The dogs woke me up at 6:30 this morning, and I've been up ever since. Three-and-half hours into a potentially gorgeous day and, surprise, I'm already flustered by the news of the world and what our day looks like.
The plan for today, I think, is to sell more audio CDs. We're selling them somewhat arbitrarily, but today, my favorite Beach Boys: Pet Sounds
is on the block. I think we've both sold CDs that have emotional resonance for each of us, and I'm guessing that there will be a handful of leftovers that we can't sell, either because of the potential for slight emotional wreckage or the simple fact that they won't want them. Keep in mind that a good deal for us would be a depreciation of 75%. Most that we can sell have lost 95% of their original value.
***
One thing that I'm not certain I've made clear here yet is that I don't want you to feel sorry for me or my wife. The blog, initially, seemed culturally and, perhaps, historically important. Like letters from an 18-year-old boy on his way to war. Then, it seemed we'd be more likely to make it through with my funding for school, Michelle's unemployment, and a little help from family. I stopped blogging here for that reason. It seemed likely that--despite our situation--we'd hold on long enough for the economy to right itself.
After all, Michelle is smart, has a degree from Carnegie Mellon with University Honors, and has consistently been successful in the workplace. Moreover, she's applying for Office Manager and Administration jobs, the sort that a college grad could--not so along ago--just walk right into. Plus, she types like lightning.
I'm sure her job search strategy needs work, but these days, whose doesn't?
The fact remains that she has applied to hundreds of jobs. She's gotten two calls: One from a temp agency that hasn't followed up and one that was imminently suspicious and may very well have constituted fraud.
***
Wednesday:
Ruby, our beagle, hasn't been faring too well lately. I think she has a bevy of allergies that make her life worse in summer. When she woke me up this morning, there was a big pink welt on her head, from scratching herself. I'd like to take her to the vet, but . . .
But at least she's mostly happy here, and she adores me (and to a perhaps lesser degree, my wife).
***
So yesterday we spent the evening selling CDs and movies. The first place offered us something like $7.00 for something like 20 CDs (or more).
A number were too scratched to take, though the decision seemed rather arbitrary.
We went back home. Gathered two boxes of books and a handful more of CDs.
On the way to another shop, my wife wept.
***
Last Sunday, Dateline aired a remarkable story about the lives of several poor families in southeast Ohio. The story was jaw-dropping to me. And as a man named Daniel, in a basement in a dilapidated house with no other form of heat, showed Ann Curry the wood burner he tended through winter, sleeping only 3 hours at a time so his sons could stay warm, I wept.
At that moment, I couldn't handle everything anymore.
***
Michelle and I are struggling. But we haven't (yet) fallen behind on our mortgage. Right now, it's a fight to make our bills.
I fucked up this summer. I should have been looking for temporary work much, much sooner than June. It won't happen again, but will it matter?
Michelle and I have both, I do not doubt, made some poor decisions. We've made some decisions that are based on not wanting to make decisions, some that were based, wholly, in psychological comfort, and the (apparently) errant assumption that things would turn around soon. Furthermore, we--like many other Americans--never entertained the possibility that our (upper?) middle class lifestyle could suddenly collapse. We had debt we were working to pay down. We failed to make investments and spent what now seems a ludicrous amount of money on baubles like those CDs, those books.
But last Sunday, after watching that remarkable tear-jerker of a documentary, after being stunned that such desperation--desperation far deeper than ours--can occur in a nation of such unbridled wealth and resources, I stumbled across the associated Newsvine thread.
Weaved with sincere wishes of luck, thoughtfulness, and offers of assistance, I found so, so many comments that were simply cruel. People--ensconced in relative or complete anonymity--attacked the families that were profiled primarily on the base of "hygiene." Those anonymous and, in all likelihood, middle class Americans complained loudly about 1) the lack of cleanliness in a small house where 14 people were living 2) the smoking of cigarettes 3) obesity and the choice of food (food largely donated and largely high in fructose, fat, and salts) 4) a fake gold chain that one person was wearing, and perhaps most troubling 5) the fact that one woman had her three children out of wedlock.
