When I was four, we were homeless. We lived in the Bronx at the time, and it was winter. My mother didn't have the money to buy heavy-duty winter jackets, so we settled for thin layers of clothes. We were immigrants fresh off the plane from Jamaica, and our English was heavily accented. Still, even with the fear that we might not be understood, we begged. For money. For compassion. We were homeless and cold, pleading in the middle of...