Did you harbor any misconceptions about children and their parents who
live in urban poverty and are surrounded by violence prior to the There
are No Children Here project? What did you learn that has changed your
understanding of families who live in these environments?
I thought myself pretty savvy about life in the inner city. I'd
grown up in the heart of Manhattan, in a neighborhood that was integrated
both by race and class, and when I was nineteen, I spent a year working
with children at a settlement house on the south side of Atlanta, a neighborhood
that at the time was the second poorest in the country. But in that first
summer on Chicago's West Side, I was both dismayed and startled
by what I saw and what I heard.
I knew I'd find violence, but not in the intensity and frequency
that I did. And I think I, like many, believed that somehow these children
became hardened to it. But what I learned — and it was a slow lesson — was
that these children were deeply affected by what they saw and what they
heard about. They were traumatized. I saw children who were deeply depressed — kids
who were clearly more aggressive, kids who were hyperactive (hyperactivity
is a known result of trauma), even kids who had flashbacks. I came to
realize that it was a single act of violence around which the rest of
a childhood will revolve. We've completely underestimated its effects,
not only on the children but also on maintaining a sense of community.
It's virtually impossible to achieve a social compact if you live
in a place where violence has become part of the norm. (In parts of Chicago,
for instance, the shootings are so pervasive that there are billboards
and bumper stickers pleading for a cease fire.) And so communities begin
to unravel, and of course as they do so it becomes even riper terrain
for the violence.
Over the years, I've become much more appreciative of the central
role of family. I'm convinced it is the one institution that can
make the most difference. And so if I were to do anything, it would be
to figure out ways to buttress family.
Do these parents have hope? Do these children have hope? What are their
dreams?
Without hope, there's not reason for life. So, yes, most have some
kind of hope. In fact, it struck me that with the children — given
all that they've experienced — that they held on to dreams,
that they held on to a strong sense of right and wrong, a strong sense
of what they wanted to be and didn't want to be when they grew
up. And that it wasn't until they entered adolescence that often
the currents would become so strong that they had trouble swimming against
them. It was in these years, some would turn to drugs or to criminal
activity, paths that slowly eat away at hope. As the hope erodes, the
children and adults become self-destructive.
Did I see hope in the parents? Absolutely. For their children. Some,
of course, could see more clearly than others. Some had a better sense
as to what it would take. But virtually all the parents I met (unless
they were hooked on drugs) had hope for their children. It was what they
lived for. Hope is so essential to the spirit. Without hope there's
no future. Without hope, life ceases.
Camps offer programs to children from all environments, but they are
temporary, safe refuges from their everyday world. How do we prepare
children who come from urban poverty and violence for the camp experience
. . . and, how do we prepare them to go back?
I'm of two minds about this. I went to camp as a child, and my
refuge today is canoeing in the North Woods. I go there to escape, to
put everything else at a distance. Camp was that way, as well; it was
an opportunity to push everything else aside. It should be the same for
children who come from neighborhoods of poverty and violence. But I also
think it important that the adults be alert and attuned to the travails
of these children. It may well be that amidst the peace and tranquility
of camp that they want someone with whom they can share their worries
and their fears.
How do you prepare for them to return? I'm not sure. Short of changing
their environment — short of strengthening their family, of improving
their school, of ensuring their safety — I'm not sure there's
much camp can do. Perhaps it's best to acknowledge what feels obvious — that
probably many of these kids have ambiguous feelings about returning to
their communities. But that is where they belong, with their family.
And perhaps what's important is the assurance that next summer
they can indeed return to camp.
What mistakes do you see well-meaning professionals make when they try
to relate to communities they are not a part of? Can you suggest solutions?
A better approach?
The key to any understanding is empathy. Empathy not sympathy. By that
I mean the ability to put yourself in someone else's shoes, to look
at the world through their eyes. Not to excuse their actions but to understand
them. Empathy takes a leap of the imagination. It requires that we push
ourselves to imagine things in ways we might not have thought of before.
The mistake we too often make is to feel pity, to feel sorry for others — or
conversely to absolve individuals of personal responsibility. Both are
demeaning and dehumanizing. It's okay to get upset and to disagree
with others. But to do so respectfully. I also find, as well, that too
often people will venture into communities that seem foreign, and rather
than look for the familiar, immediately seek out the unfamiliar. It's
what I did when I first began to spend time in the projects. I was too
taken aback by what seemed awry than what seemed right. It's important
to look for those connections, that which binds us, that which we share.
Also, be careful about entering someone else's world and then adopting
their speech or mannerisms. Be yourself. People respect that.
Camp is a world created very specifically for children. How do children
who've seen too much, children with no childhood, relate to camp?
How can camp relate to these children?
Camp is a respite. And so I suppose if you have a lot from which you
want to escape, camp may be that much more meaningful and welcome. I've
been on camping trips numerous times with kids from the inner city, and
I'm always surprised how these tough kids who have seen so much are
so daunted by the outdoors, even afraid. Find ways to make kids feel
secure, feel safe. Most have led rather sheltered lives, and so the unfamiliar
can be terrifying. I'm an avid canoeist and camper and have made
the mistake in years past to assume that everyone will love it as much
as I do. It's not always the case, but especially with some of the
kids from Chicago's hardscrabble neighborhoods. Take it slow. Don't
push. The boys I wrote about in There Are No Children Here and I used
to go fishing in Michigan's Upper Peninsula (UP) every summer. I learned
that it was important to bring things they liked to do, that I not keep
them out on the lake all day, or make them camp in a rainstorm. I had
to remind myself this trip was for them, not for me, and so I looked
for ways to challenge them while not wearing them out. This was, after
all, meant to be some time away from all the crises at home, not to create
new stresses in their lives.
As a footnote to those trips, I also learned the importance of talking
about and acknowledging race. We'd often stop for lunch or dinner
on the way up and back to the UP, and occasionally the boys would get
discomforting stares, even comments from the white customers. I dismissed
their concerns the first couple of times, but then I began to see what
they saw — people's
discomfort with these young black boys in otherwise all white towns.
While talking about it didn't make it go away, it did let them know that
I saw what they saw and heard what they heard. It let them know that
someone was listening.
Camp is often used as part of a therapeutic process — grief camps,
camps for children with life-threatening or chronic illness, camps for
children with emotional or behavioral problems. There are youth development
camp programs specifically designed to help underserved and at-risk youth.
How can the camp community expand what we are already doing to serve
more children and provide more opportunities for healing and growth?
I would think it important for underserved and at-risk youth to spend
time with kids not necessarily like themselves, to expose them to kids
they otherwise wouldn't meet (to say nothing of doing the same for children
of the privileged). Camp is a great equalizer. Pharoah, the younger boy
I wrote about in There Are No Children Here, spent a number of summers
at a camp where he was distinctly in the minority. It was a wonderful
experience. A respite. An adventure. An opportunity. A broadening experience.
He was the better for it. As were, I believe, the others there who were
from very different backgrounds.
I suppose this already happens, but it would seem reasonable and right
if camps — like prep schools, for instance — offered scholarships
to underprivileged kids, and that they also made an effort to hire minorities
as counselors. Perhaps this is already going on, but when I think back
upon my experience at camp, I don't remember there being any minorities
there, either as campers or on staff.
Originally published in the 2006 January/February
issue of Camping Magazine. |
