When I started this blog, it was surely something different. I think I envisioned that others would share their stories more than they have, that someone other than me might want to shatter what still seems a remarkably powerful taboo in American culture and talk a little bit about money. Or, more the point, the lack of money. Moreover, I must have assumed back in 2009 that my little peak into crisis wouldn't have lasted this long. Or, if it did, that things would have gotten much worse.
We still have our house, underwater though it may be; I still have prospects, in the future, assuming my meritocratic luck improves.
But here I am on a rainy morning, more than two years hence, finally articulating just how difficult the original goal of detailing so many small frustrations must have been. Finally articulating how many posts I've begun only to abandon because negotiating the silences that my wife and I need to keep as well as the silences that we don't recognize as such.
Here I am on a rainy morning, more than two years hence, thinking, what the hell happened?
***
Two days ago, on a rain-slick morning, I drove down to the university I attend for a meeting. One of the first of the school year. As my car slithered down Harrison Avenue, I was thinking myself late, very late. Traffic. A police car. A firetruck. Paramedics. To my left, a burnished gold sedan, early 90s edition, with its black plastic grill punched out, it seemed, by a small shrub. The airbag blown. The hood crumpled like a November leaf. The doors cratered, concave.
How could such a tiny shrub cause that? I thought.
Then I saw the black Mercedes--late model, glossy as if just detailed--angled hood-first into the front porch of brick two story house. And standing beside the car, a young man talking into a cell phone, looking up and down as if he cannot believe.
Strange, but I didn't tell anyone--not even my wife--about that scene for almost two days.
***
When I used to work in the Bay Area. I'd hop off the train and head directly to the nearest Starbucks. Grande nonfat latte. Sometimes, I'd stop by the same kiosk after lunch. Grande nonfat latte. Inevitably, around 3:30, when my body began to tell me I ought to be napping, I'd stroll over for that third. Grande nonfat latte.
This, along with a proclivity for fatty food might explain why my belly protrudes several inches beyond my belt.
***
Every once in a while, when distraction sets in, I'll spend an inordinate amount of time looking at the websites for auto manufacturers. It's a vestige, I suppose, of childhood and the boyish allure of sports cars, exotics, etcetera. Of course, I've never owned the kind of car that I used to read about, semi-obsessively, in the pages of Car and Driver or Road & Track. A 14 year-old boy's version of arithmetic simply does not account adequately for things like insurance, emergencies, or a proclivity for greasy food. Still, there was a point in my life when a Boxster, if not a 911, did seem feasible. But now, economics have changed for me. Now, I can imagine myself delighted to drive a four-cylinder sedan for the remainder of my life. Now, I drive a subcompact.
When my wife and I bought our current car, we both had decent-paying jobs. The shock of the financial crisis had not yet trickled down to us, and we, genuinely, thought we were getting a good deal.
In retrospect, our timing couldn't have been worse: we missed the so-called "Cash for Clunkers;" we missed the dealerships unloading inventory in desperation; we missed that brief window before the credit went dry when salesmen likely went beyond "reasonable offers" because they needed the commission. Instead, we walked into a showroom where, even though I did bargain, we witnessed upselling at its finest.
The odd thing is that, now, our car has held more of its value than our house has over the same period of time. This is, of course, deeply contrary to conventional wisdom, to common sense. And yet....
***
A few nights ago, lying awake in some synergistic combination of a lousy sleep schedule and anxiety, I had this sort of waking dream. I saw that car dealership. I saw the salesman standing over a charcoal gray, four-cylinder sedan, chatting with me about next steps.
But then, contrary to history, he shook his head. Maybe he leaned in a bit closer and said: You don't really need a moon-roof, do you? You could give that money to Oxfam, instead.
Let's put you in the base model.
Yeah. It's just a dream. Imagine a business--and its representatives--downselling. Can you? Still, I can't shake the feeling that in that brief fantasia, the only opportunity cost that matters is revealed.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
September 11, 2011
My wife and I are lounging in our living room with three surprisingly lethargic dogs. Their snores, rising and falling like song, punctuate the semi-silence of Sunday afternoon football on the family television. We are watching the opening game of the 2011 NFL season. The Cincinnati Bengals, inexplicably, are pummeling the Cleveland Browns. Each player has the simulacra of a red, white, and blue ribbon sewn into the left breast of their jerseys. The same image, larger than a player's body, is painted on the field at each 35 yard line, a few feet from the sidelines, opposite the NFL shield and its red-white-blue color scheme. They, like all of us, are marking the 10th year anniversary.
