The poverty is seemingly unescapable. It feels like an iron hand gripped against my throat, forcing me into silence, destroying my will, and keeping me at its mercy. As soon as the drops of loose change begin to accumulate into a puddle of meager savings, another costly obstacle appears in front of me, forcing me to pour out what I've gathered up. My labor begets more labor, as the more I work — the more I need to work. The line of poverty is just above my reach, and my fingernails bleed as I claw in vain, trying to grasp a hold to pull myself up.
What then can I do? My work experience is limited to body-crushing manual labor, which will never pay me adequately to the level of harm I experience. The situation seems hopeless, and the only option seems to be to forfeit my dreams for a life of misery. Twelve hour days, dripping in sweat, cuts and bruises all over me; my only path forward. I don't want to accept this. I'm yearning for something more than wasting my short life in a hot warehouse or factory.
Do I not deserve a happy life like the suit-wearing executives? Do I not deserve to have the opportunities my grandparents had: a home, a family, and vacations? I am a human being, and I shoulder the weight of labor far more than those suit-wearers. I do the dirty work and come home battered and exhausted, and yet have no possessions to be proud of. I have dreams too, and by the merit of the sweat on my brow I deserve to experience the joys of life.