Excerpt from:  Michael Harrington, The Other America (1962).


There is a familiar America.  It is celebrated in speeches and advertised on television and in the magazines.  It has the highest mass standard of living the world has ever known.


In the 1950s this America worried about itself, yet even its anxieties were products of abundance.  The title of a brilliant book was widely misinterpreted, and the familiar America began to call itself ‘the affluent society.’  There was introspection about Madison Avenue and tail fins; there was discussion of the emotional suffering taking place in the suburbs.  In all this, there was an implicit assumption that the basic grinding economic problems had been solved in the United States.  In this theory the nation’s problems were no longer a matter of basic human needs, of food, shelter, and clothing.  Now they were seen as qualitative, a question of learning to live decently amid luxury.


While this discussion was carried on, there existed another America.  In it dwelt somewhere between 40,000,000 and 50,000,000 citizens of this land.  They were poor.  They still are.


To be sure, the other America is not impoverished in the same sense as those poor nations where millions cling to hunger as a defense against starvation.  This country has escaped such extremes.  That does not change the fact that tens of millions of Americans are, at this very moment, maimed in body and spirit, existing at levels beneath those necessary for human decency.  If these people are not starving, they are hungry, and sometimes fat with hunger, for that is what cheap foods do.  They are without adequate housing and education and medical care.


The Government has documented what this means to the bodies of the poor . . . . But even more basic, this poverty twists and deforms the spirit.  The American poor are pessimistic and defeated, and they are victimized by mental suffering to a degree unknown in Suburbia . . . .


The millions who are poor in the United States tend to become increasingly invisible.  Here is a great mass of people, yet it takes an effort of the intellect and will even to see them.


I discovered this personally in a curious way.  After I wrote my first article on poverty in America, I had all the statistics down on paper.  I had proved to my satisfaction that there were around 50,000,000 poor in this country.  Yet, I realized I did not believe my own figures.  The poor existed in Government reports; they were percentages and numbers in long, close columns, but they were not part of my experience.  I could prove that the other America existed, but I had never been there.


My response was not accidental. It was typical of what is happening to an entire society, and it reflects profound social changes in this nation.  The other America, the America of poverty, is hidden today in a way that it never was before.  Its millions are socially invisible to the rest of us.  No wonder that so many misinterpreted [John K.] Galbraith’s title and assumed that the “affluent society” meant that everyone had a decent standard of life.  The misinterpretation was true as far as the actual day-to-day lives of two-thirds of the nation were concerned.  Thus, one must begin a description of the other America by understanding why we do not see it.


There are perennial reasons that make the other America an invisible land.


Poverty is off the beaten track.  It always has been.  The ordinary tourist never left the main highway, and today he rides interstate turnpikes.  He does not go into the valleys of Pennsylvania where the towns look like movie sets of Wales in the thirties.  He does not see the company houses in rows, the rutted roads (the poor always have bad roads, whether they live in the city, in towns, or on farms), and everything is black and dirty.  And even if he were to pass through such a place by accident, the tourist would not meet the unemployed men in the bar or the women coming home from a runaway sweatshop.


Then, too, beauty and myth are perennial masks of poverty.  The traveler comes to the Appalachians in the lovely season.  He sees the hills, the streams, the foliage – but not the poor.  Or perhaps he looks at a run-down mountain house and, remembering [French Enlightenment philosopher] Rousseau rather than seeing with his own eyes, decides that ‘those people’ are truly fortunate to be living the way they are and that they are lucky to be exempt from the strains and tensions of the middle class.  The only problem is that “those people,” the quaint inhabitants of those hills, are undereducated, underprivileged, lack medical care, and are in the process of being forced from the land into a life in the cities, where they are misfits.


These are normal and obvious causes of the invisibility of the poor.  They operated a generation ago; they will be functioning a generation hence.  It is more important to understand that the very development of American society is creating a new kind of blindness about poverty.  The poor are increasingly slipping out of the very experience and consciousness of the nation.