In the midst of the worst recession that the world has seen since the 30s, people in comfort were re-defining what they'd seen, ignoring the statistics, and voraciously screaming that their taxes should not be used on those people. Never mind the potential fallacies based on the actual spread of the tax burden or the fact that the details that angered them were a handful among thousands.
In essence, the argument for why tax monies shouldn't be used to help families living in poverty was that those people were neither morally nor physically clean enough to receive aid. They had, clearly, not done enough for themselves. Those people were somehow Other, somehow unclean.
Several posts, in fact, suggested that the young woman with three children born out of wedlock (who slept through an Ohio winter in her van) ought to have her tubes tied. No one considered the possibility that love was involved in any way or that she could have been manipulated or that we live in a culture that prioritizes overly sexualized women or that young people struggle with foresight and consequence. No. They just assumed she was immoral.
From a historical perspective this is mind-numbingly depressing and horrifyingly frightening. I hear echoes I never thought I'd hear.
All of the families, though, were white. If I pause to consider what the reaction might have been if, say, inner city blacks or Southwestern Latinos had been profiled, I will have nightmares.
***
When Michelle and I moved to Ohio in 2005, it was thrilling.We were, finally, participating in the American Dream (writ large, in italics, in the enormous skies of our futures). We had a house large enough to imagine dogs frolicking in the yard, infants sleeping in a spare room. We didn't, though the temptation was certainly there, overextend our budget. We didn't take on a subprime or adjustable-rate mortgage.
With what knowledge we had at the time and the advice of our real estate agent, we thought we were getting a good deal, that we were buying in a buyer's market that was about to correct, in a neighborhood that was bound to improve. Moreover, we believed--perhaps irrationally--in the quality of such an investment. Yet, who could blame us?
Every personal finance show I'd ever seen touted a mortgage as "good debt." Even before we moved, my wife and I had seen the first few episodes of Flip That House while visiting her mom. More, we were aware of home-equity lines of credit that allowed home owners to dip into home equity, which would grow of course, if they ever hit a financial rough spot.
How could we, with that knowledge, not be optimistic?
***
In retrospect, there's much information to which we weren't privy. The inspection on our house was subpar. Cincinnati, apparently, has an infrastructure that somehow is reflected in the very core of its city planning. The real estate market, as a whole, was inflated by investment buyers. Shortly, the American financial markets would collapse on the back of what we had thought was one of the best decisions for our lives and our future that we had ever made.
Now, here's a rough picture of what the housing market here in Cincinnati looks like. If you mess around with some of the parameters and look at, for example, the 10 year plot, you could see the picture of what this city is facing slightly better. That link though is from Zillow, not the government, and may not have enough data points for an accurate depiction. In particular, I find it difficult to believe that final data point, but then what would you expect?
We've lived here almost five years, and our taxes for 2009 suggested that we'd lost about 2% of the home's value (in 2009) and that selling could be an option. Zillow, by contrast, suggests we've lost 32% of the home's value. I suspect the truth is closer to Zillow's estimate, but not quite that bad. We like so many other Americans are way, way underwater.
So why not get a loan modification? Because we can't. Banks are notoriously reluctant to make such modifications. Moreover, if you look at the requirements, you sacrifice a great deal of equity (and we're negative remember) to make such a modification. Finally, you have to have enough income to make the modification financially viable.
And what did we do to have what little wealth we'd built vanish? Nothing.
***
The infants will have to wait a bit longer.
***
When Michelle and I began dating (and long-time friendship became something else entirely), it was cross country. I could, then, afford such flights.
On one of my visits to see her, I bought that Beach Boys CD, and we listened to "God Only Knows" as her Ford Escort wound down the perilous roads of autumnal Pittsburgh. I think we were listening to that CD when the notion of marriage first came up. Even if it's a false memory, it is what I believe to be true, and I've long had associations between that lovely song and my relationship with her.