There is, I suppose, nothing more American than football on a Sunday afternoon. Unless, perhaps it is the particular genre of commercials that accompanies such games. So far, I've seen three commercials tagged with the promise to "Never Forget." Such is the corporate response to memory.
Earlier this morning, before the football began, my wife and I sat outside on our porch swing, talking. I mentioned that I was planning to spend much of my afternoon, like this, writing about what happened. She pleaded with me not to, suspecting--with good reason--that my response might seethe with political ire, and thus, be less than empathetic. There have been such responses. There have, likewise, been responses that foreground the individual experiences of those only peripherally impacted by the events 10 years ago today. Moreover, there have been the responses of those directly affected who, as Lee Siegel points out, are obliged to perform their grief publicly for all of us.
I am thankful for all such responses. I am--even--thankful for the politicians, even if many respond with little more than propaganda. That is, after all, what politicians do.
In my opinion, however, September 11, 2001, is not about what politicians, writers, or corporations do. The narratives that they have told us, whether through speeches, articles, history books, or those stirring, string-field commercials do matter immensely. They shape the way future generations, our future, will view those attacks, that insanely sunny day, the smoke, the rhetoric, and yes, the violence. Yet, increasingly, I fear for that future, for what people--like my students who were 8 to 12 years old at the time--will eventually make of that day. Will it be a day whose significance is occluded by commercialism, by media, by performances of grief? Will it become a template for the fungibility of facts? A kaleidoscope of possible conspiracies?
That, really, is why I feel obliged to write today. I want to look elsewhere, to touch, briefly, on the ways in which that day differed from today, from the days prior, and importantly, how it didn't. I hope, of course, my wife understands this, that she reads the post, and might one day show it to younger members of our family as a way of explaining.
For me, what is remarkable about 9/11 is that all of us have a story. There are thousands upon thousands of stories. The normal prerequisites that our culture seeks for authority, or the very right to speak, are, for the most part, non-existent. And we all hear those stories--similar in their confusion, in their fear, in their resolve, and yes, in their Americanness.
More, most of us recognize the smallness of our sufferings. Waking at 2 AM to the sirens barreling down Van Ness Avenue and believing, as if it were an article of faith, that our city was next. Looking up into the empty skies of Pittsburgh to see a single plane, a plane that shouldn't have been there. None of these small narratives compare to the years without for so many of our countrymen--not just in New York or DC, but in small towns everywhere, including Afghanistan, including Iraq.
From a more cynical perspective, one could see the proliferation of stories as symptomatic of our culture's narcissism. Indeed, it is difficult to fathom the number of bylines generated. It is difficult to contemplate the sheer number of Facebook status messages and blog posts. Yet today, I prefer to listen. I prefer to believe in the need for such storytelling, for the repetitions that make sense of our lives. I'd prefer to be thankful for all of those stories--even those of politicians--because they offer a glimpse into the complexity of what happened around the country; they suggest the enormity of loss that the numbers, memorials, speeches, and editorials don't quite capture. All of these moments that we might prefer to forget bristle against the simple narratives, reminding us that history, by and large, remains unspoken.
So today has been a confluence of personal narratives. Small sorrows. Ineffable tragedies.
Unlike the corporations, the politicians, the pundits, I won't pretend to speak either for the myriad victims nor for the country at large. I will, however, with the proviso that I'd prefer to be watching football with my wife, add another small narrative.
Like many twenty-somethings on the West Coast, I woke to the news, turned on CNN before I'd had a cup of coffee and watched for hours. At the time, I lived in one-bedroom apartment in San Francisco with my partner at the time. She was working from home that day, and as a freelancer, I was planning to scrounge for one or another contract job, or perhaps, I was planning to work on a novel that's, thankfully, been lost in the interim. I doubt either of us did much work that day.
We stayed fixed to the televisions, watching like everyone else, until we couldn't really watch any longer, and then, by mutual agreement, we donned our jackets and went out into a San Francisco with deep blue sky, flecks of sun glinting from every metallic surface. We walked down Union Street, past the Octagon House, past the jewelers and furniture stores, where life was continuing in a fashion resembling normalcy. We looked for something to eat and decided, for some reason, on Extreme Pizza, where the television in the corner was tuned to CNN, turned up. I can't, though I feel like I should, remember what we ate. Maybe subs. Maybe not. I do remember that everyone there--when they were not eating, talking, or working--was watching. The conversations were muted, not at all like they had been on previous days or like they would be in a few short days. Everyone wanted simply to know.
