas resonated with them. However, it seems to me that linking the idea of victimization to the ideas associated with Sartre, Arendt, Derrida, Husserl et al bastardizes the core principles of choice and free-will.

All this being said I will stipulate that poverty exists in America therefore there must be causal factors associated with this reality-and they can and should be studied and strategies should be devised and tested to mitigate against it. But a soft-peddled message of victimization wrapped in postmodernist philosophical thought does not strike me as a valid approach.

Of course, during a break I made my position known to the presenter and he asked me to send him an e-mail outlining my ideas. You can be sure that I will provide him with a link to this essay and if he is so inclined I will post his response.

The Meaning of Life

"You Can't always Get What You Want"

I have this friend that I was corresponding with last week. It felt good to be in contact again-- I used to see a lot of her. As a matter of fact, for a period of time we were present in each other’s lives. But then, as she puts it, "due to (life’s) circumstances," it was necessary for that to change. And during the time that we were interacting on a regular basis, she was an amazing help and comfort. I like to think that we complimented each other in ways that made the two of us equal to more than the sum of our parts…true synergy if you will. Yet, that arrangement changed, and now I am left with fond memories, "warm hugs" and goodwill towards my friend.

Sometimes I visualize life as a river: We can step into the current on two separate occasions in exactly the same place, but it will indeed be a quite different experience both times around-different water molecules, water temperature, weather and wildlife, demonstrating truly that, nothing remains the same. I believe that life is all about growth and constant change. But then there are folks that feel like William Shakespeare, who eloquently summarized the Existential Nihilist perspective when, in this famous passage near the end of Macbeth, he has Macbeth pour out his disgust for life:

"Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."

So, it seems to me that, at the very least, life is ever changing, but according to some, at the very worst it is meaningless. I told my above referenced friend, that, from my perspective, I guess that as it relates to her and I, the situation just might represent a case of "you can’t always get what you want." Yet she reminded me that the song’s next line goes: "but if you try some times, you just might find, you get what you need." Constant growth and change vs. meaninglessness. One’s "wants" might not always be satisfied, but ones "needs" sometimes may be. It seems to me that this represents a set of interesting yet confusing paradoxes. But gentle reader, what does this mean?

Well to add to this confusion, it seems to me that to some degree, we are all "lost." You see, if one believes, as I do that life is a journey, and the meaning of life is something that is different for each one of us, and as a result of this journey life’s meaning may be revealed, then the implication is that until this personal revelation occurs, as we travel on we really have no clear understanding of where it is that we are going. In other words, we are quite "out there."

Yes, this friend of mine and I know each other well. We have shared our hopes, dreams, fears, and even our deepest, darkest secrets with one another. And I trust her judgement. Therefore, when last we spoke, and she gave me some advice on this matter of being lost, I had to listen. You see, she implied that I was having difficulty with "finding" myself. She then gently provided some suggestions as to where, exactly, I might be "found." And as usual, her words were wise and helpful ones, and the fact that she offered the advice made me happy. She remains a help and comfort.

And in speaking with her, after time has passed and circumstances have changed, I thought of life’s river. I imagined that I was stepping once again into the running stream that is our relationship with one another. Yes, things have changed, just like in the metaphor that I spoke to above. But with all due respect to Bill Shakespeare, I have to reject the notion that life is meaningless. For surely there was meaning in my friend’s words and actions. And at that moment my interaction with her was a part of my life, therefore life must have at least that much meaning. Yes, she remains a help and a comfort and the contact with her made me happy. Hey, doesn’t every human being need those things…and warm hugs also?

And perhaps she is right when she said: "but if you try some times, you just might find, you get what you need."

The Meaning of Life

Swept Away

Once upon a time there was a little girl, a good little girl as some might say. She was young and curious, and sometimes foolish but she made her way. The house she was born into was of modest means but there was no want for anything. She lived and breathed and grew and dreamed, but most of all she watched and wondered. The years flew by for her and thankfully she remained mostly untouched by tragedy.

