I wish I had pictures, because then I wouldn’t have to write the thousand words. It would be rude to take them, though. The homebound student whom I am tutoring lives in poverty. I am glad to be a witness to this, because now poverty in the US is not an abstract thing to me. I have worked with students in poverty for a long time, even becoming involved in their lives, but this? This is something else, like poverty squared. It is not a decent apartment with twelve people living in it. It is worse than that.
The house, it turns out, does have a front door. It is always open, because there is no air-conditioning or money to pay for air-conditioning if it existed. The air-conditioner, a window unit, must have ceased to function about ten years ago. It is missing it’s front panel, and hangs haphazardly out of window, around which is no insulation, only boards approaching it and then a curtain stuffed in the open cracks. The aforementioned front door is a hollow-core one, the sort of which is used for only the most inexpensive apartment closets.
The floor is covered with an outdated linoleum tile, many of which are missing. For two days, there was a rug covering the floor, but it was taken up, doubtless because of the two chihuahua puppies who live there but who don’t go outside or have paper to be trained on. My nose is becoming used to the smell, although it was pretty pungent on the day it was cold and the paper-thin door was closed. It was so cold in that house. In my sweater, I was shivering. The kid was wearing a wifebeater and no shoes or socks. He said he wasn’t cold. It was about fifty degrees in that house.
In one corner is a picture of Jesus. It was cut out from a blanket or rug and put in a frame, where it is nailed at a diagonal in the corner. In another corner is a fishtank, which is partially obsured by a couch and piles of papers. The water is cloudy, and there is a bunch of dead flowers that were stuck in the tank to receive nourishment and forgotten. The water is cloudy, and a lone fish survives.
Above the tank is a shrine built into the corner. It is a corner shelf covered with aluminium foil, with the foil extending up into the corner to carve out a place for some religious figurines that I don’t recognize. In this shrine, next to the figurines, is fish food, and various and sundry other items that don’t have a home.
On the ceiling are affixed unpainted boards with nails sticking out of them. I finally asked the kid why. He told me they were for hanging lights on the ceiling at Christmastime. Two bare bulbs hang from the ceiling. The aluminium foil, the fish tank and the shrine are the practically only attempts at making a home out of this shell of a house. The exception is the collection of family photographs on the wall, many of which are quite old. The old photo of the father shows an extremely handsome young man, however, you can already see the angry fire of injustice burning in his eyes. His eyes are still not kind eyes, but they have lost their fire, replaced with a dullness that indicates impending acceptance.
There is a table. It is a small rickety table, handmade and painted a bright blue. It is barely larger than the seat of a kitchen chair. Usually, we sit on folding chairs and study at this table while the kid picks at the plaster around the window and we both try to ignore the screaming of the neighbors across the street. I notice two phone numbers scrawled on the wall. They remind me of the house number that has been hurriedly scribbled on the outside of the house with a Sharpie.
Yesterday, the table was being used to hold a small black and white television, so we sat on the couch to study.
The kid does not like to study, although I have figured out that he is capable. I think his biggest academic problem is not being able to read and not being made to practice. I explained that just fifteen minutes a day would likely do the trick, if his English-speaking older brother was willing. The kid heard his mother agree and screamed, “No!” followed by some cursing in Spanish. The kid curses all of the time and backtalks his mother, with no consequences. Everyone is exhausted. Mom has arthritis, and her hands and feet are very swollen. Dad cracked a vertabra, lost his job and did not get his work visa renewed, resulting in a lack of both income and insurance.
Older brother wants to join the army. I’ve talked to him about it at length. This eleventh-grader can’t contain his excitement at what the recruiter offers, however, and at last I understand on more than an intellectual level the appeal of the military for many young men. He is in a gang, he lives in a town without economic opportunity, and being at home frankly sucks. One can imagine how danger can be more alluring than the death of living without hope.
Strangely, another brother is a sheriff’s deputy. He lives next door in a modest, but much nicer house. I saw his badge lying out on the table when I was over there, while a couple of gang members came in and out of the house. It was surreal.
Everyone is nice to me, gang members included. Actually, those guys are much more polite than your average kid around here. Perhaps in this culture of machismo, they see themselves as men instead of kids. Therefore, they always introduce themselves to me, and thereafter come up and shake my hand and ask me how I am each time they see me. I am impressed with their social skills. The kid respects his older brothers. He listens to them, and emulates their dress, meaning wearing a wife beater and a gold chain with a cross. Unfortunately, he does not pick up on their manners. Because of his disability, he has been babied to the point where he takes no responsibility for himself, including his actions. Even though he is much smarter than what I had originally thought, it is difficult to see what he will do with his life.
Meanwhile, his parents are asking me for help in finding the dad a job. I’ll put out the word. I looked up some things on the Internet on how to treat arthritis naturally. Still…the whole thing seems overwhelming to me and I am not the one living in it. I am the one getting the education in this situation.
