few weeks ago, I was involved in a discussion with someone in the family. His thesis was that there are people in this country who are "disadvantaged" because of race, gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity, poverty, whatever.

Well, I don't have to tell you that arguing with a member of the family is a delicate thing. You don't want to blow a relationship over a disagreement having nothing to do directly with family affairs. So in a sense, you walk on eggshells. Especially if you're a grandparent.

Anyway, after a short while, because we were both uncomfortable, the discussion ended without further verbal blood-letting.

But I found myself musing about the debate a few days later while out for a walk.

As I thought about what had happened, I asked myself: What advantages did I have as a boy?

I was raised in a lower-class Jewish ghetto in the midst of the Great Depression. Meals were scanty. I wore hand-me-down clothes. Jobs were nonexistent. Anti-semitism appeared to be prevalent, widespread. There were no networks to which we could turn for help. College was totally out of the question.

And to top it all off, there were no government programs at the time to alleviate the situation in any way. It seemed to me that my future was hopeless.

But my mother — who had come here at age 10 from a small Jewish town in Poland, very much like Anatevka in the musical Fiddler on the Roof — had lit a fire in my belly. And she continually stoked it, exhorting me to make something of myself. And so with the G.I. Bill of Rights and with my wife's help and many sacrifices, I did.

Is my story unique? I don't think so. I suspect that there are millions of stories like it. And they involve people of all races, ethnicity, sexual orientation, religion, and gender who were born to poverty.

So tell me, what do people mean when they talk about "the disadvantaged"?

Think about it.