On blaming misfortune on the unfortunate

I WAS 17 YEARS OLD when my dad flew into a rage and gave me 18 hours to move out. I cannot for the life of me remember what triggered it. Suffice it to say that I was a clean–living, law–abiding honor student. Yet it came as no surprise. For well over a year, he had been grousing that he was “sick of being a parent.”

I scraped by. I worked in a department store for $1.80 an hour. Back then, a gallon of milk went for about 90 cents. I roomed with three friends, bought a beat–up car for $200, obtained a scholarship, enrolled in college.

When Christmas rolled around, I stammered an apology about not being able to afford gifts. “Just plan better in the future,” a would–be helpful soul said, dripping affected warmth.

This is a post about how easy it is to blame the less fortunate for being less fortunate.

“But look at you now,” some might add, missing the point. There is no getting through to such.