POVERTY, HUNGER, SURVIVAL. Images of poor towns in Third World countries may come to mind when presented with these three words. Like most Americans, I too had a similar initial reaction. However, a simple alternative spring break to Chavies, Ky., opened my eyes to the unfathomable. This spring break, from March 7 to 14, popular events such as relaxing at a warm beach threw itself at me, but I knew that God called me to serve those in need first. The Catholic Campus Ministry, in collaboration with the Appalachian Service Project, a Christian organization devoted to rebuilding homes in Appalachia, hosted a service trip to Kentucky to do home repairs for the less fortunate. Our group of 14 James Madison University students was ready to face the challenges in Kentucky. I had my preconceived notions, but shockingly I had no inkling of the severity of hunger, poverty and struggle for survival in Kentucky. On a wonderful Sunday afternoon, we drove past many average houses along the narrow and windy roads in Kentucky. Suddenly, the scenery changed; trash and car scraps began to fill the sides of the road, wild chickens and dogs roamed around freely, and then the houses came in to view. Houses? The last time I saw houses like these was during my travels to Third World countries in Asia. I was so shocked that this was happening in my own backyard. The first thing I noticed was a piece of tarp used for a porch wall with cutout windows. Even worse, there was a makeshift outhouse and a well to draw water. At that moment, I could only pray to God and hope that our actions this week could make a difference in their lives, and hopefully inspire others to open their eyes and take action. Upon receiving our assignment, we noticed that there was much more to tackle at the site than painting, installing a gutter system and building stairs for the front porch. There were people who lived in that house too, and they deserved as much attention as the stairs that needed repair. Despite their hardships, the family that we helped exhibited the greatest amount of love and concern for each other. They cherished the simple things in life and shared a familial bond unmatchable to the rest of the world. It saddened me to know that one of the family members was extremely ill and the other was blind. Toward the end of the week, the blind woman slowly came out of the back door to draw water from the well. As the woman gathered her two buckets of water, she struggled to make her way back. We offered to help, but she just smiled in response. There were no stairs in the back porch, so as the woman lifted her leg to feel for the edge, she began to spill a lot of water. Carefully, I extended my hand to lift the water bucket, and in that very moment she released her hand. As much as we wished we could heal her eyes, we could not. What we did do was build stairs for the back porch, hoping that it will help guide her way. In addition, the daughter-in-law had fallen off a ledge and broken her leg, but because she could not afford surgery, walked around on practically one leg. I noticed that she stumbled and fell quite often, but she immediately rose to her feet, unafraid of picking herself back up and facing the world. It is through these little actions and subtleties that made me a stronger person after this week. Readjusting to Harrisonburg was difficult, as I constantly pondered the poverty in Kentucky, all over America, and all over the world. Thankfully, it just takes a little faith in action to make a difference and to give the less fortunate love and hope — hope that there are those among us striving to lend a helping hand. Mr. Wiggins is a sophomore at James Madison University and an interpreter volunteer at the Harrisonburg-Rockingham Free Clinic.From the Daily-News Record
An Eye-Opening Encounter With PovertyPosted 2009-04-28 
Courtesy Photo
JMU Student Writes About His ASB Trip to Kentucky
Author: Lisa /
Photos from Tour Day
Author: Lisa /
All loaded up and ready to go!
The historical center at Oglala Lakota College
We take a moment outside a gift shop to admire the horses...
...and play with the puppies!
View from the front of Bette's Diner. Bette is the great-granddaughter of spirtual leader Black Elk.
Outside Bette's Diner. Every afternoon she opens up her home to visitors who eat at portable tables in her living room, or, if it's nice, outside.
Jesuit church
The Vatican II made it possible for the church to depict Jesus as a Native American. Here He's surrounded by children from various indigenous cultures.
Darryl standing at the grave of his great-grandparents, Red Cloud and his wife.
Lisa and a sleeping Caleb on the bus.
Tour Day
Author: Lisa /From Thursday, March 12
Today was equal measure feeling ready to go home and wishing I could stay longer. Yesterday was our last workday, and I packed up our tools with a sense of giddy anticipation that my time as an unskilled laborer was over. I breathed a sigh of relief as we finished loading the Re-Member van and hopped inside to its waiting warmth. I didn't think about the little girl we saw earlier in the day with no jacket out in the freezing cold. Instead, my mind was occupied with the buffalo we had hopes of sighting on the hour-long trip back to Re-Member.
So today, to reward us for 3 1/2 days of hard work, we toured the reservation. I am surprised to admit that I would have rather been working. Seems a shame now that I have finally hit my stride at Re-Member, it's time to go home.
The tour itself was an odd blend of culturally significant sites interspersed with "rest stops," i.e., thinly-veiled opportunities for us visitors to spend money. Not that I could blame them for wanting to help the local economy. And the students bought in droves from every site, from souvenirs to snack foods.
