Money.

I have never been so aware of it before.

Every other place that I've lived, the inhabitants are within a relatively narrow spectrum of wealth. Sure there are people living in trailers, sure there are doctors living in fancy new houses up on the hill, but the differences don't really stare you in the face.

Here, like the fast food restaurants required by law to post their egregious calorie counts, you can't help but see its ugliness. There is a man who lives in the subway station near my apartment, sleeping on cardboard with a blanket covering his head, next to two shopping carts full of empty beer boxes. Every day that I pass him, I feel fortunate to be able to have a bed to sleep in.

Yet when I go to Fifth Ave, the tables turn. I pass store after store selling handbags I could buy with a week's salary, or two, or twenty. I see cars parked out in front of apartments right by Grand Central Station, and I know those people only have cars because they needed a hole to pour their excess money into, because they sure aren't using them to get around. Around there, the tables have turned, and the Rich people are looking at me, feeling fortunate that they can afford to buy their sweaters from Saks.

I saw a woman today whose bare legs were so dry that it looked like she was wearing red snakeskin stockings. And yet, my dermatologist suggested $4000 scar treatment as if it were an ice cream cone.

I've never felt like I fit in with Wealthy people. Maybe it's because I don't have the grace, but really I just don't have the attitude. I don't see myself as one of Them. Once I let my Rich (or maybe just extraordinarily wasteful) friend dress me up in her clothes to go dancing. When I saw myself in a mirror, it felt like a joke. "Haha, Jana, small-town-girl-turned-wannabe-rockstar is pretending to be a Gossip Girl." I thought that there was something irrevocably broken inside me that made me permanently Unclassy.

And for a while, the Wealth in the city made me feel ashamed of being "poor." I would feel like a hick if I wasn't properly dressed or I wanted to eat at a chain restaurant I knew was cheap.

Applying for low-income housing has been quite a learning experience. If the friend I mentioned before knew that I was asking a non-profit for help so I could live in a 266 sq ft studio in a building populated by the former homeless living with HIV/AIDS and mental health issues, she'd look at me like a maniac and call me f***ing stupid. I was ashamed to tell anyone that I was applying or ask them to fill out the forms. I had our accountant fill out my employer forms so that my boss didn't have to know. When I had to miss work for my interview, I realized it was really silly to be afraid of telling everyone - they certainly know what I make.

Truth is, life in the city is tough. It eats you up and spits you back out feeling penniless. But in the process, it chews off all your idealism in prejudices until you are left with only your Ambition. The struggle reinforces your desire to stay and succeed.

That's what separates me from the Wealthy. I'm not so concerned with how I dress, or what car I drive, or where I got my purse from. I'm concerned with what I'm making of my life.

If the world falls at my feet, it won't be because I have money. It will be because I did something great.