Image by Patrick Tomasso.

I grew up poor, that is, American poor. I fantasized about food at night–mashed potatoes, buttery dinner rolls, raspberry cheesecake. I would wake up and imagine a breakfast–strawberry waffles with whipped cream, cold orange juice–then, talk myself toward accepting what I knew was there–toast with peanut butter and usually, milk. My dad did not tolerate ungratefulness.

I couldn’t pay school fees like the dreaded $10 workbook fee and was harangued by the dogged collectors as I repeated that I forgot it. I couldn’t rent an instrument, so I didn’t play one, but singing lit my heart on fire. I couldn’t join sports, couldn’t buy uniforms or pay for trips. My gym teacher in seventh grade said I was great at running and hurdles, and she encouraged me to join the track team. I joined, but immediately sprained my big toe and quit. I think my teacher, the coach, knew I could have overcome this minor injury, but couldn’t overcome going without the right shoes, walking two miles home from practices, having no money or rides or, in fact, confidence to run.

I got the free lunch at school. We had to walk up to the stage in the cafeteria to find our ticket–a white card with our name on it–before getting in line. Not only were we conspicuous, frantically........

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