(Original Text. Slightly different than the recitation)
Once you’re a parent, you can justify almost anything in capitalism. Well, not anything. Because depending on who you are, you still can’t look like a bad person. What’s a bad person? Oh, a person in America who isn’t constantly trying to undo their Americaness. Unlearn. Unknow what they know in exchange for what they don’t. Mostly in public. More in what you say than in what you do.
No one claims it, the identity of it, unless they’re trying to show off how aware of ALL of their privilege they are. But most of us want what we want when we want it. Whether or not we can afford it has nothing to do with it. We still want what we want. Enough of us do.
My capitalism is sold to me in an artsy way. I can buy anything that seems like a smart buy. A smart, conscious buy. I grew up in Alabama, where my classmates could still afford medium-sized and large houses. Now I live in Washington State. Western Washington. Olympia. Here, I live in a small house (tiny would seem more intentional, a different lifestyle than the one I’m struggling to fit…) that I can’t ACTUALLY afford. I’m not worth anything in our society. I don’t have a dollar on the positive side. I am in debt. That’s just the reality.
So I make decisions like someone who is in debt but still resourced in a variety of ways. My two jobs together provide a false cushion. I feel like I can save some money because of how much I make. But that’s not true. I don’t have any extra money. I’m in debt. I should never call myself doing my budget and ending up with $500 left over. How?
I should give more money to those debts I owe, so that I can stop dragging them around through my societal reality. I hate when my narrative for who I am has to exist within my American reality. It’s tough.
The truth is, the debt has gotten me into some fucked-up situations and some money has gotten me out of some fucked-up situations.
If someone challenges me about my spending—the excess of it—not for things of value, but for things of distraction, I get so defensive. When my wife asks me about the amount I spent on Imperfect last week for groceries, I feel my entire body go into fight or flight. I want what I want in that fucking box. I start saying to myself, “And you know what, I deserve it. Because…capitalism! Because to make it enough, I have to work these two jobs. And my wife has to worry about how many clients are coming back after she returns from parental leave. That’s why I fucking deserve it!”
And do I not deserve a fucking watermelon limeade when we have to get Chipotle, because the last OBGYN appointment ends late and we have to start our shifts of staying up with him since he can’t sleep without being held, so we should really just pick dinner up? And picking up dinner is expensive. And for what? I want to go to Chipotle where people like me, who are in debt or mildly broke and defensive about it because it’s less broke than their parents were but sometimes not if you consider the debt—so let’s not consider the debt. The student loans. The credit cards. Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, I want to eat on my level for once. I want to spend $32 with tax and know exactly what the fuck I’m getting. I have to pretend that Chipotle is actually a good company so that I can justify that I’ve gone repeatedly to save the money that I don’t actually have because I’m in debt.
I have a social media thing that “worked” in some very niche way (which is specific) and a book. I’ve done some speaking engagements that paid good money and some that paid very little money. The ones I got paid the most for asked me to do the least. The ones where I made $150 and a new friend asked me to stop and do a writing exercise with the students, speak to the interested faculty about what they can do to be more… inclusive, keynote for a room of 15 people who didn’t know what they were in a room for but stayed because it would be too awkward to leave. I get back to the hotel at 11:30 pm, exhausted. I wait for the check. I email about the check. I email again about the check. Two months later, I get the check. It’s been spent. 20% of it was spent on the fucking trip itself, to do the keynote for somebody’s cousin who’s going to be in debt trying to get a liberal arts degree just like me.
And somehow my friends from the internet and Oakland and Brooklyn and Atlanta are going on ALL THESE FUCKING trips. I don’t get it. I know that I quit 40 jobs in my twenties. I know that I’ve been underemployed and nonprofit-employed in my 30s, and I know I took too long to graduate from college. But there were those times when I didn’t have enough money to go to college, so I had to stop going to college.
I got it.
But like, how are y’all going on these trips? I’m serious. And I know y’all are going to tell me. I know. So, nevermind.
Yeah, I quit a lot of jobs that I thought were fucked up. I left a lot of nonprofits that I thought were bullshit. I tried not to work for companies with predatory practices. I tried not to sell Seattle Seahawks gear at the Team Shop in the mall too long when I needed a second job to go along with my nonprofit job. I tried because kids would come in with their parents and they would want the jersey that they couldn’t afford for a team that doesn’t care about them. Management wanted me to be mad when people stole from the store, and once I started actually being mad when people stole from the store, I would know it was time to leave because one thing I can never be is the person whose identity is wrapped up in the store she works at in the mall.
Anyway, the point is, I’m a mom now. I’ve never been a mom before. Everything I did, I had to say was for me. There were so many things I couldn’t justify. But now I get to say it’s for someone else. And I’ll do it my way. My lifestyle way. He’ll have two moms. Vegan. My brother is the donor. Film Forum Associate Director job. Book. Wife is a Brooklyn bartender turned psychotherapist. Both born in California. My extended family hates each other but we went to schools. We followed each generation with some return on the aspirational investment. I’m Black. That’s what I’m supposed to do. But I’m alternative (whatever that means), so I did it my way. I hid my desires in artistic pursuits. I strategized to work my way up at nonprofits. I’m always trying to figure out how to not feel the weight of capitalism on my back, while also not feeling like I’m someone I’m not.
