I’m poor. I belong to a caste. I’m poor. I belong to a class. I’m poor. I belong to racial stereotypes although I have yet to hand over my genetic information. I’m poor. Title 2 of the Genetic Nondiscrimination Act (GINA) supposedly protects individuals against discrimination on the basis of — what, no one knows, genetic testing, family medical histories, your driver’s license, your permanent school record, how you kinda look, does your vehicle have an air-freshener Christmas tree dangling from your rear view mirror. It’s easy to define because you can see it, right. Wrong. Grandfather played the Disappearing Quarter Trick for all the children. Genetically, he’s a magician. Do you live in Newark or Bismarck. The things we take for reality are rarely real when looked with a focus at the constituent parts. We think we know history. We are cognizant of what we see, what we smell, what we suspect, what we feel, what we taste. Public policy is a sloth that moves slowly. There are things that make no sense. Partical physics. How do electrons have exact duplicates. How does physics become politics. What is family medical history, and how is it sifted through the sand. I’m poor, and there is no food today. SNAP is hateful. So are Republicans. I’m still poor. Hunger is not a racial trademark. Public policy has no concept as to what race is. What poverty is. You do not know it when you see it. Homo sapiens are an extant species. Class has to do with cruelty and how many slaves you own.