Thursday, October 27, 2011

A 50% poverty rate.

My daughter attends our local public school.  She gets an education that is fantastic and I would never in a million years consider switching her to another place.  The school she attends has a 50% poverty rate.  I've known this for quite some time now, but that 50% poverty rate statistic smacked me squarely in the face this week and I can't take a child out of my mind.

While cruising around to gather the last of the t-shirt sizes needed for our walkathon prizes, I had to flip a few shirt tags because the two notices sent home went ignored.  There was one child, in a sling and an obviously too small shirt, that I needed to check. 

He was in the 4th grade and wearing a size 7 shirt.  He is well into a 10/12, if not borderline on a 14/16 for length.  I took a deep breath.  He's gotten to the age where I'm sure that kids notice.  I hope with everything in my heart that he is not made fun of for it. 

I was speaking with a couple of PTA board members about it.  The one suggested that I speak to the guidance counselor to make certain that he has a winter coat.

Mrs. W- stopped me today and T- does not have one.

:deep breath and with tears:

We'll be making certain that he's got a bag of clothes going home and that he will have a warm coat for winter.  Still, I sit in my warm house, typing on my pieced-together computer with an operable phone, beds, clothes, water, food, a child that really should consider herself as wanting for nothing (she doesn't have everything in the world, I promise, but materially she has more than some) and then there is T-. 

Belt out a prayer for him, eh?  Word has it that kiddo has a kind of tough life.  He's on my mind and in my prayers.  He has truly tugged at my heart all week long. 

1 comment:

Rach said...

My prayers for T. In my years teaching downtown (we had a 98% poverty rate), T's story was the rule, not the exception. I would bring in socks, underwear, keep uniform pieces on hand. I purchased all the required school supplies and went to many homes where there was nothing more than a tray table and tiny TV.

My heart hurt so often for my babies, for the lives they were living, had been born into. They were tough because they had to be. They survived shootings and violence and so much more that babies should NEVER be exposed to.

My heart broke when I had to leave them. I understand your sorrow. If there is anything I can do to help fluff out T's bag of warm items, let me know.