Too Poor to Participate

The band instructor displayed instruments that were placed on tables in each corner of the room.

I knew I was destined to play the drums before I walked into class. Apparently, so did every other black kid, and it wasn’t a coincidence. Two influences had recently occurred. The first was the release of Drumline, and the second was a catchy Neptunes-produced song called “Grindin.” Students repurposed desktops and lunch tables, using them as drums to recreate the beat. That afternoon after tryouts, I showed my mother the cost sheet. Her eyebrows cascaded over her eyelids as she traced the total with her finger. “Sorry, T. What about the choir?” she bargained.

“Sure,” I replied. After all, my voice was free.

The following day, I returned to band class to inform the instructor that I would be enrolling in the choir. Shame and anger stewed in my belly as the instructor scribbled his name with no objection. Just like that, I went from a hopeful drummer to a tenor. There were two kinds of choir kids: the kids who wanted to sing and those who didn’t.

I held no illusions about my family’s socioeconomic status. Being poor meant school lunch was free, and the oven doubled as a heater during winter. Still, I never anticipated that social exclusion would be an impact of poverty. To offset expenses, I shrunk my desires. Any area of interest that required money was resolved with a concession. That meant settling for neighborhood foot races instead of summer track. That also meant when my class took an educational trip to Washington D.C. I would pretend to be uninterested. It took a long time to repair the multitude of tiny erosions to my self-esteem.

Social exclusion is both a source and symptom of poverty. When poor people are excluded from acquiring new skills, experiences, and connections, life becomes challenging. As a cruel consequence, the denial of participation narrows the pathway for positive outcomes. Simply put, being too poor to participate often means remaining poor due to a lack of involvement and exposure.

For many Black folks, social exclusion is inherited. Every occurrence of exclusion is a pre-deposition for adverse outcomes, from slavery and Jim Crow to redlining and school zoning. There’s no shortage of historical Black organizations and institutions that promote cultural pride, community engagement, and education, but many often fail to include poor Black people. Take Jack and Jill of America, for example. An existing member must sponsor hopeful young candidates to be considered for membership. Sponsorship, however, is discretionary. There are also a variety of local, regional, and national expenses, presenting a plethora of barriers for poor Black folks.

Last year, I accepted a new position at work after nearly a decade of cutting my teeth in my industry. This opportunity comes with a level of security I never had access to, so transitioning out of a mindset of scarcity has had its challenges. Thinking about investment planning, home ownership, and debt to income management overwhelms me sometimes. I feel like I’m playing catch-up for what I should’ve had.

I’m working on accepting that there are pieces of my life that I will never get back, but I still grieve for the little boy who had to retrofit his interests and desires to make ends meet. A recurring dilemma I face is finding the distinction between what is owed to me and what I owe to others. Because, for every one of us who makes it out, many more will be denied entry to a world they deserve.

If this story resonates with you, I’m sorry your desires had to be reduced and compromised. Your exclusion is not a reflection of your worth but rather an indictment of a failed society. One of the many ways we can end social exclusion is by asking a simple question: How can we make this accessible to everyone?

Terrance Thomas is a screenwriter and essayist based in Houston, Texas. His work has been featured in Huff Post, Allegory Ridge, Afropunk, and others. To hear more from Terrance follow him on Instagram and Twitter.