Journey into the Mind, Part 8

I’m poor and I’ve always been poor. Growing up in absolute filth and poverty is not easy for even the most disingenuous, though I suppose that I have become accustomed to a certain level of disgust. It seems as though my family has never attempted to move out of the slums, most likely because of the bizarre job security of my father or of the fear from my mother of not being accepted in a higher class of society. That’s all fair and good, I suppose, though I’d prefer to not have to steal in order to afford my school supplies. I’d also prefer that the streets and sidewalks not be flooded with garbage, and I’d also prefer to not have to carry my stolen butterfly knife with me everywhere I go. I’d like to be able to afford to see a moving picture; I’ve heard good things about Casablanca. I’d like to be able to impress a girl if I were ever to bring one back to my home, not that I ever would since my 2 brothers would tease me and constantly berate me. I suppose that it’s on me to improve my life, but how can I do that when colored people still have no rights?