If the middle class never did like ugliness and poverty, it was at least aware of them.  “Across the tracks” was not a very long way to go.  There were forays into the slums at Christmas time; there were charitable organizations that brought contact with the poor.  Occasionally, almost everyone passed through the Negro ghetto or the blocks of the tenements, if only to get downtown to work or to entertainment.


Now the American city has been transformed.  The poor still inhabit the miserable housing in the central area, but they are increasingly isolated from contact with, or sight of, anybody else.  Middle-class women coming in from Suburbia on a rare trip may catch the merest glimpse of other America on the way to an evening at the theater, but the children are segregated in suburban schools.  The business or professional man may drive along the fringes of slums in a car or bus, but it is not an important experience to him.  The failure, the unskilled, the disabled, the aged, and the minorities are right there, across the tracks, where they have always been.  But hardly anyone else is.


In short, the very development of the American city has removed poverty from the living, emotional experience of millions upon millions of middle-class Americans.  Living out in the suburbs, it is easy to assume that ours is, indeed, an affluent society.


This new segregation of poverty is compounded by a well-meaning ignorance.  A good many concerned and sympathetic Americans are aware that there is much discussion of urban renewal.  Suddenly, driving through the city, they notice that a familiar slum has been torn down and that there are towering, modern buildings where once there had been tenements and hovels.  There is a warm feeling of satisfaction, of pride in the ways thing are working out: the poor, it is obvious, are being taken care of.


The irony in this . . . is that the truth is nearly the exact opposite to the impression.  The total impact of the various housing programs in postwar America has been to squeeze more and more people into existing slums.  More often than not, the modern apartment in a towering building rents at $40 a room or more.  For, during the past decade and a half, there has been more subsidization of middle- and upper-income housing than there has been for the poor.


Clothes make the poor invisible too; America has the best-dressed poverty the world has ever known.  For a variety of reasons, the benefits of mass production have been spread much more evenly in this area than in many others.  It is much easier in the United States to be decently dressed than it is to be decently housed, fed, or doctored.  Even people with terribly depressed incomes can look prosperous. 


This is an extremely important factor in defining our emotional and existential ignorance of poverty.  In Detroit the existence of social classes became much more difficult to discern the day the companies put lockers in the plants.  From that moment on, one did not see men in work clothes on the way to the factory, but citizens in slacks and white shirts.  This process has been magnified with the poor throughout the country.  There are tens of thousands of Americans in the big cities who are wearing shoes, perhaps even a stylishly cut suit or dress, and yet are hungry.  It is not a matter of planning, though it almost seems as if the affluent society had given out costumes to the poor so that they would not offend the rest of society with the sight of rags.


Then, many of the poor are the wrong age to be seen.  A good number of them (over 8,000,000) are sixty-five years of age or better; an even larger number are under eighteen.  The aged members of the other America are often sick, and they cannot move.  Another group of them live out their lives in loneliness and frustration: they sit in rented rooms, or else they stay close to a house in a neighborhood that has completely changed from the old days.  Indeed, one of the worst aspects of poverty among the aged is that these people are out of sight and out of mind, and alone.


The young are somewhat more visible, yet they too stay close to their neighborhoods. Sometimes they advertise their poverty through a lurid tabloid story about a gang killing.  But generally they do not disturb the quiet streets of the middle class.


And finally, the poor are politically invisible.  It is one of the cruelest ironies of social life in advanced countries that the dispossessed at the bottom of society are unable to speak for themselves.  The people of the other America do not, by far and large, belong to unions, to fraternal organizations, or to political parties.  They are without lobbies of their own; they put forward no legislative program.  As a group, they are atomized. They have no face; they have no voice . . . .


That the poor are invisible is one of the most important things about them.  They are not simply neglected and forgotten as in the old rhetoric of reform; what is much worse, they are not seen.