Even at the end of high school, when I moved out of my parents' home, I moved into another quiet town. I knew nothing else. I hadn't ever known a city life, but I'd always been somewhat intrigued by it.

Another move came. For the first time, I moved into a city. I moved smack in the middle of the worst section in the area. The 'tree' streets, and the roads that cross through them, are known to be full of all the city's worst.

I live between the welfare building, the soup kitchen, and the district court. I figured I'd enstate a new personal policy. If they don't bother me, I won't bother them . I suppose I figured it was the only way I could cope with this huge change.

Everyday I see dirty, barefoot children, running down the roads completely unattended. I see homeless people toting bags, and wearing layers of clothing (that isn't in season) and hanging out in vacant doorways. There were so many nameless people I found myself feeling sorry for. To anyone who's been raised in the city this is no cause for concern, but to me, it was unbelievable.

I ended up volunteering for a project hosted by the college I attend and the Soup Kitchen. Before I knew it, I was greeting these 'nameless' folk by name, and asking how their days were. I was beginning to really understand the meaning of All Men Are Created Equal . I could see the whole picture.

Even since my project was finished, I am constantly in contact with the many people I met during that time. I've made friends with many wonderful people that I never would have known had I not moved into 'the worst part of town'.

Central Street, the main road that runs through the tree streets, is where many of the fights break out. I find myself walking it with extreme caution. It is also where some of the poorest people in the area live.

One day last winter as I was walking home, I hurried across the road before oncoming traffic got any closer, and misjudged how far the ice strected out before the curb.

I fell right over the edge of the curb, bumping and scraping my hands and knees, and spilling the contents of my schoolbag. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes as I looked at my belongings scattered across the snowy sidewalk. That familiar sting of scrapes on my palms became reminiscant of my childhood. I could feel the hot trickle of blood from my knee against the cold whipping wind.

A man,also in his young twenties, quickly approached me as I struggled to stand. Before he even asked if I was okay, he was offering his hand to help me up. I was shocked. I thanked him as he asked if I needed help. I shook my head no, but without prompting he began to picking up my scattered items and returning them to the backpack.

When I got home and carefully cleaned my wounds I realized that I recognized that boy from somewhere. It didn't dawn on me until much later that evening. The boy who had so willingly helped me after my fall was the very same boy I'd seen pushing the wheelchair of an older woman down Central Street everyday. I wondered if maybe it was his mother. I could tell they didn't have much. I thought that maybe I could somehow repay him for helping me.

When I did see him again, he was walking alone. I carefully approached him, thanked him, and asked if there was anything I could do to help him.

He said there was no need for me to do anything. It was good manners to help someone in need he said. I'd have done it for him wouldn't I? I thought about my old personal policy from when I first moved here.

I asked about the woman in the wheelchair and if it was his mother. He told me it wasn't his mother, and in fact, he didn't even know her name. The woman was quite mentally disturbed and often called herself by many different names. He explained that her illness, and her non-compliance with medications had taken it's toll.

He said that he and some other people who lived in the same building, took turns taking her out for years. They thought it was important that she was treated as a they were treated. Ahhh, the old golden rule .

She passed away only a week after my incident.

I was in tears at the end of his story. I was so moved to think that these people I truly thought were bad, were willing to help someone they couldn't even get to know. They were willing to help a stranger who couldn't help them back.

The final tear was shed when he pulled a brown tattered vinyl wallet from his back pocket. He pulled out a small picture and before showing it to me explained that he had never seen her like this, but the picture was from years ago. My jaw dropped upon viewing. That woman had lived only houses away from me my entire childhood. That woman spent every single day alone.

The little town, and it's citizens I'd thought so highly of, was not the place I thought it was. I was much too young to have done anything about it then, but now that I'm old enough, I know that I must practice and preach these Central Street Manners!