Yesterday our program had six guest speakers from the community. To say this was touching or inspiring is an understatement. As 40 junior High Girls listened intently to stories of pain, growth, joy, discomfort, learning… on subjects from following your heart in your career, to growing up poor to rape, child molest and other abuse, I felt all age gaps dissolve. With our youngest being 12, our oldest being close to 70, a bridge was built, and girls and women of all ages connected through love and compassion.

When we respect our youth, and trust that they are mature enough to hear these kinds of stories, we grant them the gift of awareness and understanding. In the 7 years that I have taught this workshop, I have yet to encounter a young person who cannot handle these stories. For those who have experienced abuse themselves, and feel they are alone, this session shows them not only are they not alone, but there are others who care deeply for their experience. And for those fortunate enough to have not experienced abuse, this session allows them to understand what others go through.

What I get out of this part of the workshop the most, is: We walk past people all day long, and everyone of has judgements. During this class all these judgements float away. You have a woman standing up in front of a group, vulnerable, open, and sharing something so personal. The only thing left is an open heart and an open mind. So for the girls in Junior High, where clicks are strong, self identity is not yet usually established, confidence is wavering, bullying is common, and may feel they don’t belong, when we open up to our youngsters, in an open and honest way, we are giving them a gift. The gift of knowing, number one they are not alone, and two, that person walking down the hall might be going though some pretty tragic stuff, so say hello, be kind, don’t judge…

I also know that the women who speak to the girls walk away empowered and touched. Even if what they have shared hurt deeply, caused them overwhelming pain and shame, silence does not make it better. Nobody is alone in their experiences, whether they be positive or negative. And as women, if we work harder on connecting rather than competing, we will not only be stronger, we will raise stronger children.

Growing up Poor by Amber Lennon

Growing up poor has its advantages. Sure I faced regular humiliation every time my mom dropped me off at Junior High in her poop-brown Ford Pinto. It wasn’t a nice earthy brown, it was a pale diarrhea pasty brown, and of course the car was prone to stalling—right in front of the school.

Then there were the fashion issues. Even though now I enjoy thrift store shopping and the unique things I find there, when I was growing up, thrift store shopping meant that I would be wearing last year’s fashion, and we all know that that is totally unacceptable.

To top it all off, my family moved often, which meant that I was constantly being introduced in the front of the classroom, with the stereotypical teacher message, “Class we have a new student, her name is—“ and this was yet another layer of public humiliation, “her name is Amber Ch-Chick.” Then the class erupted in their routine wave of giggling and whispering “Chick? Her last name is Chick? Like chicken?”

So with a comical last name like that, it might have improved my chances of social acceptance if I had been at least decked out in pegged Guess jeans and black high-top Reeboks. But it did force me to create my own style because strange fashion was better than last year’s fashion. And being a poor new student with a funny last name also forced me to look for points of connection with people, instead of focusing on our differences. In life, this has been one of the most important tools I’ve used in creating positive relationships with good friends and strangers alike. Having to confront new faces with lots of judgments about appearance also helped me be to adaptable and, at the same time, helped me learn about the power of being authentic, because any time I tried to be something I wasn’t just to fit in, somehow my cover was blown and the true Amber Dawn Chick came shining through and I got to meet my real friends.

Being poor has other advantages. Because my parents couldn’t “buy my affection” or fill the time we spent together with purchasing things, we spent much more time in nature and with each other. My mom was in the process of uncovering our Native American ancestry, which meant lots of weekends on the Hopi Reservation or summers on the North Dakota plains for sundance ceremonies. At the time, of course I would have loved to stay home, talk on the phone or play Nintendo, but looking back I realize that spending time with Native Americans made being poor feel normal. They live such a simple, if a bit sad, existence and their ceremonies were the strength of their survival. Plus seeing men and women dance tirelessly for days and pierce their skin with eagle claws did have its own entertainment value.

Now in my adult life, when I encounter thin times, I click into an instinctual mode of resourcefulness, and I amuse myself with how little money I can spend and yet still cover my family’s needs. My contentment rarely fluctuates when my finances do, and I find that I lean more on my own hands and talents to provide the basics – growing our own crops, patching clothes with the sewing machine and bartering my skills.

Being poor once even saved our family home. When I was seven, my 12-year-old cousin lived with us in a 150 year old adobe house in Arizona that had an outhouse for a bathroom. My parents said we moved in for the uniqueness of the place, but I know we also moved in because it only cost $300 per month. Still, we were intrigued by the mud and straw walls, feeling like true desert Indians as we climbed a wooden ladder up to our room on the second floor. We spent hot summer nights sleeping on the roof and played endlessly in the bamboo forest that was our yard.

One day, we were home alone waiting for my parents to get back from work, and we were playing fort. We had carved a cocoon out of a thicket of dry bamboo and set up an old table and a platform for a bed, and we had the marvelous idea to start a little camp fire. Within seconds of sparking my little pile of bamboo twigs, the entire cavern was ablaze, flames spreading easily and my cousin hopelessly trying to put the fire out with a garden hose.

We finally gave up the fight and went screaming down the street for someone to call the fire department. When the fire was finally put out, all that was left was our mud house, untouched by the blaze that destroyed the rest of our property.

So even though being poor has its challenges, I am certain that I gained more life skills than I suffered from it’s humiliation. In Ojai, 12% of kids are living beneath the poverty line. That means that 1 out of every 10 students in your classes are faced with the challenge of trying to let their true beauty shine beneath the slightly-out-of-date clothes. You can help them feel a bit more comfortable with life circumstances that are out of their control. You can choose to look a little deeper than hip clothes, and by doing so, you have permission to learn more about who you really are. By looking for points of connection with others, you will find that we are not all so different afterall.