I always told my mom I’d just have to persevere. Don’t they say in America, “If you work hard, there’s hope?” But I worked 12 hours a day frying French fries, making barely enough to cover the rent. Even buying my sister a new pair of sneakers took me two months to save.
Last week, I was delivering food to a wealthy neighborhood and saw that their yards were bigger than my apartment. The drone their kids were playing with by the pool was enough to cover my utility bills for half a year. Their kids were taking golf lessons on weekends, leaving my sister to pick up leftover basketballs in the park.
I don’t blame anyone, but does hard work really matter? My boss says, “If you want a raise, work harder,” but I’m busy from morning till night, and my salary isn’t rising as fast as rent or baby formula prices. Those people living in skyscrapers can make more money from just one investment than I could in ten years.
I still love this country, the vibrant atmosphere of its streets. But the chasm between the rich and the poor is like a pot of oil and ice in a kitchen: one side is scalding hot, the other side is freezing cold. I try my best, but I can’t even reach the edge.
