Following the flood of people, I pushed my way out of the dark subway. Skyscrapers towered over the crowded sidewalk. The city was full of energy: cars, buildings, and crowds of people filled the streets. Yellow dots emerged in the horizon. Dozens of taxis honked impatiently at other cars. Iconic images of Broadway shows lit up Times Square. My dream was becoming a reality.

 “Wow, New York City is amazing.” I whispered to myself.
             

The energy of the city was surreal. The joyous feeling was more than I anticipated. I opened my eyes wide, so I could remember this memory forever.
             

My family was headed to the famous American Girl Doll Store in the bright morning sunshine. My sister Holly and I clutched our American Girl Dolls under our arms as we proudly made our journey to the store. We strolled down the streets of New York, like models walking down a runway. Wide grins were plastered to our faces. As we arrived at the store, we pushed open the doors and began browsing through the aisles.
            

The store was massive. From floor to ceiling, shelves were packed with merchandise; hundreds of little girls swarmed around the store, hoping to find the perfect wardrobe for their doll.  I ended up buying a pair of ballerina flats.  These miniature doll shoes cost ten dollars. My sister left the store having spent at least thirty dollars on an outfit for her doll. Without hesitation,  my parents opened their wallets at the register and paid for our items. I never thought to let out a simple “thank you”.
           

I expected to receive everything I wanted. When asking for toys I never thought about the money; my parents always covered the expenses. My sheltered life had not exposed me to less fortunate lifestyles. I was a privileged child living the so-called “American Dream.”
           

Thrilled with our purchases, we left the store content; eager to experience the rest of New York. Around noon, my family and I became hungry and tired. We decided to stop at a restaurant for lunch. Roaming down the business streets in search of a suitable place to eat, we felt rejuvenated by the energy of the glamorous city. During our walk, we passed men and women dressed in designer suits and dresses, walking down the sidewalk. It was apparent the city was full of wealth. 
           

As I was admiring the Michael Kors handbag of a young woman strolling down the sidewalk, I spotted a hunched figure in the distance. When I approached the figure I realized it was an elderly woman. The wrinkles in her face were caked with dirt and her coarse hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed in months. Her clothes were dirty and torn: a stained blue t-shirt and tattered jeans. In her left hand, the woman was holding a plastic bag full of her few belongings.  In the other hand a plastic cup trembled as she pleaded for any extra change strangers could scrounge from their pockets. Wealthy citizens quickly walked past without acknowledging her presence. I did the same. Nervous and afraid, my clammy hands frantically grabbed my parents as I looked at the ground when we were passing by. After I had safely passed the mysterious woman I looked back and glanced into her eyes.     
           

As an ignorant eight year old, I expected all parts of the world to be glamourous. Igrew up in a small, non-diverse suburban community. I was not exposed to people of different lifestyles than the one I had been peacefully living. Every child attended school, made friends, celebrated with family, and lived what I considered a normal life. I had never seen a less fortunate person, struggling to survive day by day. However, New York changed my perspective on life, stripping me of my innocence.
         

 Suddenly a huge wave of guilt hit me. I wanted to help the pleading lady. As I looked up I saw the woman standing among the litter covered sidewalk. I glanced at the ballerina shoes I had just bought. The image of the ten dollar bill flashed in my head. I realized I spent ten dollars on a fake pair of shoes for a doll, while this woman is standing on the sidewalk begging for ten cents. The ten dollars could provide this woman with a healthy meal. That one meal could improve her health and overall chance of survival  living on the streets of New York.
             

I came to an abrupt stop and blurted out to my parents “Can we help this lady? I feel bad for her.”
           

My parents stood shocked: “That woman may have done something to deserve this fate. She most likely became involved with the wrong people and made poor choices in life.” 
          

“You can’t be sure she did something wrong. Nobody deserves to be homeless,” I replied. 
           

My dad responded, “Fine, run back there and give her the money.” As soon as those crisp dollar bills reached my hand I ran back and dropped the bills in her plastic cup.
          

I joined my family and continued down the street with satisfaction. I knew that small act of kindness revived the women’s faith in humanity; the faith she had lost long ago.