That day, both my partner and I spoke to total strangers with an openness and vulnerability that--a few days previously or a few days hence--we would not offer to our closest friends, or even each other.
I asked across tables, "Have they learned anything new?"
And for a few moments, you knew, like everyone else, that this was history. This was our history. We all wanted to know why. We all wanted to know how. We all wanted to know.
Now, ten years later, I want to recognize what happened that day, but more than that, I want to reflect on the few hours that afternoon when all sought to understand, and ask whether we really have.
What all such memories make abundantly clear are that loss and love are inextricably bound, and though, in the decade since, our nation, our world has surely lost more than enough, have we loved enough? Have we listened to complete strangers as we did that day? Have we wept, yet, for people we never knew?
Should we?
Or should we give into the silence, watch football?
There is, I suppose, nothing more American than football on a Sunday afternoon. Unless, perhaps it is the particular genre of commercials that accompanies such games. So far, I've seen three commercials tagged with the promise to "Never Forget." Such is the corporate response to memory.
Earlier this morning, before the football began, my wife and I sat outside on our porch swing, talking. I mentioned that I was planning to spend much of my afternoon, like this, writing about what happened. She pleaded with me not to, suspecting--with good reason--that my response might seethe with political ire, and thus, be less than empathetic. There have been such responses. There have, likewise, been responses that foreground the individual experiences of those only peripherally impacted by the events 10 years ago today. Moreover, there have been the responses of those directly affected who, as Lee Siegel points out, are obliged to perform their grief publicly for all of us.
I am thankful for all such responses. I am--even--thankful for the politicians, even if many respond with little more than propaganda. That is, after all, what politicians do.
In my opinion, however, September 11, 2001, is not about what politicians, writers, or corporations do. The narratives that they have told us, whether through speeches, articles, history books, or those stirring, string-field commercials do matter immensely. They shape the way future generations, our future, will view those attacks, that insanely sunny day, the smoke, the rhetoric, and yes, the violence. Yet, increasingly, I fear for that future, for what people--like my students who were 8 to 12 years old at the time--will eventually make of that day. Will it be a day whose significance is occluded by commercialism, by media, by performances of grief? Will it become a template for the fungibility of facts? A kaleidoscope of possible conspiracies?
That, really, is why I feel obliged to write today. I want to look elsewhere, to touch, briefly, on the ways in which that day differed from today, from the days prior, and importantly, how it didn't. I hope, of course, my wife understands this, that she reads the post, and might one day show it to younger members of our family as a way of explaining.
For me, what is remarkable about 9/11 is that all of us have a story. There are thousands upon thousands of stories. The normal prerequisites that our culture seeks for authority, or the very right to speak, are, for the most part, non-existent. And we all hear those stories--similar in their confusion, in their fear, in their resolve, and yes, in their Americanness.
More, most of us recognize the smallness of our sufferings. Waking at 2 AM to the sirens barreling down Van Ness Avenue and believing, as if it were an article of faith, that our city was next. Looking up into the empty skies of Pittsburgh to see a single plane, a plane that shouldn't have been there. None of these small narratives compare to the years without for so many of our countrymen--not just in New York or DC, but in small towns everywhere, including Afghanistan, including Iraq.
From a more cynical perspective, one could see the proliferation of stories as symptomatic of our culture's narcissism. Indeed, it is difficult to fathom the number of bylines generated. It is difficult to contemplate the sheer number of Facebook status messages and blog posts. Yet today, I prefer to listen. I prefer to believe in the need for such storytelling, for the repetitions that make sense of our lives. I'd prefer to be thankful for all of those stories--even those of politicians--because they offer a glimpse into the complexity of what happened around the country; they suggest the enormity of loss that the numbers, memorials, speeches, and editorials don't quite capture. All of these moments that we might prefer to forget bristle against the simple narratives, reminding us that history, by and large, remains unspoken.
So today has been a confluence of personal narratives. Small sorrows. Ineffable tragedies.
 |
| Union Street in Cow Hollow (Photo by Alexrk2, Creative Commons License) |
Like many twenty-somethings on the West Coast, I woke to the news, turned on CNN before I'd had a cup of coffee and watched for hours. At the time, I lived in one-bedroom apartment in San Francisco with my partner at the time. She was working from home that day, and as a freelancer, I was planning to scrounge for one or another contract job, or perhaps, I was planning to work on a novel that's, thankfully, been lost in the interim. I doubt either of us did much work that day.
