ABSTRACT
“You’re poor, White trash,” Danny hissed as he sashayed by me on the dusty, pebble-filled playground at first recess. I started to cry, and I remember that Phillip laughed and said, “He’s crying like someone just threw dirt in his eyes.” And that’s exactly what it felt like being told you’re poor without being ready for it. I had no idea—absolutely no inkling whatsoever—that I’d spent the last eight years in poverty.
