I met Poverty. I looked it straight in the eyes, I held it to my chest and rocked it to sleep, I grasped Poverty’s hand and ran down a dirt road, I wrapped my arms around Poverty and wept.
Poverty does not have a home, or a family. Poverty doesn’t care about race, religion, or age. Poverty lives everywhere.
Poverty only dreams of a good education, while I grumble about waking up for Monday classes. Poverty curls up on a cardboard bed, while I stomp my feet at the thought of moving into a smaller bedroom. Poverty’s mouth waters at a fresh banana, while I complain about having spaghetti for the second time that week.
Looking into Poverty’s eyes it told me about its pain, and about my greed. Poverty taught me that I am far too comfortable being ignorant. I had been coasting, and Poverty crashed into me in the middle of the Cambodian border. There I saw Poverty so young and alone, clutching a tin cup, fast asleep.
Poverty has forever changed my heart. I can’t continue to coast, I cannot continue to turn my head, and I refuse to lock Poverty in the darkness. It must be brought into the light. Poverty needs me. It needs you.
