I thought of today's symbol of resistance: fists raised in the air. I felt poor and powerless in the face of his accusation. So, I lifted my voice and defensively told him that I participate in Blue Ocean (my LGBTQ inclusive, social justice driven, interdenominational church). I read. I write. I give money. I talk to people. I assert radical insights to people willing to listen. He said something about how I need to write articles, call senators, and join protests. I have called senators and joined protests...I’m working on it.
I said quietly, “I need you to join with me, so we can encourage each other.”
He, exhausted from the long hours in his residency program, replied quietly, “I do want to be more politically active.”
But, when I said "give money" in my list of action steps, I noticed that he cringed. It was the cringe of the Money Clench, of a scarcity mindset. Money is power. I see that we may “join” the revolution only until it hurts. I feel ready to give more. The more I feel the Money Clench, the more I want to give. It’s almost only a rebellion against the Money Clench itself, and less about tithing, generosity or justice. SCREW the Money Clench, that evil feeling that we get when we feel afraid of losing our privilege. Screw that. I’ll give more. I’ll give until I have nothing left.
Sometimes, I give out of a place of gratitude. I can’t believe we have so much, when for so long (most of my childhood), we struggled to stay financially afloat. I feel joy and freedom when I can buy a bike or a pair of shoes or a flight to San Francisco without suffering for it later. And I see people around me struggling. Acquaintances from my church stare in awe at the freedom of the rich to spend (as I once stared). There is a freedom among the rich to satisfy every whim and need, coupled with a stern and careful frugality when it comes to certain things. Certain things like giving money to the poor. When you are struggling for food, clothes, transportation and healthcare, you gape at the way the rich can so freely spend. You also know that most keep a closed fist when it comes to your needs.
In these moments, I am at risk of becoming a profligate. A spendthrift. I am at risk of spending my limited prosperity in an extravagant or recklessly wasteful way – on the Ground Cover homeless salesperson, on tips at coffee shops, on GoFundMe sites for strangers’ funerals and healthcare deductibles, on organizations like the ACLU, Muslim Advocates, or Jewish Family Services. I will become money-less (again) trying to slip money to my friends in need.
But, to be honest, I'm not generous, I'm careless. My partner, who works hard and earns most our money, is concerned about my obsession with tithing 10% (which, despite my great sin in boasting of profligate giving, we're not there, not close). He gets a firm and stern look about him. “We are in debt!!!” he proclaims. “Let’s get out of the hole first. Plus, we must save for our kids to go to college!!! And we have a mortgage!” When I hear these words, I become like a large beast shifting my feet, a mammal snorting nervously, hyper-alert to fear. I pull my ears back and growl a warning sound deep in my chest. I say, “Fine!” And I charge ahead. I go and give $50 away, just to spite the Money Clench, the fear of losing our (hard-earned) privilege.
But, to be honest, I'm not generous, I'm careless. My partner, who works hard and earns most our money, is concerned about my obsession with tithing 10% (which, despite my great sin in boasting of profligate giving, we're not there, not close). He gets a firm and stern look about him. “We are in debt!!!” he proclaims. “Let’s get out of the hole first. Plus, we must save for our kids to go to college!!! And we have a mortgage!” When I hear these words, I become like a large beast shifting my feet, a mammal snorting nervously, hyper-alert to fear. I pull my ears back and growl a warning sound deep in my chest. I say, “Fine!” And I charge ahead. I go and give $50 away, just to spite the Money Clench, the fear of losing our (hard-earned) privilege.
Scarcity mindset afflicts us – even those of us who have our every need met. There was a joke on a comedy show written by Tina Fey. A rich, arrogant woman talks to a naïve, young woman and says, “God forbid you marry a family medicine doctor!” Matt told me about this joke and I thought it was so funny. It's funny because I thought we were doing well, but rich people think we are mediocre. We have student debts. We have, as my 8-year-old nephew told me, a “small house.” We are poor among the rich.
This past weekend, our neighbors had a block party. The host? A heavyset man who recently retired from a lawn mowing business. He has the nicest house on our block. Our other neighbors? A young couple, one a research manager in the School of Natural Resources at the University and the other involved in lobbying for juvenile justice legislation. They are vegetarian and vegan respectively. They have a 6-month old daughter. There is also the young man who trims trees for a living. “Yes, tree trimming is a trade,” he told my mother-in-law when she asked. And our beloved witty next door neighbor, who at over 70 years old is working at a bank and volunteers by tutoring with incarcerated juvenile delinquents. She knits us scarves and blankets for birthday gifts. She lives on a strict budget. There is also a young Episcopal Priest in the yellow house near the end. And in the other direction, the mother of the keyboardist for the band, Blues Traveler. I float through this gathering of neighbors.