And then one day all at once as if she were emerging from a dream she realized that she was no longer a little girl. The image which peered back out of the looking glass had those same eyes, but the rest was nothing less than shocking evidence, a demonstration of her dance with time. And she wondered at this. Her parents were old and changed; as were her dreams and each benchmark of her life up to that point came crashing home to her as being possibly irrelevant. Clean up, clean up, everybody do their share; the song played in her head as she recalled the hours spent with her mother.

Then she flashed on a discussion she had had with her father, all those years ago, over skipping the sixth grade: you will do this my dear, I know you will miss your friends but this is important for your future. She did not want to leave her classmates behind but she did as she was told. Her father had been correct; she excelled in her schooling. She recalled her academic achievements and where they had taken her. The stranger in the mirror was crying. Live a good life, do the right thing, have some fun and try not to hurt anybody, these were familiar words but were they supposed to mean something to her?

The years rolled by and she drank well from her cup achieving one goal then the next. Perhaps most would say that she was living a good life, or at least living as well as one could live. She knew that life was about choices and by God she had done her best to make the correct ones. She was driven, as if by fear of wasting time and by implication damaging the fabric of her life-or at least the hand she had been dealt.

She grew restless and bored, dismayed at what she saw going on all about her: avarice and hate, evidence of a plastic life that flew in the face of what her parents had taught her, what she thought to be true.

She perceived a hole in her life and sought to fill it with this and that. And as she did so she wondered about it all. She sought solace in accumulation but then simplified and stripped herself down. There were many near misses but nothing felt right to her. She became more fearful and this fear did strange things to her. She began to suspect that she, like all the others, were frauds. So she turned away, swept up in this understanding which had taken years to develop.

In the twilight of her time she told me these things. Of how she was nearly consumed by her beast of fearful selfishness. She is dead and gone and I hope that she is at rest but when I look at my reflection her words haunt me.

The meaning of Life

The Summer That Wasn't

It is a beautifully sunny, summer day here in the Green Mountain State. And this has been a rarity this year. This has been one of the wettest summers that Vermont has experienced since such records have been kept. Yes, our normal summer recreational pursuits are on hold. However at least I was fortunate to have made it into the woods on a couple of occasions for hikes and such.

Under the circumstances it is very easy to feel as if this summer season has been lacking, that it has simply failed to live up to our expectations. For instance, I can remember standing in my door-yard last March, watching the snow swirl and looking forward to the sun, sailing, swimming and hiking. It was almost as if I was taking the expectation of these things for granted, yet for the most part they failed to materialize.

And this fact has made folks grumpy. As far as conversation is concerned, the weather is always an old stand-by. But with a string of rainy weekends under our belts, talk lately, quickly turns to the weather--even when there really is something more important to talk about. Vermonters might be feeling a bit "ripped-off" this year. After all, we must contend with long, cold, dark snowy winters. And for many of us, as winter progresses, we use thoughts of springtime and the promise of summer to keep going.

However, I suspect that there is at least one other way to look at this situation. There is bright sunshine outside my office window now. I could shake my fist at it, and say that it is not fair that such a glorious day should present itself when I am trapped behind my desk. If I choose this course I might very well find myself hoping for it to cloud over and rain some more, since I can’t get out to play in it. Or, I can be thankful for the sunlight, as it streams in my window, and gladdens my heart. Of course I still wish that I could go out and play! But such is life. No, nothing is fair.

I was recently discussing this fact with a friend over drinks. My friend’s mother is scared to death of the mosquito borne West Nile Virus. Evidently, the woman is so fearful that she refuses to risk death by leaving her house. She is a prisoner, not only of these mosquitoes, but also of her fears. But it seems to me that we are all prisoners of our fears to some degree-I am afraid that it might rain again this weekend. So I am reluctant to make plans. But in the back of my mind I still know that "when one door closes, another one opens," even absent fairness.

