Poverty:A culture shock
by Jill Galameau
This week’s attention!! photo, of the doors of the Systems
Building, was taken by Ty Walters, a junior journalism major.
Recently I experienced a culture
shock.
Coming from a family of big city
dwellers, my familiarity with life in a
small town was nil. So when my
roommate Megan asked me to spend
spring break at her house in Harlingen
naturally 1 was excited.
Megan had stayed at my house in
upper-middle class North Dallas and
was familiar with the bubble 1 had
grown up in. She knew I went to a
high school that was entirely white,
with the exception of three black
students.
She tried to warn me before we left
that her hometown in the Rio Grande
Valley would be a sharp contrast to
my suburban upbringing. But her hint
was not nearly enough to prepare me
for what would be my first encounter
with poverty in its purest form.
Megan decided she would take me
to Matamoros. Mexico. Great! I knew I
could get inexpensive silver and cheap
Corona there. But what I didn’t know
is what hurt me.
First she drove me through an older
part of Harlingen. My eyes were glued
to the Sonic on my left.
Old. dirty cars Megan called low
riders covered the parking lot. About
50 Mexicans from age 12 to 20 were
there hanging out. In the crowd I
spotted two young girls in shirts
labeled “baby” with an arrow pointing
downward.
Megan told me that Mexican girls
love to have babies — regardless of
whether they are married or
financially able. She told me that at
her high school, which is 80 percent
Mexican-American, pregnant girls
continue to go to school until a few
days before delivery.
Further on, I saw unbathed children
playing in the weeds in front of their
homes. Their tiny decrepit shacks
looked as if a gust of wind would blow
them over.
Out of Harlingen and on the
highway to Brownsville. 1 felt more
worldy and thought 1 had seen the
worst
But Brownsville was even more
educational.
We got there right as the high
school was getting out. Swarms of
Mexican students, mostly dressed in
filthy jeans and ragged T-shirts
crossed the street in front of us. I
asked Megan if we were still in
America. Finally, 1 spotted one white
girl in the crowd
Their school was a group of
stacked, portable buildings that
looked like a temporary set-up. But
Megan assured me it was permanent.
Mexican boys yelled obscenities at
us as they drove passed in their low-
riders. Some of the nicer low-riders
had a chandelier hanging from their
inside dome light.
We finally reached the border. It
struck me as very strange that I would
enter a culture so dissimilar from our
own after just crossing that bridge.
When we stepped off the bridge
into Mexico, Megan was accosted by
little Mexican boys. They all wanted to
touch her blond hair. Her expertise at
dealing with them amazed me. If she
had any doubts about cussing, she left
them in America.
Mexican women and children sat
along the street with their open hands
reached out. Their eyes seemed to
search ours for sympathy, care, and
money. I felt greedy and spoiled and
found myself on the verge of tears.
I returned wanting to join the
missionary field or the Peace Corps
Of course, 1 have read about poverty,
but it just doesn’t compare to the
impact of seeing it first-hand.
Jill Galarneau is a senior
journalism major.
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