Of Poverty And Problem Children

Dear Problem Child,

You and I went to school together. We weren’t really friends, but we weren’t enemies, either. We simply belonged to different cliques. We simply participated in different activities. We simply had different families and we simply lived different lives.

While I was acing most of my tests, you skipped class to smoke pot. While I was organizing the next pep rally, you were choosing the next kid you were going to beat up. While I was freaking out over a cheating boyfriend, you were giving birth to your third child. While I was opening Christmas presents, you were…I don’t know what you were doing.

My memories don’t have that license. My memories aren’t allowed to go beyond school property. My memories don’t drive home the fact that nothing was simple.

I expect your memories are a bit different, though.

I expect you remember listening to your parents scream at each other about losing another job. Watching them get drunk with the money that could’ve paid for your ticket for the class trip. Hearing them guffaw when you talked about college. Feeling so consumed with anger you lashed out at every student who was too small, too wealthy, too smart, or too well behaved. Rolling your eyes at the teacher on detention duty who told you you’d never succeed. Looking forward to blowing off your afternoon classes to finally find some relief, however temporary, in getting high.

You probably recall the other kids laughing at the clothes you wore year after year. Telling yourself it was best not to let anyone get too close, in case they wanted to visit your house some day. Lest they saw the bruises on your back. Crying in your room at night, wondering why you should care about yourself or anyone else when it seemed like no one in the entire world cared about you.

My memories showcase a problem child. Yours tell the story of growing up in poverty.

I don’t know you anymore, but I want you to know I wish I hadn’t thought our differences were simply due to different preferences. Different interests. Different choices.

I want you to know I wish I’d been a friend to you, or, at the very least, had known then what I know now and had reached out to you. Helped you deal with your anger, and sadness, and depression.

I want you to know that it’s because of what I know now that I find it impossible to be selfish with kind words, friendly smiles, and a helping hand.

Sincerely,

Alicia