NOVEMBER 26, 2004
FUTURE COLUMN SUBMISSION (ABOUT POVERTY):
Note: 1,900 word count.
Poverty. It is a handicap. It is strickening. It grabs a hold of a person and chokes him/her to death. When living in poverty, dreams become senseless and hopeless. Low-income defined as annual household income of $15,000 or less a year, is considered an impoverished household. Categories such as: Economic depression, economic hardship, working class, living in the ghettos or projects, homelessness, are all considered to be part of the catastrophe of poverty. If a child is told by someone, “You will be successful despite your struggles and obstacles, despite race or gender”. They were wrong to utter such hope. If a child is told , “don’t go to college because you lack certain skills and college is not for you”. Were they wrong or telling the truth; especially when people are reluctant to take the time to mentor or grab the child by the hand and guide that child. When a person lives in poverty they become run down victims of every day life. The shut off notices, car after car becomes unworkable engines and situations, working in the factory, fields, and/or retail jobs. Victims of impoverished mentalities, where there is no time to dream; therefore, there is no time to hope for a better way of life. The only hope is that their offspring will have a better chance than them. To have hopes and dreams while living in poverty is a sign of brightness. It is a sign of death to the cause when those hopes and dreams become whispers on the walls of a drunken and/or abusive household; and becomes unaccomplished. No matter how hard they try, using technique, strategy, and trying to stay positive. Rummaging through the cabinets trying to find food at six years old, eleven years old, fifteen on your own, at nineteen years old, and now for the babies. Feeding crumbs to the offspring of broken down dreams. Another generation wrapped up in a vicious cycle. When an intellgent, talented, gifted, motivational person, unsustained and untouched by tradegy because there are too many- by hoping and dreaming is committing her own suicide. She must learn that destiny is not of her own choosing; but what she lacks is the necessary power to change. And it feels as if there is no way to climb, move, or claim the mountain of falling rocks. No way to break the vicious cycle. In the end without
support and income no one sees you, no one hears you, no one believes in you, because your story and life is too much. When living in poverty, college becomes an unskilled certification, an experience with short-lived goals; when there is no money and no support. You become so indebted to the government that you are forever a slave to education. When living in poverty anyone and everyone can and will pass you by
on the street. There is a saying, “You can not do it alone”.
I have and will continue to… The small sacrifices that I have made in regards to my children does not matter when I am subjective to ridicule, or am made to feel that I have nothing to contribute to a conversation, let alone an intellectual thought. When a mother is working on dreams and is stigmatized by community and people who think they know… It becomes an unspoken proverb that you no longer exist; only a mother to
be; will alwaus live in a state of poverty; and your accomplishments are too long to list; your story too hard to digest. There is too much turbulence within my soul. I am my own vehicle, mobilizing with uncertainty. I seek the ability to to learn how to swallow my dreams and give up. Each day that goes by I am learning to sweep up my dripping dreams of: being a small business owner as a medical biller (one physician is all I need); I have been working on this dream of a legitimate and credible business to do from home for five years. Entrepreneur, ideals of remedies and herbs, creator of motivational and poetic themes. Finding my own cure to the slow process of Cancer called Diabetes. After being misdiagnosed for 10 years, proving doctors wrong, time and time again. Motivational speaker, workshop presenter, singer, dancer, recently published in an online journal as a poet, writer, political advocate and ethnic advocate and activist, an artist that proposes artistic ideals to art gallery’s who throw it in the trash, a Model…. citizen means something? Without income, time, an assistant, support system for endeavors and support (respite, time away, mental, emotional, shoulder to lean on) with special needs children kind of support; life becomes cynical laughter.
A critique sheet of all the experiences, circumstances, and life situations. Wondering how did I get here? Reflecting everyday, working every minute, every hour as if it were my last breath of fresh release. Working until every bone in my body has snapped; until every hair is ripped out my head. Will I work until every brain in my cell collapses? Or, shall I snap myself back into reality. Living in poverty is my calling, creating meals out of strings of fractured dreams, reciting positive shattered images for the children to see; but not believing within. Not having the means to accomplish, complete, or achieve. Poverty keeps life flowing with constant inconsistency, no stability, or security. Feelings of wrapped up dirt and dust whispering through hardworking hands and the mind full of cobwebs and numbed seaweed. Emotions numbed, connections with people non existant unless they can become or tolerate the hell I live in. Grasping for straws.
