Lobster in a Bucket

Poverty

Every two months or so in Uganda I would go to the capital city Kampala in order to buy cheese, chicken breasts, milk and other western style foods to consume during the next couple months. Invariably, as we would arrive back to our rural homes a crowd of children would arrive and watch us unload boxes of food. Sometimes they would see the frozen meat. These moments would engender one of a couple feelings in me. Sometimes I would feel pity, or shame, or guilt about these hungry little eyes looking at me.

The problem that I had with all these emotions is that they mainly had to do with my conscience and had little to do with real empathy towards these poor children. I didn't understand what it was to want food, or clothing, or things in general.

So when I hunt my memories for some understanding of the poor, this is what I come up with, for better or for worse.

I'm 13 years old. It's the last week of school. All of our books are in, and the grades our finalized. The only reason we are in school is that the schoolboard said we needed to have x amount of days in this school year. I have almost made it through.

I'm 13 years old. It's the last week of school. All of our books are in, and the grades our finalized. The only reason we are in school is that the schoolboard said we needed to have x amount of days in this school year. I have almost made it through.

In that last hysterical week of parties and field days we go outside toI glance over my shoulder and see a couple, leaning against a tree, doing their best to resemble an uptruned arachnid. Except that the boy's hands were working the girls breasts like I'd seen a fat woman on television work dough. I stared and stared at them. Soon my friends noticed them too. We all stared.

Here was a moment where we saw with our own eyes something going on that we had not even imagined doing. Ever. Yes we often imagine the pubescent breast's of our classmates. We also imagined touching them. But we never once though in a million years to knead those very same breasts leaning against a tree at school one sunny afternoon while the other boys run after each other with super-soakers and water balloons.

And this radical widening of our frame of reference was immediately crushing. For even as the unknown is revealed it seems no less possible for us in our hopeless geekiness. Never in my wildest dreams could I imagine being that guy-against-the-tree. It was beyong my means but I wanted it desparately. So much so that I imagined kicking that guy in the face, supplanting him, and kneeding that dough.

This is as close as I can get, I think to empathy. I don't think poor people live in a constant state of envy, and my story is far less serious than theirs. But I do think that when the poor are confronted with their need through seeing the wealth of others, my emotions from above and their emotions are the same.