When I was 22 years old, I taught high school English. Among my students that year was a 16 year old mother of a 1 year old girl. It was well known that her home-life was rough as well, especially in regards to her own abusive mother. While I don’t remember her name, I do remember chatting with her one day while she was trying to catch up on some missing work and realizing-in a limited way-how little I understood of what her life was like, how little I felt like I had to offer her. Generational poverty, teen parenthood, a sordid home-life, none of these had ever been a…