Poverty Voyeurism

One of my greatest concerns in starting this writing project was (and remains to be) the inescapable lens of my privilege. I have spent most of my life among the middle class. I have a good relationship with my parents, who have supported me in many ways into my adulthood. I am white. I am college-educated (and at one of those fancy private ones too). You might say I have had a charmed life. Yes... #blessedandhighlyfavored. 

So while it's true that I live in SP, and that I plan to live here for many years to come, I don’t exactly belong to the majority demographic. Much like the teenage girls flashing peace signs for their selfies in Times Square, I stick out like a tourist. As I am experiencing first-hand what life is like in poverty-ridden neighborhoods (and we’re not-so-middle-class ourselves at the moment), I still don’t know what it is to spend a lifetime in poverty. In fact, I never will. 

There was one extremely common reaction to my first entry on this blog: “I can’t believe they don’t pick up your trash.” Yes, it was shocking to me as well…. inasmuch as I had never been exposed to a place (in America) where it was difficult to receive services that had been paid for. In fact, I had one friend develop a plan: “Next time they don’t pick up your trash, let me know. I’m going to recruit a team of people to call from all over the city to file complaints. If the folks on the East End are upset, maybe they’ll do something.” 

The dichotomy is glaring, and the Venn diagram of shared experiences and responses has the slimmest of overlaps. It is impossible for me to separate my history from my understanding and expectations in my current situation. There's a word for it: Entitlement. Oh my, but that’s an ugly one, isn’t it? Yet it’s true. I have lived in a world where logic and justice and “equality” reign supreme. I will receive what is due to me—not more, but most assuredly not any less. 

Is it possible for me to come to SP with my specific history and take any position other than indignant? And yet that indignation is what marks me as a tourist. My strong reaction to the ills and inconveniences of a poor neighborhood feels more like poverty voyeurism than the compassionate pursuit of justice.

But then... 

There is a Man I love dearly. A Man full of all wisdom and truth, a Man who exacts all justice perfectly and a Man who provides all things lovingly. A Man who, in all logic and justice and equality, rightfully rules the universe. Yet at exactly the right moment, He released His grasp on all He was entitled to, in order to be an incarnation of pure love to a broken people. He did not open His mouth in protest. He did not demand a reward. He became the lowest of all, to serve us in obedience. 

I will always experience SP through the lens of my history. And I will encounter offenses that give me cause for great indignation and frustration and even downright despair. But in the heat of those moments, it is exactly the right moment for me to release my grasp on all that I think I am “entitled” to, in order to be an incarnation of pure love to a broken people. You see, my great Savior has shown me the way forward: it is costly to live in SP. But the depth of that cost is exactly how we measure the love that is poured out. And would you know it? Just so happens that this is my only real hope of putting away the lens of my privilege. 

Shelby Park is for Lovers: My Wedding Day In SP

They were nervous. 

"Make sure you tell people where to park, and make sure the locals save the parking lot for our guests." 

I had visions of my out-of-town family finding their way to our church. No matter how they got here, they would all end up in Shelby Park. My parents were a little concerned. Frankly, I was a little concerned too. 

Our church hit the jackpot when it comes to cool buildings. Formerly St. Vincent's Catholic Church, built in 1886, we have vaulted ceilings and steeples and stained glass to your heart's delight. Needless to say, I was going to do whatever I needed to do to make sure that we got married in the joint. 

But the parking would be limited for our 550+ guest list, and the side streets had no guarantee of cleanliness or security, especially in late January when we might be getting snow. What would my extended family and old friends think of these trash-ridden streets with condemned houses and busted up sidewalks filled with so-called shady characters? I had lived here for 5 months, and I hadn't been really scared of anything yet, but I could imagine how it looked. Coming from clean, suburban streets, I could imagine what they would think when they saw my neighborhood. 

And what about our pictures? Would we be able to camouflage the grit and grime for our most precious keepsake from this all-important day? Could our amazingly talented photographer overcome the double obstacles of wintertime gray AND urban decay? 

Well, I'm here to tell you: We should ALL get married in Shelby Park. 

Sojourn Community Church has been home for me for a long time. More and more, Shelby Park is becoming home for me too. And it was no clearer than our on wedding day. 

As we ventured outside to take some pictures with the wedding party and families, Shelby Street had some steady traffic for a Saturday. Aubrey and Ashley, our photographers, braved the middle of the street as they gave us directions for their shots. And that's when it happened: 

Honk! Honk! "You look Beautiful!!" 

A passing car sent out their salutations on a cold January day. 

"Congratulations! Get it, Girl!" 

And another.... 

"Whoo!! Y'all have fun!" Honk! Honk! 

All afternoon long, until we lost count, cars on the street and passers-by on the sidewalk stopped in genuine joy and excitement to give us their congratulations. The love all those strangers offered was one of the best gifts we received that day. All I could think was, "Only in Shelby Park..." 

