The Stench of Poverty

Most lawyers go into public interest law to save babies and old people. I help represent the “undeserving poor”—mothers whose children have been taken away by the state—mothers labeled unfit and unable to care for babies formed in the womb for nine months—mothers who still carry faint lines, like watermarks, across tummies—proof of life.

These women live on the edge, marginalized and forgotten, many of them too tired or afraid to fight anymore. The state’s intervention is merely another assault in their daily lives.

Ninety-eight percent of the cases I see involve issues of neglect—neglect varying from sub-standard housing, lack of adequate child care, to accidental injuries. Most of these issues are indicators of poverty—none of which have any nexus to a mother’s desire or ability to care for her child. That the state chooses to snatch children away from poor mothers instead of providing adequate resources is almost cruel. Poverty is not a crime.

I am struck most by the assumption of incompetence—caseworkers and lawyers on all sides assume that poor parents, mostly of color, are incapable of providing for their children. The fundamental right to direct to care and upbringing of your child, the right to privacy, the right to be protected from arbitrary state intrusion is often ignored.

I cannot help but think of my childhood at such a time. My mother often worked two jobs and when one job failed, she would rely on public assistance. I didn’t know that we were poor. All that mattered is that I was fiercely loved.

Yesterday, I met a 19-year-old mother. She was six months pregnant when her boyfriend died. A week after his death, she learned that he had died from AIDS related complications, not cancer as she was led to believe. She quickly realized that her cold sweats and vomiting were not morning sickness, but confirmation that she too was infected. Her baby was born three months later—HIV positive. After several hospitalizations, the state took her baby away. She walked into my office to prepare for her upcoming court hearing and held her head down the entire time. Her sadness burned right through me.

There are events that offer no understanding—there are no answers to offer satisfaction. I don’t believe in moral absolutes—the magical binary of good and evil. I resent those who wrap themselves in “truth” in an attempt to avoid the complexity of life.

She is not a baby, she is not old, but she is surely deserving. Her life has value although the system has thrown her away. I mark my doorways with compassion and say a prayer for understanding.