Barely a month into a Finance course, I started dreaming about conquering Wall Street.

For some reason, Finance and I seemed to be a match made in heaven. It started with taking some basic financial management subjects where I performed much better than expected. Then I found myself buying and reading books (even risking my credit card over a dubious bookseller on eBay) about portfolio management, stock trading and all those stuff you get to hear on the Bloomberg channel. I even managed to employ myself in an investment bank where I am still amazed about how people can talk about millions of pesos as if it were loose change.

Today, I am proud to say that I am well on my way toward my dream, having passed very recently an examination for financial analysts.

Recently, talk about a possible stock market crash led me to an unexpected trip down memory lane. In late November last year, I was studying for a finance exam when I was disturbed by a persistent knocking on our gate. When I opened the gate, I saw a young beggar, probably one of those shrewd little kids from the slums who keep coming back to ask for alms.

Well, the boy just wanted to collect old newspapers. I thought we did have a stack of newspapers upstairs just waiting to be thrown away. I got a bundle and gave it to him. I managed also to give him leftover food, just as I usually do with beggars. I was surprised to see he was with a bunch of kids.

The boy smiled and said, “Salamat, Kuya. Next time uli.” [Thanks, Elder Brother. Let’s do it again next time.]

I didn’t think he would come back. But two days later, a familiar knocking caught my attention. True enough, it was the same boy, but now with a larger group. I noticed that all of them were actually doing the same gimmick in other houses in the neighborhood. Fortunately for me, there were lots of leftovers at home, so I was able to give a bigger share.

Again, before leaving, the boy said, “Thank you, Kuya. Next time uli.”

When for the third time in less than week we had the same encounter, I became more curious. I couldn’t help but notice the kids’ bare feet and so I asked where they came from. Tondo, they said. Meaning they had walked all the way from there to Makati City.

That was the last time I saw the boy and his friends, though I heard they came back a few more times looking for “Kuya,” for their newspapers, and, tacitly, for something to eat.

I figure these boys are making a living out of the newspapers. They stack ’em up and sell them by the kilo.

I think these kids are living in a parallel world to mine. While investment bankers trade all sorts of financial instruments, these boys trade old and useless pieces of scrap. But there is one crucial difference: In their own “stack market,” profits and losses spell survival or death.

The stock market slide that has caused great panic all over the world somehow no longer hits me as hard as they do other financial analysts. I don’t think it’s all that bad. The big-shot investors who have taken the biggest hit will surely have enough left to at least put food on their table. There are also other issues to talk about like the trading frauds that caused write-offs in billions of dollars. The bigger reality is that very little of the billions and billions of cash exchanged in the stock markets trickle down to the many communities living below the poverty line. And certainly not to the boys from Tondo.

Luis R. Buenaventura III, 27, is a second-year MBA student at the Asian Institute of Management.