We stayed fixed to the televisions, watching like everyone else, until we couldn't really watch any longer, and then, by mutual agreement, we donned our jackets and went out into a San Francisco with deep blue sky, flecks of sun glinting from every metallic surface. We walked down Union Street, past the Octagon House, past the jewelers and furniture stores, where life was continuing in a fashion resembling normalcy. We looked for something to eat and decided, for some reason, on Extreme Pizza, where the television in the corner was tuned to CNN, turned up. I can't, though I feel like I should, remember what we ate. Maybe subs. Maybe not. I do remember that everyone there--when they were not eating, talking, or working--was watching. The conversations were muted, not at all like they had been on previous days or like they would be in a few short days. Everyone wanted simply to know.
That day, both my partner and I spoke to total strangers with an openness and vulnerability that--a few days previously or a few days hence--we would not offer to our closest friends, or even each other.
I asked across tables, "Have they learned anything new?"
And for a few moments, you knew, like everyone else, that this was history. This was our history. We all wanted to know why. We all wanted to know how. We all wanted to know.
Now, ten years later, I want to recognize what happened that day, but more than that, I want to reflect on the few hours that afternoon when all sought to understand, and ask whether we really have.
What all such memories make abundantly clear are that loss and love are inextricably bound, and though, in the decade since, our nation, our world has surely lost more than enough, have we loved enough? Have we listened to complete strangers as we did that day? Have we wept, yet, for people we never knew?
Should we?
Or should we give into the silence, watch football?
Friday, August 5, 2011
What if Americans for Tax Reform Really Stood for Reform?
Over the last month or so, the partisan divides in Washington have made for glorious, unprecedented spectacle. If such wrangling had occurred on an episode of The West Wing or in a Jimmy Stewart film, it surely would have made for a magnificent few moments of entertainment. Alas, those folks aren't actors and real people's livelihoods are at stake.
For the past few years, I've listened on and off to conservative talk radio, read bits and pieces from the WSJ, and "liked" conservative organizations on Facebook, so that I could, perhaps, begin to understand a little bit better the roots of both populist rage, and the thinking that supports such rage. Today, I stumbled across a magnificent piece by Grover Norquist in Human Events. Grover Norquist, of course, is the leader of Americans forTax Reform. His ideological stand is well known as he who forced Tea Party candidates to sign pledges against raising taxes. Weirdly, the FaceBook feed suggested that "the results are not surprising." On closer inspection, the results were not at all surprising because they were formed on the basis of a hard-line, radical ideology that's not really interested in (all) the facts. Have a look at the article, as it truly is magnificent--not because it's smart or effective--but because it's an incredible work of statistical manipulation. At the least, read as much as you can stomach. Then, if you remain intrigued, have a look at what follows: my post to Americans for Tax Reform FB thread that touted Norquist's Op-Ed.
And then consider: What does it suggest about our country that someone like Norquist could--feasibly--have as much influence as he does on politicians? How many politicians read an op-ed like this? And basing economic/policy decisions on this man's thought?
That's a fascinating use of statistics (from ALEC!?!) for ideological means. Let's look at unemployment numbers!
States Grover mentions as on the "right path"
Ohio: 8.8% (and going up); Pennsylvania: 7.6%; Wisconsin: 7.6%; Michigan: 10.6%; Maine: 7.8%.
States "most economically free" according to ALEC (?!?!)
Texas: 8.2%; Florida: 10.6%; Utah: 7.4%; South Dakota: 4.8%; Tennessee: 9.8%; Virginia: 6%; Colorado: 8.5%; Idaho: 9.4%; North Dakota: 3.2%; Wyoming: 5.9% (notice that I'm not cherry picking data, like Grover; the Dakotas and Wyoming have different sorts of economies than the rest of the U.S. and were largely unaffected by the housing crash and the credit crunch).
States "least economically free" according to ALEC:
Pennsylvania (yes; it's on this list too): 7.6%; Rhode Island: 10.8%; New York: 8%; New Jersey: 9.5%; Oregon: 9.5%; Illinois: 9.2%; Hawaii: 6%; California: 11.8%; Vermont: 5.5%; Maine: 7.8%.
So this data strongly suggest that there is no correlation between "economic freedom" and unemployment rate (and that's generally a pretty good measure of growth, right?) Hmmm.
So what happens if we look at, say, a different set of statistics, one that actually measures production, like GDP?
