Recently a friend sent me one of those broadcast emails with the sarcastic subject line “Detroit is Making a Comeback.” The message contained nine photos presumably taken in Motor City. None was flattering. They showed business signs with misspellings and grammar mistakes like “We open” and “Closed—Out of Meet.” Some were offensive: a fat woman with the words “Child Support” tattooed across her buttocks, a second woman wearing large earrings that said “Trust No Bitch.”

There were more, but I’ll spare you the details. A comment introducing the pictures read, “Corrupt politics, handouts, and dysfunctional family units will get you this in a short while.”

I can’t tell you exactly what led to Detroit’s monumental problems, although corrupt politics and drugs certainly played major roles. I do know, however, that similar photos could have been taken in numerous U.S. cities—Camden, for example, or New York or Oakland. And the coal country of West Virginia, although the citizens portrayed there would be white. The Detroit residents shown were all black. Most of us seldom encounter poor people of any race, because we don’t venture into poor neighborhoods.

In March I attended a few sessions of the Colorado WASH Symposium, a gathering of some of the world’s top thinkers on the tricky question of how to provide clean water and sanitation to the world’s poor. The symposium included a series of debates about what does and doesn’t work in “the field”—in this case, developing countries with some of the most squalid conditions imaginable.

I was most interested in a session on providing resources to the urban poor, because the trend in world population is strongly toward cities, and packing lots of people into a small area with no planning is usually a water and sanitation disaster. I was curious about the panel members’ thoughts on the Reinventing the Toilet Challenge.

Twenty years ago, more or less, I was invited to join some other writers who were touring the Appalachian Mountains, visiting colleges and giving readings. Jeff and Reid, then age three, came along. This was a fun group. They joked and talked about their work and formed a loose camaraderie with just about everyone. “Just about” is the operative phrase.

As the days unfolded, I became aware that a poet and essayist from Oregon named Kim Stafford kept abandoning the central group and making a point to talk to those on the fringes,

It’s happened again: I’ve fallen in love, head over heels. I haven’t done this for a while, years actually. But this time it’s a doozy.

As usual, the object of my affection is a book. This one is titled, quite appropriately, Tattoos on the Heart. It’s a quote from a gang member in Los Angeles who was struggling to quit his life of violence. Father Gregory Boyle, the Jesuit priest who founded Homeboy Industries, was telling the young man that in trying to leave his gang, he was acting with far more courage than he’d ever shown shooting at enemies in his hood. The homie looked at Boyle and replied, “Damn, G. . . . I’m gonna tattoo that on my heart.”

Poverty and environmental destruction have many things in common, including this: They’re frequently hidden in plain sight.

 I thought about this last month, when I wrote about Latino neighborhoods in my blog Finding Your Way, and on a recent drive through West Virginia, when I saw a series of high, utterly flat ridges. Nature didn’t create perfect table tops in West Virginia. The mountain peaks that used to sit on top of them were blasted away by coal companies.