AD - I do agree with you that poverty isn't an indicator of personal happiness, and in fact, in spite of the hellish housing issues, I remember those days as deeply happy and wonderful times. But personal happiness isn't the only indicator of quality of life - just a central is a feeling of security, and this is something poorly lacking in poverty sticken neighbourhoods, and the central worry in my life. I would often wonder as I walked down my street if today would be the day where my door would be kicked in, my meager possesions stolen or urniated on, or the day I would be stabbed, raped, mugged. I know that this is a worry for anybody, anywhere, but when it happens right next door, almost everyday, and to people you are in direct contact with, instead of some unknown person in a newspaper, these fears come more often, and are that much more legitimate.
I suppose my point is that, living in poor neighbourhoods, the situation is desparate: even though I was not a participant in the downward spiral-type behaviour, its effects spilled over in to my life regularly. Sometimes the things I directly witnessed would haunt me for days and effect my functioning quite drastically. And I know that of all the people I talk to who grew up in suburbia, that the sort of situations I described were not part of their reality in any regular or consistant way. They describe a warm lull of going to school, coming home for dinner, spending time with family. Yes, their lives were occasionally peppered with the "bad things" too, but when it came to desparate situations, it was a once-every-few-months-type thing, not a daily-thing like it is in hoods all over North America. I can only speak from my own personal experience, of course, but to me it seemed that if you're living in the hood you're dealing with violence and crime everyday, either as a witness or as a participant, that your life is hindered more drastically than someone effected by it once in a while. The housing issue is the one I'm most concerned with here. I got angry at the implication that if someone has a roof over their head they have nothing to complain about - that they are not legitimatly suffering. Unlike you AD, many people haven't seen the reality of an impoverished home. People who have not actually spent time in a hood or ghetto often don't realize that even if you keep to yourself and aren't a direct participant in the violence or crime, as I and many more people do in these shitty places, that the illegal, violent, annoying & whatever acts are taking place right next door, literally and figuratively. If you've only got a layer of drywall or a thin door between you and a crack head, it will effect your life, no matter what you do on your side of the wall.
Before the coke-head neighbours, I lived above an AIDS activist who was slowly dying of the disease, and whose eight year old son I met twice before the boy died of the disease. This neighbour was a quite, kind soul. When I was moving in, I had no idea he was sick, though he was so skinny I could have guessed something was wrong - his arms were like ropey sticks. As my dad and I moved my furniture up the narrow spiral staircase to the second floor we struggled to get my very old couch up the stairs. It was one of those old-school covertable sofa-beds with metal frame, and ugly wood embelishments. It probably weighed over 100 pounds. We gave up right at a bend in the stairs. Along came my skinny neighbour with an offer to help. My dad and I looked at the little guy and made the somewhat fair assumption that he probably wouldn't do any better, but it was worth a try. My neighbour climbed over the couch, my dad on the lower stairs, and in this totally shocking moment he lifted the entire weight of it himself, with my father's hands only lightly guiding it - not bearing any of the wieght - and carried it the entire way up the stairs effortlessly. I remember asking him if he worked for a moving company, and he just smiled shyly and queitly left. This neighbour has always been a metaphor of the inner-city to me. I think of him often, and though we only shared the polite and perfunctory relationship of neighbours who occasionally crossed paths, when a large obituary article of his life's work appeared in the paper, I shed some tears.
I don't deny that there is the potential for goodness, happiness and a full-life if one lives in an impoverished area, but I disagree with anyone who claims someone isn't legitimate in their suffering just because things aren't "as bad" as they are somewhere else. The quality of life is lower in North America impoverished areas in clear, tangible ways, with definite room for improvement.