“Yes!” I say to our tree-trimming neighbor, “I live in the dark blue house with white trim and a wisteria tree in the front.”
“Oh, the one with the wooden arbor?”
“Yes,” I smile, delightfully. I feel comfortable, if a little abundant, knowing that I would never marry a tree trimmer or a lawn mowing business owner (even for the nicest house on the block, even when I find out that they have a college degree in computer programming, but that they, like me, wanted to reject the superficial climb.) My husband is a family medicine physician.
My life has brought me to know the wealthy surgeons, lawyers, and business people who belong--who might say to their children, "Heaven forbid you marry a family medicine physician." We belong to country clubs, the anxieties of a shifting stock market, and the dilemma of Dine-in or Carry-out. I wonder if my neighbors attend to the carefully manicured lawns of surgeons, lawyers and successful business people. Many of the (white) people on our middle-class block grew up here, and inherited this property, just as President Trump inherited his wealth and property. I wonder about what I will inherit, and about what I have inherited already.
My life has brought me to know the wealthy surgeons, lawyers, and business people who belong--who might say to their children, "Heaven forbid you marry a family medicine physician." We belong to country clubs, the anxieties of a shifting stock market, and the dilemma of Dine-in or Carry-out. I wonder if my neighbors attend to the carefully manicured lawns of surgeons, lawyers and successful business people. Many of the (white) people on our middle-class block grew up here, and inherited this property, just as President Trump inherited his wealth and property. I wonder about what I will inherit, and about what I have inherited already.
There's no time to waste, we must join the revolution. This ladder extends below me from the darkness of the poverty of incarcerated juvenile delinquents all the way up far beyond my view, all the way up to the corrupt Trump high rise towers around the world, and the rolling estates that wealthy people escape to on the weekends. Next to Trump, I see in the White House pictures of his heir, a younger Trump, with her dyed blonde hair, a baby worn in a carrier-wrap, and many published books (ah, yes: Women Who Work).
I can't take it anymore. We must find the revolutionaries. Join the abolition. Give our prosperity to anyone who has been victimized in this corrupt capitalist system, if only to screw the system. Resist. With my body, I say, "No." No, I will not dye my hair blonder or fry it straighter any more. No, I will not starve myself to be beautifully thin. No, I will not follow Ivanka’s lead as a woman who works and hires nannies, housekeepers, tree-trimmers and lawn mowers at cheap wages so that we can earn more, and climb farther up that ladder. Oh, wait, I am already there. Shall I climb? Shall I take my left hand over my right and climb away from my small blue house with the wisteria, away from the men I would never marry, and farther and farther away from the middle-class neighborhood where I was born?
I'm climbing in spite of myself. I'm (somewhat) pretty. I have (dirty) blonde hair, a (fairly) thin body, and I wear my babies in a baby carrier. I'm married to a doctor. I want to publish a book. I'm the sister of a surgeon, a lawyer, an anesthesiologist, step-sister to 3rd generation doctors. Capitalism takes care of children like me, like us. My left hand, raised up as if to say “No!” keeps getting stuffed with money, so much money, I can't make a fist anymore: $50...no $100 dollar bills. So, I take the money out of my left hand and with my right hand I give it away. I give it to anyone who needs money more than me. With my right hand, I throw the meager money I have down the ladder into the dark and shadowy depths of poverty. I can’t see the faces of all the people there and I don’t know what they will do with this money. I only hope my $50 and $100 dollar bills can help. I am rich among the poor.
Yet, I thought money was nothing. Money means nothing. Money has no voice, no power, and no place in the revolution. We each have but one voice to add to the movement and it is happening now, as we speak. There is no hierarchy, no ladder. Here, we can see each other's faces. Here, we can hear each other's voice. We join with the power of people, marching against a corrupt system, with our fists alone raised in the air.
Yet, I thought money was nothing. Money means nothing. Money has no voice, no power, and no place in the revolution. We each have but one voice to add to the movement and it is happening now, as we speak. There is no hierarchy, no ladder. Here, we can see each other's faces. Here, we can hear each other's voice. We join with the power of people, marching against a corrupt system, with our fists alone raised in the air.
