Poverty Matters

I think of growing up as a series of awakenings. I remember the day when I realized my dad, a physician, wasn’t tall. A visitor I didn’t know filled the doorway of our small Richmond Hill bungalow, and all of a sudden, my strong, big father looked like a boy beside a giant. I remember the day when I realized I had to keep my desk neat, or I would have trouble with Miss Davidson, my grade 1 teacher. And I remember the day when I consciously realized that I was a child of privilege, and by that I mean that my family had all we needed materially.

Any conversation about money that I can remember from my childhood was about whether we could afford something extra. There was never a doubt in my mind that there would be presents under the Christmas tree or roast beef on Sunday or skating lessons or a new winter coat. And then one day I realized we were able to help people who were poor.

I was six, and Mom piled us all (three girls, about a year apart) into...