When we were very little, I remember driving through the worst section of a big city with my family. We were lost, I believe, and my dad was gripping the steering wheel of our 1970s station wagon tightly as he navigated unfamiliar streets. Scroungy looking men were hanging out on the corners, and my mom locked our car doors and whispered a tense command to the back seat: "If I say the word, duck." Poverty was generally unfamliar to us. It is not that we were rich. I grew up in a middle class suburban neighborhood - extremely blue collar. My town's claim to fame was that we had the world's biggest limestone quarry. Every day, around 10 am, a dynamite blast would shake the walls of our ranch-style home. My parents were public school teachers, and, while money was tight, we always had clean clothes and new shoes when we needed them, and a hot-cooked meal on our table every night. My first real experience with poverty came during my time as a college student at Moody