Our tour guides were John Her Many Horses and Darryl Red Cloud, the fifth generation grandson of the great Chief Red Cloud. There is something about the men of this culture, their weather-beaten faces, their easy laughter and sorrow-touched eyes, that reminds me of the men of my culture. All week I've looked on the Lakota men and seen my father, my uncles, my grandfather - weaned in the days of the Vietnam war and raising their families under the flag of a foreign government. I strained to listen to the faint, tinny whine of the bus PA system as John proudly pointed out the wind turbine that the reservation radio station had just acquired. The metal structure standing no taller than my house was the tallest turbine on the whole reservation, he announced.
"Over there, you can buy lots of good stuff to eat," referring to a large gas station with a several fast food stations and a seating area inside. "Companies are starting to locate here in Pine Ridge!"
"Here is the hospital. If you get sick? Good luck," he joked, Darryl snorting his agreement. As we passed the modest structure, he explained how preventative care was non-existent, despite the diabetes epidemic of the last decade and high infant mortality rate. The so-called cancer center, he explained, was a room full of beds and no equipment.
I was taken aback by the large homes surrounding the hospital with their well manicured lawns placed in suburbia-like rows. The neighborhood was a marked difference from the trailers and one bedroom shacks dotting the rest of the reservation landscape. The nurses and doctors live there, I was told. The visiting doctors, of course. There are no permanent doctors on the Rez.
The noise level in the bus rose higher the longer the day wore on. The students were abandoning the pretense of being able to hear the tour through the tired PA speakers, allowing their minds to relax. Despite sitting directly behind John, I could barely discern every-third word and had given up trying to listen myself. Still, about 10 miles from the Re-Member site, I watched him reach for the mic and leaned in with interest. He pointed to the northwest, towards an unseen destination. The first part of his explanation was lost to me, though he was speaking in the same frank, companionable tone he had used all day. But I could make out the meaning of his last remarks clearly.
"When people ask you where your people are buried, you reply they are buried in cemeteries. Over there, that's where my people are buried: at Wounded Knee."
Model of Crazy Horse monument being built in the Black Hills. More a metaphoric tribute than a literal likeness, it depicts the warrior's true response to the derisive question, "Where are your lands NOW, Indian?" Crazy Horse replied, “My lands are where my dead lie buried.”
So today, to reward us for 3 1/2 days of hard work, we toured the reservation. I am surprised to admit that I would have rather been working. Seems a shame now that I have finally hit my stride at Re-Member, it's time to go home.
The tour itself was an odd blend of culturally significant sites interspersed with "rest stops," i.e., thinly-veiled opportunities for us visitors to spend money. Not that I could blame them for wanting to help the local economy. And the students bought in droves from every site, from souvenirs to snack foods.
Our tour guides were John Her Many Horses and Darryl Red Cloud, the fifth generation grandson of the great Chief Red Cloud. There is something about the men of this culture, their weather-beaten faces, their easy laughter and sorrow-touched eyes, that reminds me of the men of my culture. All week I've looked on the Lakota men and seen my father, my uncles, my grandfather - weaned in the days of the Vietnam war and raising their families under the flag of a foreign government. I strained to listen to the faint, tinny whine of the bus PA system as John proudly pointed out the wind turbine that the reservation radio station had just acquired. The metal structure standing no taller than my house was the tallest turbine on the whole reservation, he announced.
"Over there, you can buy lots of good stuff to eat," referring to a large gas station with a several fast food stations and a seating area inside. "Companies are starting to locate here in Pine Ridge!"
"Here is the hospital. If you get sick? Good luck," he joked, Darryl snorting his agreement. As we passed the modest structure, he explained how preventative care was non-existent, despite the diabetes epidemic of the last decade and high infant mortality rate. The so-called cancer center, he explained, was a room full of beds and no equipment.
I was taken aback by the large homes surrounding the hospital with their well manicured lawns placed in suburbia-like rows. The neighborhood was a marked difference from the trailers and one bedroom shacks dotting the rest of the reservation landscape. The nurses and doctors live there, I was told. The visiting doctors, of course. There are no permanent doctors on the Rez.
The noise level in the bus rose higher the longer the day wore on. The students were abandoning the pretense of being able to hear the tour through the tired PA speakers, allowing their minds to relax. Despite sitting directly behind John, I could barely discern every-third word and had given up trying to listen myself. Still, about 10 miles from the Re-Member site, I watched him reach for the mic and leaned in with interest. He pointed to the northwest, towards an unseen destination. The first part of his explanation was lost to me, though he was speaking in the same frank, companionable tone he had used all day. But I could make out the meaning of his last remarks clearly.
"When people ask you where your people are buried, you reply they are buried in cemeteries. Over there, that's where my people are buried: at Wounded Knee."
Model of Crazy Horse monument being built in the Black Hills. More a metaphoric tribute than a literal likeness, it depicts the warrior's true response to the derisive question, "Where are your lands NOW, Indian?" Crazy Horse replied, “My lands are where my dead lie buried.”
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