If my socioeconomic status was vibrating along the frequencies of a rainbow, it’d be red.

So, when my adviser told the staff about an $800-1000 trip to D.C I blanked out. I didn’t want to hear about the mind-altering museums and inspiring monuments. I didn’t want to know about Bob Woodward, who took down President Richard Nixon. I didn’t want to know about airplane flights and subway rides. I knew I couldn’t go. Mom’s already strapped for cash. Dad doesn’t send checks. And I don’t have a job.

Another person on staff made an announcement. She said she couldn’t afford the trip. That anyone else in a similar position could wash cars to make money that weekend.

I meet Becca and Jazzmyn at some therapist’s office off to the side of Sutherland’s. It’s just us three. The three that can’t afford the trip. Each for various reasons. We make signs. And we walked to Military in Benton, going past Hastings. My sign read “Car WASHington”. I thought it was clever. A couple people stop just to donate. Some did stop and drove down to the station.

After a few cars go by, Jazzmyn and I walk alone towards AutoZone. We found a dude sitting at a bench outside the door. He’s wearing a shirt that says “Effort. 100% Loaded” and Scooby Doo pajama bottoms. Before I ask him if he’d like a car wash, he said “Y’all know y’all bout to save a brother”. He smiles. We smile. We explained the process and how he could pay as much or as little as he liked. He looked through his pockets and then searched the car. He found some change and handed it to me. He drove down to the car wash.

As Jazzmyn and I walked towards them, I counted the money. 13 cents. I laughed. Once we were done washing his car, he looked under the passenger seat. It was low to the floor. His small body trembled as he tried to find more change. He produced a little over 50 cents.

There were others. One paid $12. Another paid $20. But the guy in Scooby Doo pajamas paid around 75 cents. And that was really all he had. All he had at that moment satisfied me more than any smug person trying to help our  cause. That guy, whose name I never knew, just wanted to help people.

That day I made $61.

That is nowhere near $800-1000. I was heartbroken. I was mad. My mom and I fought over it. I told Becca. She apologized for it not being as successful as hoped. I told her it’s okay. We stopped texting. Once again I cut myself off of hope. She texts again. “WE GOT THE REST OF OUR DEPOSITS. YOUR MOM DOESN’T HAVE TO PAY IT.”

I call asking her to elucidate on what she said. My hope was supposed to be gone. She explains someone saw an ad in the Benton newspaper or on Twitter or on Facebook about our fundraiser. They donated enough money for all of us to go. I ask her if she’s joking multiple times. All while keeping my voice level. My hope low. She confirms it just as many times. I ask her who donated it. She doesn’t know.

One stranger, with no connection to any one of us, had the mind and heart to do this for Jazzmyn, Becca and I. A total stranger, no materialistic gain, and only for morality’s sake, gave us the opportunity to fly so many miles away to do what we love, to write. Now my frequency’s green.