You may think you know who I am.
I know you talk about me behind my back, making snide comments about my clothes, my shoes, whatever. I ride the same bus as you. You see where I get on and I hear you snicker as I get on the bus & then stop suddenly when I make eye contact.
It’s no real news to me that I am poor. I know that I don’t have a lot of nice things. My parents can’t afford to buy me everything I want. There are times when we can barely afford what we need.
And as if that’s not bad enough, I have to live with knowing that as soon as I’m out of earshot, you and your friends take turns making cracks about me and my family’s financial status.
You think because I’m poor, I’m less; that less money means less of a person. For once it would be nice to know that the amount of money my parents have or the brand of clothing I wear didn’t determine whether you thought I was worthy of your friendship. Why does it matter to you if I live in a trailer park? Is it really that important that I wore the same pair of pants twice in one week? Do you base your friend criteria on how much money my parents have?
Does it mean anything to you that I’m nice? I would be a very good friend to you if you’d just give me a chance.
You only know me as the poor kid. But that doesn’t mean I am less. Only that I have less!
You may think you know who I am, but you don’t even know my name.