My brother lives on Death Row in San Quentin, California. I continue to create dreams with only pen and paper. It is only good there, when I am the sole caregiver of my children. When I do step outside, all is surprised at my talents that I exhibit. Continuing to try to liberate my soul from poverty in a drainage of sewage; without income and support; without time to draw a single thought together. My dreams have worked themselves up a stream and are stuck by the log blocking its flow, the moss covering and overlapping from the pond to the river. Unable to cry when all senses are broken down and nerves have no
outlets. Singing, dancing to the sounds of cumbia and salsa, best kept in my head. Unable to share with others without support or time away. A circle that goes around and around, entangled, and lands symmetrically the same way. My consciousness whispers, “You can not do it alone”. Nor do I want to; but have to, because my story is too long and too much. The politics, entrepreneurship, relationships fail to
complete, sanity is scarce just as the food in the cabinets. When unable to feed the brain, then you can not feed the mind. The power within is never enough and is spread too thin. Withdrawing within ourselves until you become dead inside. When the church folks congregating outside tells me, “God does not hear your prayers as an unbaptized Christian”. After sometime, I and you begin, to believe… Continuing to sweep and mop up a dripping dream. Crying and dying inside. My Bible that I bought for a dollar is my church and sits next to me unable to bring peace to my impoverished soul. Until I read this passage. “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time
to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; A time to rend, and a time to sew, a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace. What profit hath he that worketh in that wherein he laboureth? (Book of Ecclesiastes 3:1-9).”
The next time someone tells a child, “Oh, you’ll grow up to be SOMEBODY. Work hard and believe in yourself”. Be prepared one day to look that child, who will become an adult, dead in the eyes and say, “I’m sorry I lied. I know you have tried and tried. Sorry I lied. Succes only exist for… And is not meant for everyone.” I pray not for pity, for peace. I pray that God will have mercy on my impoverished soul and enlightened mind. For I realize I am my own savior, my own empowered will, my own crying river, and must learn to love myself as well as others. To all others…
Are you able to relate? Have any ideals that have not been heard? Or do we live in such a desensitized society that is more materialistically defined and run by shallow waters that no spoken word can make a difference. There are too many fish in the sea to account for, to feed, to eat, and if one can not reach the surface of water for breath, if some are unable to swim, then there story is not worth telling.
I end with this thought: When unable to change your situation or make progress, you continue to relive your past day after day. Often times you are not able to believe the noncomplacent present state you are in; and fail to envision the future as any more than… Nothing is impossible. The possible sometimes seems impossible. And each day as a survivor we find the strength to create our own possiblities. We take ourselves apart in order to survive- we find within ourselves that inner connection to link us to the next step- the strength. Once we have pulled the needles from every cell in our body we grasp that inner strength and hang on for the next step awaits- to create. We begin to recreate and self create the image of ourselves. Constantly, creating and changing; molding, moving forward and positively seeking acceptance from own creation of one’s self. Being our own counselors and our own saviors. Believing and repeating that the horror is over. And we must live. For I am not dead to me nor will I ever be. In doing so we become the next step- a possibility. We are the option, the chance, the choice is to live, love, and set our souls free by
sharing our stories in any way we deem necessary.
SURVIVOR OF ABUSE AND POVERTY,
Niki Bell de Castanon
For biography and poems: www.timbooktu.com/nikibell/nikbell.htm
Note: If this letter is printed or shortened, please inform author of its publication. All rights reserved. Copyright c 2004 by Niki Bell de Castanon.
Contact Information:
Real Name: Nekesha Bell
349 East Thomas Street
Lansing, MI 48906
(517) 485-1770
Email: [email protected]