Back then, we made the country feel smaller, and somehow, made our futures seem so much larger.
Now, we've tried to sell that CD, but were turned down because of damage. I only own it still because of damage. Damage. Flaw.
***
Personal finance is, of course, taboo in our culture. We might, for example, talk about good deals on shopping, but we won't talk about how much someone makes even if we realize (faintly) that those who are paying us may benefit far more from such strategies than we do.
There are exceptions, of course, we learn how much Tiger Woods makes via endorsements or how much Tom Cruise makes for a few hundred hours of work. Even as we publicly foot the bill for new stadiums, we read about how much the football and baseball players take home.
In 2008, the number of children living in poverty was 19%. Over the ensuing two years, that number has likely rocketed upward.
***
We've not gone hungry once. Not even for a day. Hopefully, even if we lose our house, this is a trend we can continue.
But we're no longer in a position to help others, and even though we had once sent almost a thousand dollars each year (or more) to my parents, and we frequently gave to charities like Doctors without Borders, it's difficult for me not to think Michelle and I never did enough when we had a chance.
Instead, we have a lot stuff, stuff that's difficult to liquidate. Stuff that depreciates rapidly, like most other used goods in such a market.
***
My definition of "a lot of stuff" may differ from yours.
***
If you're still reading, I'm guessing you're not the sort of person who will lash out at my wife and me for making poor decisions. Likewise, I'm hoping that you see that this blog is about more than Michelle and me and our lot.
But how many people out there would tell us that I should quit the PhD program I'm in? How many people would tell us to take our dogs to a shelter because we can no longer afford them? How many people would tell us that an irrational trip to Taco Bell after we'd spent much of the day trying to sell objects that we've invested with meaning for less money than a day's work at minimum wage would bring was stupid? Even if we know it was stupid, irrational, and little but a psychological salve for a painful day? How many people would think us different from them? Other?
How many would kick us?
***
Yesterday, before we went out on the selling spree, a friend emailed me from out of the blue, asking what kind of coffee we liked, so she could send us a care package. I almost wept.
***
Sometimes, while watching TV, I fantasize about how awesome it would be to go see a movie. In a movie theater. With popcorn.
Yesterday, at a convenience store, the site of a quarter tumbling down into the small cup for change that some registers have actually excited me. I thought, this will be great for the Coinstar.
***
Michelle's unemployment got reinstated today. She'll see money for 3-4 weeks soon. With those weeks, she's started Tier 3 and that means something like 15 more weeks. So, for the near-term, we might be ok. The future, for a little while, isn't quite as horrifying (for us).
***
Elsewhere, like in southeastern Ohio, in inner cities, in the rural southwest, the story is different. There remains, I suppose, a continuum of despair in this country. I want you to see some of it. I want you to know it's there, and to spread such tales, regardless of how difficult they are to hear or read.
I want you to think (mightily) about how this wondrous country got here, and about what we as a people should do to prevent desperation--even as small as mine and my wife's--from ever, ever happening again.
And I want you to remember the large desperations. Think about that Beach Boy's CD and the way in which sentimentality attached to objects is a luxury. It's a luxury most of us take for granted.
Now think how far Michelle and I might go to keep our overvalued house. Do you think we'd sell her engagement ring? Our wedding rings?
Do you think, perhaps, there are people out there among the 99ers who have done just that? Or something that might be viewed as equally drastic? What sort of pittance might they get for a solitaire diamond on craigslist? How much time would that buy from a pawnbroker?
And where will that money go?
***
I say fuck the deficit.
We're already talking redistribution of wealth. Small pockets of emotional and physical wealth are seeping into the marketplace from the pockets of the middle class, the working class, and the poor. Those with next to nothing face the very real possibility that their collective assets will soon amount to nothing--just to make next month's rent, next month's mortgage.
And where's does that money go?
***
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