Here is the percent change in GDP from the BEA (http://www.bea.gov/newsreleases/regional/gdp_state/gsp_newsrelease.htm) for each of the above listed states. Note how some of the "spenders" are doing better than Texas and Florida...that seem hero states to Grover. Ready?
"Right Path":
OH: 2.1
PA: 3.0
WI: 2.5
MI: 2.9
ME: 2.1
Most Economically "Free":
TX: 2.8
FL: 1.4
UT: 1.7
SD: 2.1
TN: 3.5
VA: 2.6
CO: 1.4
ID: 2.0
ND: 7.1*
WY: -0.3
Least Economically "Free":
PA: 3.0
RI: 2.8
NY: 5.1*
NJ: 2.5
OR: 3.4*
IL: 1.9
HI: 1.2
CA:1.8
VT: 3.2*
ME: 2.1
(Those marked with * are in the highest quintile of growth for 2010).
Altogether, further analysis suggest that Grover's use of data is a little bit suspect. You don't think he did that purposefully? Manipulated data to suit an ideological agenda? Do you?
Of course not, I'm sure Grover will recognize the problems with cherry picking data for an argument that conflates taxation with economic stimulus. Without question, he's probably already working on the corrections now....
For the past few years, I've listened on and off to conservative talk radio, read bits and pieces from the WSJ, and "liked" conservative organizations on Facebook, so that I could, perhaps, begin to understand a little bit better the roots of both populist rage, and the thinking that supports such rage. Today, I stumbled across a magnificent piece by Grover Norquist in Human Events. Grover Norquist, of course, is the leader of Americans for
And then consider: What does it suggest about our country that someone like Norquist could--feasibly--have as much influence as he does on politicians? How many politicians read an op-ed like this? And basing economic/policy decisions on this man's thought?
That's a fascinating use of statistics (from ALEC!?!) for ideological means. Let's look at unemployment numbers!
States Grover mentions as on the "right path"
Ohio: 8.8% (and going up); Pennsylvania: 7.6%; Wisconsin: 7.6%; Michigan: 10.6%; Maine: 7.8%.
States "most economically free" according to ALEC (?!?!)
Texas: 8.2%; Florida: 10.6%; Utah: 7.4%; South Dakota: 4.8%; Tennessee: 9.8%; Virginia: 6%; Colorado: 8.5%; Idaho: 9.4%; North Dakota: 3.2%; Wyoming: 5.9% (notice that I'm not cherry picking data, like Grover; the Dakotas and Wyoming have different sorts of economies than the rest of the U.S. and were largely unaffected by the housing crash and the credit crunch).
States "least economically free" according to ALEC:
Pennsylvania (yes; it's on this list too): 7.6%; Rhode Island: 10.8%; New York: 8%; New Jersey: 9.5%; Oregon: 9.5%; Illinois: 9.2%; Hawaii: 6%; California: 11.8%; Vermont: 5.5%; Maine: 7.8%.
So this data strongly suggest that there is no correlation between "economic freedom" and unemployment rate (and that's generally a pretty good measure of growth, right?) Hmmm.
So what happens if we look at, say, a different set of statistics, one that actually measures production, like GDP?
Here is the percent change in GDP from the BEA (http://www.bea.gov/newsreleases/regional/gdp_state/gsp_newsrelease.htm) for each of the above listed states. Note how some of the "spenders" are doing better than Texas and Florida...that seem hero states to Grover. Ready?
"Right Path":
OH: 2.1
PA: 3.0
WI: 2.5
MI: 2.9
ME: 2.1
Most Economically "Free":
TX: 2.8
FL: 1.4
UT: 1.7
SD: 2.1
TN: 3.5
VA: 2.6
CO: 1.4
ID: 2.0
ND: 7.1*
WY: -0.3
Least Economically "Free":
PA: 3.0
RI: 2.8
NY: 5.1*
NJ: 2.5
OR: 3.4*
IL: 1.9
HI: 1.2
CA:1.8
VT: 3.2*
ME: 2.1
(Those marked with * are in the highest quintile of growth for 2010).
Altogether, further analysis suggest that Grover's use of data is a little bit suspect. You don't think he did that purposefully? Manipulated data to suit an ideological agenda? Do you?
Of course not, I'm sure Grover will recognize the problems with cherry picking data for an argument that conflates taxation with economic stimulus. Without question, he's probably already working on the corrections now....
