Money

In keeping with recent self-indulgent posts, it is time for my semi-annual 'I need an attitude adjustment regarding making money' post. 
Fact: When I had my first job (working in the Kernersville Library) I loved making money. It provided a degree of independence from my parents that I really enjoyed. At some point, my attitude shifted. Maybe it was around the time my dad told me that I couldn't do art for a living. I'd have to find a career with which I could support myself and do my art as a hobby. A hobby. The thing I cared most about in the world was to be little more than a way to pass my Sunday afternoons. I don't know if that's when my attitude about money changed. Or if it was when I was forced to go to college when I really wanted to move to NYC and become a writer. For the New Yorker. Yes, I've always been a dreamer.
I dropped out of school at the urging of my boyfriend. I moved in with my boyfriend. Making money made sense then because it was a way to keep the two of us together. I married my boyfriend and had children with him. I stayed at home with the children. And eventually, I went back to work. Over the course of the years with the husband, money grew tight. We had arguments. He grew violent. I left. I went back to school. And I never ever picked a career. Why? Because my heart says to make stuff. And I feel like if I can't make stuff for a living (as per my dad) I will invest as little time and energy into making money as possible so that I can make stuff. But I find myself constantly chasing the dollar bill and not making stuff. I have lived below the poverty level most of my adult life. This has been a choice, to some degree as I have never chosen a "career."
People often compliment me. I understand these compliments to mean I have something of value to offer the world. But I cannot for the life of me figure out how to translate my value into money.
I don't need a lot of money. I've made do with less than $20,000 for the past ten years. But things are shifting in me. I find myself wanting to travel. Wanting to buy a pair of blue jeans. Wanting to go to the dentist.
I went to the bank yesterday. My checking account balance was a little over $100. I am comfortable with a little over $100. But once it gets below that, I feel uneasy. Because my account has gone down to one or two dollars way too often, causing me to worry about how I was going to eat. This just sucks. And I don't want to be like this anymore.
I hate having to rely on money. But I need to accept it as a fact of life. At age 56 I am saying this! I would like to have that feeling of self-sufficiency that I had when I worked for the Kernersville Library. Do I need to get an actual job? Stop doing the My Girl Everyday thing? I've been getting regular gigs and am extremely grateful that I've had this period of personal freedom from the job world. I am extremely grateful to all the people who have hired me. But I am still basically living hand to mouth. And this needs to change.
A friend of mine recently gave me a book titled "Money: A Love Story." This book is supposed to help me heal my relationship with money. I keep trying to read it, but whenever the author talks about her immense credit card debt as being the toughest financial crisis she's endured, I feel disgust. I had to keep my children warm when the gas was cut off. I had to cook rice and beans and onions and garlic enough different ways to keep them interesting. I've had to ransack the house looking for pennies to buy a gallon of gas so that I could get to work. I had to push my car down a hill every day to jump start it because I couldn't afford to have it fixed. It's hard to take this author seriously.
Still, throughout my entire journey, I've never been truly hungry. I've never been without shelter or clothing. I've never been without love. I am grateful to have made it this far having all that I have. A pickup truck. An ally. A roof over my head. Food. Health. Two little dogs. A wealth of love from family and friends.
I once said to a friend, "I don't want making money to control my life." He responded, "Lack of money controls you just as much as making money controls you." As much as I hate this, it is true.

A Story About Stingy Jim

This morning at the Cancer Center, I met an older man who has to catch the bus to get to his chemotherapy treatments.  My use of the phrase "has to catch the bus" indicates my level of privilege.  I feel uncomfortable pointing the following things out:

To catch a bus in this town of Greensboro, N.C., one must do a lot of walking.  One must walk to the nearest bus stop.  And one must walk from the drop off to one's destination.  Often times, this is a significant distance.  People who ride the bus are completely acclimated to this degree of walking and inconvenience.  People who ride in cars often are not.

Additionally, to ride a bus in this town of Greensboro, N.C., one must plan ahead and allow roughly 45 minutes to an hour in order to get from point A to point B.  This time sitting on the bus is a good time to catch a snooze, to read a book, to play a game of Sudoku.  However, when one is feeling poorly, every jolt on the bus is unbearable, as is every loud voice, every bad smell.

Chemotherapy is an intense process.  It can leave one feeling weak, nauseous, dizzy or faint.  I did not go through chemotherapy when I went through cancer though I did a round that lasted 8 weeks after being diagnosed with ITP.  It was fairly mild compared to the treatments given to most people.  Even still, I was tired at the completion of each session, which lasted roughly four hours each.  My head felt funny afterwards.  I lived relatively close to the Cancer Center so I only had to endure a ten minute drive home.  Upon my arrival home, I immediately crashed.

So, you understand now that I am a person of privilege.  I did not have to catch the bus to my chemo treatments.  I had it easy.

The older gentleman who has to catch the bus to his chemotherapy treatments spoke to me at length about strange experiences he's had with death. He told me about a man whom everyone called "Stingy Jim."  He was so stingy, the man told me, that he only put a quarter in the collection plate at church.  "A quarter!" he emphasized.

One day, Stingy Jim walked into the liquor house, which is what they called bars back in the day.  Everyone was sitting around drinking or waiting to get a drink when Stingy told the proprietor to serve the house a round of drinks on him.  "Yes," Stingy said. "I reckon I'll buy all y'all a drink now.  No telling when I'll get to again."

Everyone was flabbergasted. Never had Stingy done anything like that.  Everyone sat back and enjoyed their drinks until they heard the screech of a truck's tires.  A tractor trailer had ground itself to a halt right outside the liquor house.  A white man with a red beard came running out of the truck saying "He ran right out in front of me!  I couldn't stop in time!"  Everybody looked around to see who had been hit but they couldn't find a body.  They looked all through the bushes by the road until somebody found a penny loafer with a tassel on it.  It was Stingy's shoe.  Stingy used to put a dime in his loafers rather than a penny.

The story of Stingy was interrupted by the nurse who brought my CBC results to me.  I looked at the paper, looked back and the man and said, "It's only numbers."  But the spell of enchantment had been broken.  The story was left unfinished.  The energy had already shifted to What's Next On My Agenda?  Oh yes, get ready for work.

I asked the man his name and told him mine.  I shook his hand and looked into his eyes, which tried very hard to conceal the fear he was experiencing.  I told him I hope things go well for him and to keep on kicking.  This felt completely inadequate.  As I walked away from him and out into the cold spring rain, I said a prayer in my heart for the man, knowing full well we will all end up like Stingy someday.  How and when is anybody's guess.