But what am I not? Who am I not? I’m everything I critique, and I’ve always said that’s the point of my work as an artist. I can do it because I am of it. Close to it, sometimes in it, sometimes above it, always over it, but usually when I’m also under it. I don’t talk about what it’s like to be a rich white man because I don’t know any. I know the kind of white men who would call themselves “pretty well off,” so I know I don’t know any rich white men. I know white men with enough money to take a risk or start over halfway through life. That’s who I know. But we’re divided too much by class for me to know anything else. I see what they do in public. I read articles about what they supposedly do in private. Everything else is just me speculating, based on the effects of who they are on the world I find myself in, because of who I am, as opposed to who I’m not.
We do the best we can. But some of us also aren’t. We want some of this bullshit extra. The glitz, the glam, the fame, the power. Yes, we do. Stop playing. And you can want it your way, like Burger King. You can have it with a big book deal (much bigger than mine, but it wouldn’t have mattered because I didn’t know how to manage it anyway) or an antiracist toolkit. You can have it as an entrepreneur who sells products to people who use their available and unavailable income to buy what you sell. You can have it doing yoga retreats, or as an Executive Director. You can have it as an actor, a professor, whatever feels better. Less complicit. More justifiable. But some of what you’re doing is extra. It’s to compete. That doesn’t mean you don’t love people or help people. It just means you can stop pretending you’re not going for the extra bits. Stop gaslighting people. We all know what the extra is. It has its own downsides, and we delight in reading about people who have lost it. We don’t feel bad when someone has lost the extras. The excess.
I believe some of you worked a lot, saved money, knew the right people, made the right decisions at the right times. I believe some of you have the amount of money you say you have. But others of you—how?
A lot of the white people I know are nervous about money right now, with all of this. They’re talking about it. That’s part of where their anger comes from. They don’t fuck around with the real stuff, the tangibles. This is all fun and games, growth and healing, until it comes down to what it comes down to. Ha ha, real funny, Donald. But don’t actually play.
I know some of us won’t see ourselves in this. We’ll say, “No, Jill. I feel like I’m good.” And I hear you. I just want to know how. Some of you, yes. But good? Like, GOOD good? How? And what does that mean to you? What’s the number you think is good, and would someone with more than you agree?
I work 60 hours a week. No, I don’t own my own business, but I’m married to someone who does, who works and makes a bit more than me. We cook. We’ve been on vacation five times since we’ve been together. Only one outside the state of Washington. We decided not to buy clothes all of last year. I cut our hair. We live rurally in the small city where we live because it’s cheaper. Some people here paid $50,000 for their homes. One next door sold for almost a million, then got remodeled in a way that doesn’t fit the neighborhood. More Black families are moving in. It’s getting younger every year. The queers are here now. The houses are going up for sale. The ones that aren’t quirky. The ones that support all of the armed services of every kind.
It’s not changing anymore. It’s changed. And yes, it’s still changing.
The Black friends I have who have more money talk about not having any. They sigh whenever it’s brought up. “Shit, I might have to…” followed by a positive affirmation about how everything is still possible. They’re exhausted. Always somewhere else. The flipping of the phone, the lost eye contact at the end of a conversation. They always have to go.
I have friends where I don’t know what’s real and what’s not and that’s fine. I don’t need to know what’s true. Just, “You good?”
I’ve always been vocal about being broke. I am your broke friend. And not because I’m not working. I’m working. And doing some kind of other thing on the side, too. Social media, something that might work or not. Some art shit that might not work, probably, but I gotta do it or else it’s just real life instead of hope. I might book a little gig or get a $50 Zoom check. Not often. Not dependably.
But I’m also maybe your weird friend, so it’s fine. I can’t make money because I’m weird. I fight myself. I self-sabotage. I was taught that no one deserves money, then my generation said, “No, you do. You deserve it.” And I said, “Okay, but how much?” And we said, “As much as you can manifest.” I was like, “Sure, but can I get a number?” And we said, “As much as you want. Millions.” I was like, “Fuck.”
I guess I’ve never done it right.
But now I’ve got a child, and I can justify some shit. You just wait. I’ll tell him to do everything he wants. See and be it all. Still, I’ll say, “Be mindful. Don’t do harm. Don’t be reckless. Don’t feel better than other people. Don’t forget yourself trying to be something you’re not. Something that can’t love you because it’s not actually you. It’s some thing.” But like… what do I even mean by that? What am I actually talking about?”
He’ll be impacted by all the things we are in society. He’ll see and know like I did. He’ll make his choices from his own bucket. Money is interesting. It can get to you in ways you weren’t expecting from yourself. And once you realize it, you can’t admit it. You’re supposed to lie about how much you want what you want. Pretend. Hide behind reasoning. But it’s not the enough. It’s the extra. It’s what it comes with, how much you enjoy it, and at whose expense. You say some things aren’t, but how can that be true in this society? Even if the costumes are alternative. Out of enjoyment or shame? Do you still see yourself as you were before you had what you thought you wanted? In that room, with those people you don’t really get to be yourself with… how committed to the act are you?
But honestly, whatever. I can’t talk about you, because now I’ve got this kid. I don’t know who I’ll have to pretend to be to justify whatever I’m doing. I hope I can actually afford it. And if it’s at someone’s expense, let it be mine, not his. Look, there’s the loophole.