In Shelby Park, we all belong to one another. This place is ours. Others may see dirt, or brokenness, or crime. Others may be disgusted, or fearful, or concerned. No one else may want our neighborhood. But that's ok. Because we call this place home. And if you call it home too, well, then we're in this together. Shelby Park is able to hold us all—the young, the old, the broken, the hopeful, the depressed, the joyful, the skeptical, the believers, the struggling, the poor, the rich, and everyone in between. There is a place for us all. 

There are some hurts that won't heal until heaven. But oh, am I glad for those glimpses we catch of what that beautiful City will be like. And I caught one on my wedding day, in the most unexpected place. Thank you, Shelby Park. 

Welcome to Shelby Park

My church moved across the tracks nearly three years ago. Our old building (now housing our global offices) and our new Midtown Campus building are separated by a mere three city blocks, one set of CSX tracks, and one digit difference in Zip Code.

But as is the case in many metro areas, the two neighborhoods are so different that on first sight you wouldn't believe the geographical proximity. For as little as the residents interact, and for as different as life is between them, the two neighborhoods might as well be in different time zones.


After three years in the East End (WASP-y, if we are to generalize), I moved to Shelby Park eight months ago. Shelby Park makes up one-third of 40203: the poorest Zip Code in the 11th poorest city in the United States. I had spent plenty of time down here, the over-involved church member that I am. In fact, I had spent plenty of time, in plenty of cities, in plenty of neighborhoods just like Shelby Park. I was 29 (and still am, for 1 more week), and I thought I had a pretty good handle on what to expect. 

I was wrong. 

(My husband will laugh when he reads that, and he will probably ask if I really mean it. But I do.) 



Sure, there were plenty of things that didn't surprise me—gunshots every so often, trash in the streets, neighbors who don't dress, talk, or act like me, the smell of pot in the spring—but what I couldn't predict, and what I never expected, is the utterly demoralizing toll that living in Shelby Park would lay on my spirit. 

Because, I get things done. I make things happen. I know my rights, and your rights, and I won't let anyone take them from us. I elevate the status quo. I expect action. 

But over the last eight months, this has been my day-by-day life:

Our garbage collection company skips our neighborhood every few weeks, sometimes multiple weeks in a row, making it nearly impossible to keep trash off of our block. 

MSD (Metro Sewer Department) dug holes in the asphalt every 20 feet down our entire street and left them uncovered all winter to tear up my wheel bearings (needing over $1,000 in repairs). 

FedEx and UPS only sometimes deliver my packages.  

 Laundromats might as well be called highway robbery, because even after three cycles at $2 each your clothes aren't clean or dry. 

The only grocery store in SP is Save-A-Lot (a.k.a. The Tiniest Produce Section Ever) and it has a sign that claims it belongs to Germantown, the next neighborhood over. Because even Save-A-Lot doesn't want to claim Shelby Park.

Pizza joints won't deliver to my address. 

Our friends' cable line got clipped and stolen just hours after it was installed. 

Neighbors fill up our trash can to overflowing within an hour of it being emptied.  

Couches, mattresses, and tables line the alleys and streets.  

The World's Most Annoying ice cream truck circles and sits on our block as soon as the outside temperature hits 50°, and our windows and walls are thin enough that we can clearly decipher every conversation that takes place on our street.  

Our streets never got plowed, even days after 14" of snow fell on our city, creating hazards for anyone with a job to go to.  

Temporary No Parking signs go up merely hours before they take effect in a neighborhood where nearly everyone uses street parking. Our cars, our law-abiding-citizens' cars have been ticketed twice and towed once in the last month, resulting in hundreds of dollars worth of fines.  

The kids on our street put up a basketball hoop next to a bar and play in the middle of the street as cars try to drive through.  

Our neighbors with six kids got evicted and moved into a one bedroom apartment after their cancer treatment bills left them unable to pay rent. 

Maybe I sound like a whiney rich kid, or maybe I sound like a entitled brat. Over these last eight months, I've had to come to terms with the fact that at times I have been both of those things. But I have also experienced what happens to a person when they can't get the city to collect their trash or repair their potholes, as their tax dollars pay them to do. I have experienced what happens to your mindset when you spend more to do your laundry than you spend on gas. I have experienced what happens to your spirit when you walk through broken glass and trash to get to your still-marred-from-the-break-in front door.

Something inside begins to break. What's the point in trying? Everything's against me anyway: the City, the neighbors, the system, the grocery store. This is the 13th poorest Zip Code in the United States. No one cares, and no one hears, and nothing is ever going to change. Maybe I should just leave.



And there it is, the core difference between me and many of my neighbors: I have the option. I have the credit score, the paycheck, the skin color, and the background check to move out of this 'hood if I so choose.



Which is exactly why I will stay. Shelby Park doesn't need me. But I need Shelby Park. 

Welcome to 40203.