Leaving

Today is important because I am leaving for Copan (in 8 hrs. 37 min.!). Here is my dilemma: nap, or savor my time in the Great PNW?* Napping seems impossible, even ludicrous: in addition to having packing to do and last-minute purchases to make, there is the excitement (and the coffee) keeping me wired.

But then there's the nap. Napping is essential to being alert. If you've ever traveled to a foreign place, you know how important it is to be alert on the first days. These are the days when you form your impression of a place. If you are alert, you notice where this impression comes from. It's like jumping into a swimming pool: for the first minute, you are shocked by how cold (or how surprisingly warm, even though you expected goosebumps) the pool is. Then you start having fun. After dunking your sister, swimming around like a shark, and dropping a few cannon-balls, you barely notice the water any more. It's too late: you can no longer tell your mother whether the pool is cold or not.

I will be a good son and let you know what the first shocking (or surprisingly soothing) dip in this new pool is like. I promise to overcome the obstacles and nap. Expect a report from me soon!

*For those poor souls who aren't familiar, Pacific Northwest.

A New Definition of Poverty

This is a brief background article I wrote for The Columbian newspaper in my hometown of Vancouver, Washington:

Like most folks from Vancouver, I think of myself as middle-class. That is, I used to—and then I got some perspective. Hi! My name is Graham, and I am on a years-long journey to places I would never see if I wasn’t 25 and unmarried.

When I graduated from University of Washington three years ago, I decided I wanted to spend some time exploring and learning about the world. My first stop was Lee County, Arkansas. Doesn’t ring a bell? It shouldn’t. Only 12,000 people live there. But it is the poorest county in the Mississippi Delta region, an area known for the blues, for fried catfish, and—more than anything else—for its extreme poverty. This year, I’m moving someplace even poorer than the Delta. Copan is a rural town in Honduras, which (other than Haiti) is the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere.

I go to these places for a number of reasons. I’m curious—I want to understand how it’s possible that the average American earns $43,000 a year, while Lee County residents earn only a quarter of that, and Hondurans earn a miniscule $3300. I also have a strong desire to help. As a teacher, I play a significant role in opening young people’s eyes to opportunities, and in giving them the skills necessary to achieve these. Finally (and this is why I’m writing you this letter), I think it’s important for people to understand different perspectives. They allow us to see ourselves in a new light, and to appreciate the humanity of those who are far away.

POVERTY REDEFINED

I would like to begin by proposing that middle-class Vancouverites like me are actually the world’s upper crust. I know, driving down I-5 in our cars, we don’t feel especially rich. At home, we may have wireless internet, flat-screen televisions, and i-pods, but to us, this is just normal. We feel like we are barely keeping up with the Joneses.

It turns out the Joneses are some of the richest people in the world. Eighty percent of the world survives on less than $5,533 per year. Can you imagine trying to make payments on your mortgage, your car, your health insurance, your... ... ..., with this amount of money? Turns out you’d have to give up a lot of these things.

In the United States, you are officially “poor” if your family of four earns less than $21,200 annually. Many of my students in Arkansas were from families well below this minimum standard. Yet almost all managed to afford (with some help from the government) such basic necessities of American life as cars, television, and, sometimes, computers.

A Honduran would be astonished to see that those whom we consider “poor” in the US seem to live like kings. In Honduras, cars and trucks are for the wealthy and for those who absolutely need them for work. Televisions are at the bar in town, not in the home. Computers? If your town gets international tourists, there may be some internet cafes; otherwise, don’t rely on G-Mail for your communication needs.

All of this leaves me feeling...well, rich. And it leaves me with a lot of questions. For example, does all of this mean that poor people in the United States are actually...not? Why do we still feel obligated to help these people? Since Hondurans are poorer, should we in fact focus on helping them? And just how hard is it to live on a Honduran income? I will be addressing these questions and others in my coming letters. Until then (to quote my favorite radio personality): Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.