"Are we po'?," I asked the old man.
"Naw," said the principal breadwinner of our household. "We're not po'. We're just broke." What was the difference?
"Po' folks don't know when they're gonna eat again," he said. "I have a job. When I get paid, I won't be broke no mo'."
For this we were so thankful that, when the Sunday School plate was passed for a "missionary offering," my parents always reminded me to drop in something "to help the po'."
I must have been in college before I discovered that, according to sociologists, our family was "the po'."