Going to New York City was never a hassle; the car ride was a mere hour away. Little would I know that it would shape my world. I had always lived in a prosperous town, one with lavish houses and surpluses of money. When I was seven, I thought that everybody lived perfect lifestyles. When I went to New York that day, I realized the truth.


It was a beautiful Sunday morning: perfect for a walk in Central Park. It was not my first visit in New York, so I knew what to expect. A dirty city, full of a variety of stores, and bathrooms everywhere was all I knew about New York City. Little did I know that the biggest surprise would lie on the streets. My parents had never explained the whole concept of homeless people.


I strolled into Central Park with my family, eager to climb the large rocks. To my surprise, I saw people sleeping on public benches. They were in ragtag clothes and carried a large bag of their personal belongings. At first, I thought that all of them were taking a nap. However, many of them also had a cup in front of them, and in it were coins. Even I, as a seven-year-old, was smart enough to recognize that this wasn’t any ordinary citizen.


Horrified, I stopped right next to one guy, inches away from his face. To this day, I can still describe what he was like. His breath reeked of alcohol, which was probably from the beer can sitting next to him. The man’s hair was shaggy, braided into 10 braids. All of them were tied with a rubber band and contained some mysterious elements. He wore a wrinkled black t-shirt, with a garbage bag folded over him. Dark blue pants, five times too big, wrapped around his skinny legs. For shoes, this man bore two pieces of cardboard on each foot. His arms were skinny, with all bones showing. In front of this man was a cup with a few coins. The cup itself was a Starbucks one, with no lid. A sign in front of him, in sprawling, improper English, read, “I am verry hungery. I ned a beer.”


In our district, we have always learned that alcohol was horrible. So, why would somebody want to drink something horrible? My mother occasionally downed a glass of wine, and my father drank beer once a month. They didn’t beg for it on the streets, though. My parents, who are civilized people, go out to stores to buy food. Why couldn’t he do the same?


When my mom saw me curiously inspecting the man, she tried to distract me by singing songs and showing me other wildlife creatures. Seeing that I could not peel my eyes off the creature, she spoke a few phrases of Taiwanese to my father before hustling me along. She whispered, ever so quietly, that I would not be like that when I grew up. Seeing my sigh of relief, she continued to explain that those people were homeless.


It was that day that I truly realized how privileged my life was. Before, I had thought that everyone had a sprawling home with new books and toys. I always had a misconception that I lived the quintessential life, with the quintessential parents and the quintessential lifestyle (thanks, mom and dad). Although my life has some flaws, it is still better than most.

P.S.
Whenever I see the homeless in cities, or even in my neighborhood, I try not to look away, or stare at them. By either looking away or staring at them, I believe that I am making them feel worse. They had the chance to improve upon their condition, but were unable to accomplish it. I shy away from them, not because I don’t care about them, but because it will make them feel worse. I help in other ways, like donating to food shelters in my community.