five to one

The other day I caught myself uttering five words I never thought I would let slip past my lips again: “I have nothing to wear.” As I tossed another outfit on the floor I said to myself “Really Brittany? Do you truly have nothing to wear?”. (I know I was talking to myself but, stick with me- hopefully the crazy ends here).

Of course I had lots to wear; there was just nothing I wanted to wear.

Standing in front of my closet door, feeling guilty for complaining about my wardrobe I was reminded of Issouf. Issouf is a small boy of ten years old. He, his mom and surviving siblings (7 of his 10 full blood siblings have passed away) live in a 10x10foot home, not far from the orphanage.

I remember the meeting with Issouf’s family clearly: the boy that had climbed on the moto with us to help us find Issouf, the broken bike leaning against the wall of his house, the children playing on the street in front of us as we talked, our awkward seating arrangements because Issouf’s family simply didn’t own stools or benches...

But, none of that is what I remember most about our visit with Issouf. What I remember is two things: Issouf’s clothes and his eyes.

When I met Issouf he was wearing the only clothing he owned: a simple button up shirt, and a pair of shorts. The shirt, missing more buttons than it had holding it together, gaped in the front revealing his chest and rounded stomach.

I’m so unable to describe his eyes to you without searching for clichés... When our eyes met I was struck by a realization that this boy knew sadness.

I have been thinking over my definition of poverty recently. Sometimes though, I let go of concepts and terminology and simply allow images and memories to flood my thought processes. When I do this sometimes I am reminded of Issouf. Reminded yes, that factors like not having proper clothing play a significant and important role in determining poverty. But, if I really allow myself to give into the memories I find myself sitting in front of a small house, on a quiet street, on a hot day, looking into the eyes of a small scared boy.

And, I am reminded of the individuality of poverty.

Each person affected by poverty has his own story. I can define his situation and label his needs, I can formulate statistics and all of this is good. But, none of that is worthwhile if I can’t also see him as one. One man, one child, one woman with a story that is solely their own.