Dignity and Humility

Lately, I have been thinking a great deal about power, privilege, and access. I feel myself unlearning, relearning, rethinking, reevaluating, and continuing to grapple with these themes. I think that part of what brought me to social work is a deep and visceral response to inequality. When I think about events that occur or populations that are faced with adversity, I always feel a burning/stinging feeling in my stomach. I get angry. It is difficult for me not to dwell on why. Why do some people have so much while others have so little? Why are people so greedy? Why is there so much injustice? Eventually, I get to a point where I just can’t wrap my head around it. So I try to read about it or study it or engage in conversation about it as though inequality is something you just stumble upon; something that is waiting to be understood. And then along came Hurricane Sandy… 

            I have been struggling with trying to maintain a sense of normalcy since the storm occurred. When I went to help in the Rockaways, an area that is a very important part of my “New York life,” I was not prepared for what I would see. Unlike the fedora-wearing hipsters that just come for the beach and the beer (though I too partake in the summer fun), I have discovered a connection with the Rockaways. There’s something about the community that intrigues me and if you take the time to look, it’s a pretty complicated place with pockets of deep poverty and working class families. There are a lot of divisions and invisible boundaries. It reminds me a little bit of the South. I have seen harsh or substandard living conditions, but what I saw in the Rockaways that weekend after the storm was somehow worse. I have never seen such destruction and devastation up close and I was struck by the stark contrasts between those who had access to help and those who did not.

After about 3 hours of volunteer work I suddenly felt overwhelmed – panicked almost – and I had to stop. I was running on adrenaline, fueled by the chaos of the scene and the urgency in people’s eyes, voices, body language. Once I stopped, it hit me. It was right there. I was wearing my privilege and it was in plain view for others to see. Everything came to a screeching halt. I had to leave. So we drove down further into the Rockaways, which only heightened my anxiety. I felt like a voyeur, like I had overstepped my boundaries. Enter the white relief worker – the help is on the way, I’m going to help you “fix” your life – white worker. And the reality is that what needs to be fixed is so much more than houses, cars, or electricity. What needs to be fixed is the level of poverty and the divisions between the haves and have-nots. It’s something that I’ve known about this community for a long time, but for some reason this realization remained below the surface. All it took was a storm to rob people of what was already lost or taken.  I was reminded of dignity and humility.

            I have never been more uncomfortable with my own privilege. I felt a deep sense of disgust. There were so many white people everywhere I looked and I found myself wondering what if this community doesn’t want us here? What if they don’t want our help? You’ve never noticed these people before so why pretend that you can come in and save them? What happens when the lights come back on and then the volunteers go back home? These questions are difficult and I do not have answers, nor do I like having to ask these questions. I want to continue to help in the Rockaways, but I need to find a way to make a meaningful contribution to the community without feeling as though I’m imposing on people or inserting my whiteness where it doesn’t belong. There is a very fine line between helping, aiding, and fixing and I want to be sure about where I fit in the equation. Instead of reading about inequality or intellectualizing it, I might be able to actively participate in the process of undoing it or at least I can try.