“Can I have a dollar?”

He asks this so politely. His eyes pleading.
The man standing before has been making rounds among the tables, getting shot down time and time again.

I feel for him, to have to beg to live. Dealing with hate and stigma from everyone around you. Like the man on the way over, sitting in the subway wishing everyone a good morning and asking them to help get him food.

Now though, looking into this man’s eyes, I shake my head. Quietly I say “I don’t have”, my coffee sitting next to me bought just a couple minutes ago from one of the many shops in the grand central station dining area.

The man leaves, off to the next person who will shake their heads before he even has a chance to ask. I watch him leave and think of the money I don’t have.

My outfit alone, though a nice outfit, is made up of charity. A shirt and pants from a friend, bracelets from a parade, and a choker from a sibling. The shoes though, are mine, worn out from a long year of use. And the bag, the one I’ve had since the start of high school.

I am not ashamed of my poorness, and at times I wish people could smell it on me. I wish they would know that when I say I don’t have money, I mean it. I don’t have extra, I don’t have for them. I wish they could see the strain on my dad’s face when money is brought up and how hard he has to work to try and provide the best life he can as a single father of four.

I never complain about being poor either. We have a nice house and all my needs are met. Even more I have access to things like camp and getting out to the city. There have been times where I couldn’t say these things. Once, living in a basement of a family friend. Worse even was living in a borrowed trailer, the floor caving in. I know what it means to say I’m poor and now every move is a move up.

I hope that soon there’ll be a time when the money I can’t give turns to excess. A time when instead of shaking my head I can finally say, “Let me help”.

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