I observe social injustice in my neighborhood every day. I see that there are no ramps up and down the subway station for people in wheelchairs. I hear people calling things “gay” interchangeably with “bad, lesser, or stupid.” There are people who say “I’m special” and make funny faces to make fun of the mentally disabled. All of these things are examples of my observations.
But there was one that I found particularly noteworthy.
There was a homeless person sitting underneath a tunnel of scaffolding next to a car wash when I saw him. I was on my way home from school, heading to my Dad’s house. He was an older man sitting on a grimy green crate, his hands shivering under worn mittens. The man was wrapped in an old jacket and his torn winter boots had duct tape on the front where the sole had come off. He was dirty and cold and his beard was yellowing. He had bags under his eyes and yellow, rotting teeth, and he looked hungry, like he had given up long ago. When he saw me, he asked me for any spare change for something to eat. I wish I hadn’t only given it to him because I felt pity for him. The fact that middle-class people in suits and ties and makeup and dresses walk by knowing he is sitting there, but act like he doesn’t exist, is really unfair, because poverty has reduced grown men to begging a thirteen-year-old girl for money. Social class is completely off whack in this situation. There should be no reason for me to feel pity towards a grown man, because he should have someone to get him to his feet rather than kicking him down. All the powerful rich people who could be out there supporting others are doing the opposite because they want to keep getting richer, no matter what effects this may have on much poorer poverty-stricken families with possibly hungry children who are ashamed of who they are are. All they want is to stay on top of everyone else so that they can continue to be the elite.
This made me think about how much I take for granted, knowing only subconsciously how lucky I am. I have a steady home, two loving parents, the prospect of college, I always have something in the refrigerator, and I have many, many possibilities. I had something to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. I feel really guilty about living in a world where I have everything I want or need, knowing this man is suffering and in the cold. He looked like he might freeze to death. I wanted to change that, but how is a thirteen-year-old going to change big things like that? How would I be able to make this man’s life better? I still have no idea. All I know is that the least I can do is give him the coins I had left over at the bottom of my purse and hope he used it for something good.
There was a homeless person sitting underneath a tunnel of scaffolding next to a car wash when I saw him. I was on my way home from school, heading to my Dad’s house. He was an older man sitting on a grimy green crate, his hands shivering under worn mittens. The man was wrapped in an old jacket and his torn winter boots had duct tape on the front where the sole had come off. He was dirty and cold and his beard was yellowing. He had bags under his eyes and yellow, rotting teeth, and he looked hungry, like he had given up long ago. When he saw me, he asked me for any spare change for something to eat. I wish I hadn’t only given it to him because I felt pity for him. The fact that middle-class people in suits and ties and makeup and dresses walk by knowing he is sitting there, but act like he doesn’t exist, is really unfair, because poverty has reduced grown men to begging a thirteen-year-old girl for money. Social class is completely off whack in this situation. There should be no reason for me to feel pity towards a grown man, because he should have someone to get him to his feet rather than kicking him down. All the powerful rich people who could be out there supporting others are doing the opposite because they want to keep getting richer, no matter what effects this may have on much poorer poverty-stricken families with possibly hungry children who are ashamed of who they are are. All they want is to stay on top of everyone else so that they can continue to be the elite.
This made me think about how much I take for granted, knowing only subconsciously how lucky I am. I have a steady home, two loving parents, the prospect of college, I always have something in the refrigerator, and I have many, many possibilities. I had something to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. I feel really guilty about living in a world where I have everything I want or need, knowing this man is suffering and in the cold. He looked like he might freeze to death. I wanted to change that, but how is a thirteen-year-old going to change big things like that? How would I be able to make this man’s life better? I still have no idea. All I know is that the least I can do is give him the coins I had left over at the bottom of my purse and hope he used it for something good.
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