And last night as I sat outside, alone in the moonlight, I recalled my friend’s words about fairness, or more properly, as it relates to life: the lack thereof. I had just swatted a mosquito that had made a snack out of the blood coursing through me. I looked at the remains of the mosquito’s body, pasted to my arm and intermingled with my own blood. "Will I die of the virus?" I mused. And if I did…would it be fair?

No, it seems to me that nothing is fair in this life, nor can it be. For, as it relates to our lives, notions of fairness and justice would imply that there is some method to this madness, perhaps some grand scheme that we simply can not perceive. But after one spends a fair amount of time going about the business of life, it becomes self-evident, that there probably is no Master Plan. For if there were, then based upon the evidence that I see all about me, it would contain elements of tragedy and heart ache for some good folks, and bountiful blessings for others who demonstrate qualities that are not so noble. And how could that be…what kind of a plan is that?

No, nothing is fair, the rain and the mosquitoes, none of it. But do you want to know something? I’m glad that this is so. For it seems to me that we would all be diminished somewhat by any arrangement other than the one, which we currently enjoy. For with all of its random cruelty and surprising acts of kindness, at least it is ours, contrived by us, entirely of our own making. And were our lives to be preordained exercises in perfectly ordered fairness, it seems to me that our very lives would seem less than they are now.

The meaning of Life

Hmmm?

The music echoes still, yet the amplifiers are quiet. And the criminals have all departed, leaving in their wake ill-will, smudges on the mirror and fresh memories of ripping music played.

But soft, her face, doth now present itself to me, in my mind’s eye, with her gentle voice asking, "have you been behaving badly?"

The Meaning of Life

An Elusive Creature

Perhaps there is a great notion that exists undiscovered. This idea, wondrous in its simplicity and perfect in its elegance might be exactly what folks down through the ages have sought after. For it’s application could very well cure the ills: physically, mentally and spiritually of many an ailing people. But it is an elusive creature that affords folks only a glimpse of its form, as if it were a wild animal hidden in the underbrush, some can see its flanks, while others can discern its snout, yet others its belly but none can see the whole. Therefore it remains unfathomable and unapplied.

And there is ample evidence of this idea’s existence. One can measure its effects in much the same way that a black hole’s location can be determined by the manner in which it makes nearby stars wobble. But in making this comparison an important distinction should be noted. For many of the effects upon us, of this undiscovered idea that we measure would surely disappear were the idea to come to light. For the consequences of this notion, in its undiscovered form are often negative. Greed and hatred, apathy, gluttony and selfishness can be numbered among them. And it seems to me that at its core, the main effect is a feeling of emptiness, which we seek to allay by consumption, as if it were a sort of balm for our incomplete psyches.

Yet even in its undiscovered state there are some positive outcomes. For when we catch a glimpse of this thing we sometimes wake up from our stupor and take notice and react. And in response many times we feel compelled to share, create and rejoice. I would argue that art, music, literature and all of the philosophic sub-disciplines flow from the reality of this idea’s existence. Of course I have seen glimpses of it myself, in those rare, fleeting, perfect moments-- pieces here and parts there, as perhaps have you, but I’ve never seen the whole.

We grapple with concepts such as meaning, justification and redemption yet the subjective nature of our interpretations of those ideas invariably leads to a lack of connectedness to the thing that dances before us, ever out of reach. The greatest among us shoot nearly true; yet fail to hit the mark but in doing so perhaps they advance our cause. Humanity is ever striving; perhaps this is our saving grace: that at some point we will grasp the perfect notion.

In the face of this conflicted reality we sometimes feel small and ignorant, yet by virtue of our existence we sense the right to participate and ask questions. We search for first causes and when we fail to find them we create them, naming them as God-perhaps the wisest among us content themselves with their journey, knowing full well that for the moment this is all that we have.

I see you, but do you see me? We have our physics and philosophy.
Upon this fabric we do our dance. We roll the dice, we trust to chance,
Hoping all we do is not in vain. We sow life's crops and pray for rain.


The Meaning of Life