America's Forgotten Children (No Child Left Behind):Excerpt from The Lost Children of America (UnEdi

With the new and ever expanding drug epidemic sweeping our Nation and the economy faring the worst it’s been since The Great Depression nearly seventy years ago, our Nation’s children are paying a dear price for our country’s misfortune and at times, it’s poor leadership. The media extensively covers the war overseas, the daily gasoline pump price fluctuation from city to city, the big businesses & banks financial woes, violence in the street corners and the real estate housing bubble- at times they are as broad reaching as to briefly cover the lack of rights provided to women and third world laborers overseas- but what about the millions of children living in poverty, only a few short blocks from Main Street, USA? There are no news trucks or broadcasters in sight while they are witnessing crimes, violence, suffering neglect and abuse in the assumed safety of their own homes.

It’s 6 pm on Thursday evening and while John and Jane Smith serve the family meatloaf in their middle class suburban home, only a few miles away, another child goes another night without dinner due to his parent or caretaker spending their food money on the drugs they’re currently comatose on. Food stamps, in their earnest attempt to prevent these sorts of situations, are now a hot commodity in the underworld of the drug society, treated almost as preciously as cash, they are often being traded for drugs.

If such iniquities can be allowed to develop into complete normalcy in the lives of these children, then where are we, as a country with our heads turned, headed as a whole?

I recently made a visit to a trailer park located in the outskirts of Tampa, Florida, in an attempt to meet with the families that reside there and to find out more about their lives. Moments after my arrival, the children swarmed around me, obviously starved for attention or entertainment of some sort. I found that when they were talking to me, they were so kind, vulnerable and innocent, just sweet-hearted children.

We sat in a circle on the grass and began talking about school, their favorite classes, what songs on the radio they liked, their favorite activities, and so on. The girls showed me how they wove tiny multi-colored yarn bracelets and the boys excitedly talked over one another as they bragged about all of the cool bicycle tricks they could do. I found it charming and hid my smile when two of the young boys from the group made an obvious attempt to impress me by play fighting one another.

A mere moment after the “fight” began, my stomach turned, I felt a tinge of pain and the smile I’d tried to hide quickly fell into a frown as I realized that this was not at all the normal rough and tumble play fighting so common between boys their age, instead it had become apparent that this was a real attempt between them to dominate the other, pungent with abusive undertones in the statements they yelled at one another while wrestling in the dirt. The adorable blonde boy eventually intimidated the taller, shaggy haired boy into submission, I watched in disbelief as the small boy stood over the other, who was laying on his back in the dirt and sparse gravel, looking back at him from the ground, true fear plastered upon his small freckled face. You could see the expression in the blonde haired boy’s face shift slowly, as if he were coming out of some type of a trance or a blind rage, he almost seemed to physically shake off the cold fury that had overtaken him and the blank stare in his eyes faded as he regained his lighthearted nature once again.

The whole thing was somewhat shocking but mostly, it was saddening, as witnessing it, you became well aware that these children had heard or experienced this violence firsthand before ,they were all too comfortable emulating it, it was all too natural and acceptable. Even the girls who were still sitting by my side in the grass were quiet, saying nothing as they continued to look down, their faces blank and expressionless as they concentrated on braiding their colorful yarn bracelets.

I suddenly found myself very disturbed and although feelings of guilt followed, I instinctively felt repulsed by their violent behavior, I tried to manage a polite smile and excused myself very abruptly from their company.

Hours later, looking out the small, foggy window of the empty trailer I’d been given use of as to eat my lunch and write, I witnessed that same sweet blonde haired, green eyed boy, who, I might add, will be very handsome someday, riding his bike in a small circle slowly, obviously bored, his lips parted into a scowl and with a distant, displaced look of anger in his eyes, crinkling his brow, it was evident that his mind was somewhere else. He began to look menacing and I thought to myself that he was far too young to carry such pain and anger inside, I wondered where he’d gotten it from- I shook my head and blocked my mind from searching for the answer, truthfully, because I didn’t want to know. Without a prior thought or hesitation, I began an instinctual prayer- I prayed that he could be just another normal child, with all of the possibilities and opportunities ahead of him in life. I prayed that he beat this place, that he overcomes everything he’s ever faced with and that he doesn’t become another statistic, hardened by poverty and packaged by the seedy characters that surround him, molded into just another troublesome kid or juvenile delinquent who never stands a chance. He was more than all of that- I could see it in him. Maybe he could too- perhaps that was the reason behind his some of his anger. I shook my head again, a small feeling of shame waved through me as I didn’t want to think about it. I couldn’t stand the helplessness and anger that it brought to my heart.

Without a shadow of a doubt I believe that ones upbringing or family background does not determine who we become or where we ultimately go in life. But upon deeper consideration, I feel I must temper my positivity with a dash of reality and question: what percentage of children born into such poverty make it out and create better lives for themselves?

It is not as if many of them are ever exposed to anything further than the life that they are born into. It is as if they are chosen by these awful tribes and held captive, until it is too late, they have gone through all the rites of passage and grown from a child into a tribesman of the same awful nature. Never once given the choice or a chance for something more or better, Or just something different.

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