Poverty Is Trauma: A Conversation with Terence Lester

Poverty is often viewed as an economic problem or a personal failure. But what if poverty itself is trauma? Dr. Terrance Lester joins Skye to explain how historical injustice, public policy, and community design shape educational outcomes—and why research shows it can take 20 years to overcome poverty if nothing goes wrong. Drawing from his book "From Dropout to Doctorate," Lester connects personal story with policy, challenging common narratives that blame individuals while ignoring systems. (Full interview on Holy Post 688: The MAGA Contradiction & Educational Injustice with Terence Lester)

Skye Jethani: Dr. Terence Lester, welcome to the Holy Post Skye. I’m really excited to be here. The book is called From Dropout to Doctorate: Breaking the Chains of Educational Injustice. It’s part memoir. Yeah. Part policy advocacy. Yes. One of the things that stood out to me is the way you draw a link between poverty, trauma, and education. I’m guessing a lot of our audience doesn’t put trauma into that equation very much. Explain why you link those three things together, and maybe some of your own story that fleshes out why they belong together.

Terence Lester: I use the lens of two parts of trauma in the book: historical trauma and personal trauma. We can’t look at historical trauma without understanding how cities and communities were actually shaped. If you have systemic injustice or some form of oppression that leads to public policy—redlining, for instance—there are many cities, even like Chicago or Atlanta, where streets and highways divide communities. You have vulnerable communities concentrated with poverty, where it was legalized to concentrate impoverishment in certain parts of town. When you look at the social living conditions of those communities, you begin to see that poverty is more than just economics.

Poverty is social. It’s environmental. It’s occupational. It’s physiological. It’s psychological. It’s spiritual. Poverty affects the whole wellbeing of a person. When you grow up in an environment that has been concentrated with poverty due to public policy, and that’s linked to historic oppression or injustice, we have to move to the next step, which I define in the book as trauma produced as a result of all of these things. Poverty itself is a form of trauma. There’s research that says we shouldn’t separate trauma from poverty itself. Poverty is trauma. To wake up and not know where your next meal is coming from is trauma. To work constantly and still not make a living wage is trauma. To take your kids to school without access to a washing machine or dryer is trauma. To sit in a classroom knowing your family stayed in a motel or shelter, and still find the courage to show up and be taught lessons that don’t speak to your existential reality, is trauma.

I grew up in that type of environment. I watched my mom, as a single parent, work multiple jobs and still have the resilience to go to grad school long before online classes existed. I remember sitting late at night watching her study. I didn’t understand what she was doing then, but she told me recently that she wanted my sister and me to see what it looked like to overcome and pursue education as a pathway out. I remember the dilapidated buildings, growing up in a food desert, and the divestment in the community. But I also remember how rich the community was—not economically, but relationally. Too often people equate impoverishment with a lack of brilliance or value, and that simply isn’t true.

Dr. Theresa Gowan offers a framework that describes socially constructed narratives about poverty: sin talk, sick talk, and system talk. Sin talk frames poverty as a moral failure—a character flaw, a lack of faith. Research shows that when we adopt this narrative, we respond with punishment, exclusion, displacement, and criminalization. People who are poor or unhoused are demonized, and their inherent worth is trampled. Yet I know impoverished people who know more Scripture than lifelong churchgoers, and unhoused people with deep morality and integrity. Their stories are silenced by the false narrative that poverty equals immorality or laziness—political talking points that deny human dignity.

"Sick talk" pathologizes communities, assuming something is mentally wrong with them. Often, those using this language have access to therapy, insurance, and support systems, without recognizing how inaccessible those resources are to others. The mental health system is overwhelmed. There is a massive need for clinicians and trauma-informed care. But instead of addressing systemic conditions that produce trauma, people are labeled lazy or morally deficient.

We also fail to talk honestly about systems. In the book, I describe the residue of decades of neglect. I can still return to my community and see decay—not just in buildings, but in the soul. While I believe people need internal grit and resilience, I also believe access, support, and resources matter. The book connects how my community was designed to the educational trauma I had to overcome.

When I read your book, I couldn’t help but contrast it with my own experience. I grew up with a strong tailwind pushing me forward. I would have had to deliberately act against that tailwind to fail. You had thrust behind you—tons of it. Hearing your story, I felt all of it.

But what happens when you’re facing constant headwinds and keep getting knocked down? Research shows it takes 20 years to overcome poverty if nothing goes wrong. That study, released by economists at The Atlantic, examined upward mobility and social equity—not just money, but relationships, community, and access to opportunity. Many people don’t have those connections if they’re born in the “wrong” part of town.

It’s both-and. We must provide access and support, and we must model encouragement so people can borrow courage when resistance keeps coming. I survived because people saw the best in me—teachers, mentors, and Dr. Joe, who loaned me his car for an entire year when mine broke down. I told him I was about to drop out, and he handed me his keys, saying, “Whatever you do, don’t give up.” He didn’t know me, yet he trusted me.

When was the last time you gave someone your car keys? When did you invest in someone deeply enough to believe in them until they could overcome? Regardless of tailwinds or headwinds, we are all the product of community. I’m not here because of my own ability. I’m here because people helped me get here—and you are too.