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.