Officially, entire chunks of my childhood don’t exist.

It takes 21,000 aluminum cans to pay for a calculus textbook. I know that from firsthand experience. And it takes a hell of a lot of time — and work — to gather up 21,000 aluminum cans.

My stepfather passed away a few years ago. His death came suddenly and without warning—he went into the bathroom one morning, and my mother discovered him unresponsive on the floor a short time later.

At an annual dental fair in Philadelphia, Americans wait in line and hope to get through the door.

What a dental x-ray reveals about poverty.

Disabled people already had to cut through a lot of red tape to get benefits. Coronavirus made it even harder.

I am far too familiar with the seemingly endless array of indignities and flavors of shame that come with living in poverty.

Government cheese shows up in the punch lines of jokes and song lyrics, but to those who have actually lived on it, it’s both a cornerstone of survival and an object that inspires complicated tinges of nostalgia.