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The Blues
The sky today is mezmerizingly blue with high, silken clouds slightly cooling the furious summer sun. Two of the dogs who live here are looking around, as if captivated by the rising, falling trill of cicada, the occasional whistling chirrup of sparrow or robin or cardinal. It is the kind of summer day in midwest Ohio when it's difficult to believe that anything ever could be wrong.
But.
Yet.
Still.
I'm trying to wrench my psyche out of the molasses-like state most commonly referred to as "depression." I'm arguing with myself, with the accumulation of "things to do" that aren't getting done. I'm fighting to ignore the gravitational pull of sleep, the murmuring assurances that a long nap, one speckled with dreams, one in which two or three 20-dollar bills fall from the pages of a long unread book, one in which the seemingly serrated edge of this life lived might be dulled, just a little.
It's tough to say, though, who, precisely, is winning that fight. From my perspective, it's a bit of a "zero-sum" game with emphasis on the "zero" and the gaping lack that empty value entails. You see, we're broke again.
Flat broke. Even though I'm working across the summer in moderate ways, our income is now defined in opposition to possession, and money, once again, is everything. Ironically, I am working. The money simply isn't enough to cover bills that were incurred in a different marketplace, to save a single penny, or to look forward beyond a few days.
When I started this, I can't have imagined that I would still be thinking about the economic crisis. I couldn't have believed that the housing market would still resemble a 1950s-era joke about marriage. Take my house . . . please. I And I certainly couldn't have entertained the notion that my wife, educated at a prestigious private university would still be unemployed--more than two years later--or that her unemployment benefits would have run out entirely.
I want, desperately, to take a nap and forget for a long while. I'd like to pretend that I could sell my house, which we bought in '05 for, say, a 5% gain over the course of six years. Or even a 1% gain. I'd like to think about other things like the light breeze pushing a child's empty swing in a neighbor's yard, a trip to somewhere heavenly like Taco Bell, the slow unfolding of a baseball game on television, or the tidy rhythms of a re-run sitcom. I'd like, in short, to be someone else, somewhere else, sometime else.
How then could I not be depressed? Even on a day like this when robins chirp loudly enough to drown the sounds of cars and planes passing nearby for destinations I may never know? And perhaps more pressingly, how is my wife surviving this?
The point here is twofold: First, only the particulars of our story are unique. With an unemployment rate of 9.2%, there are likely millions of people in similar situations. Second, the psychology of poverty is brutal. Whereas we tend to think of "depression" as an individual phenomena, a marker of bad brain chemistry, bad luck, or bad decision making, the fact remains that systemic forces (like the worth of our house) are contributing, and frequently, defining characteristics of such psychology. And in a while, I'll tell you a narrative (or two) to drive this point home as violently as I can.
For now, I need to go sell something for considerably less than its worth.
But.
Yet.
Still.
I'm trying to wrench my psyche out of the molasses-like state most commonly referred to as "depression." I'm arguing with myself, with the accumulation of "things to do" that aren't getting done. I'm fighting to ignore the gravitational pull of sleep, the murmuring assurances that a long nap, one speckled with dreams, one in which two or three 20-dollar bills fall from the pages of a long unread book, one in which the seemingly serrated edge of this life lived might be dulled, just a little.
It's tough to say, though, who, precisely, is winning that fight. From my perspective, it's a bit of a "zero-sum" game with emphasis on the "zero" and the gaping lack that empty value entails. You see, we're broke again.
Flat broke. Even though I'm working across the summer in moderate ways, our income is now defined in opposition to possession, and money, once again, is everything. Ironically, I am working. The money simply isn't enough to cover bills that were incurred in a different marketplace, to save a single penny, or to look forward beyond a few days.
When I started this, I can't have imagined that I would still be thinking about the economic crisis. I couldn't have believed that the housing market would still resemble a 1950s-era joke about marriage. Take my house . . . please. I And I certainly couldn't have entertained the notion that my wife, educated at a prestigious private university would still be unemployed--more than two years later--or that her unemployment benefits would have run out entirely.
I want, desperately, to take a nap and forget for a long while. I'd like to pretend that I could sell my house, which we bought in '05 for, say, a 5% gain over the course of six years. Or even a 1% gain. I'd like to think about other things like the light breeze pushing a child's empty swing in a neighbor's yard, a trip to somewhere heavenly like Taco Bell, the slow unfolding of a baseball game on television, or the tidy rhythms of a re-run sitcom. I'd like, in short, to be someone else, somewhere else, sometime else.
How then could I not be depressed? Even on a day like this when robins chirp loudly enough to drown the sounds of cars and planes passing nearby for destinations I may never know? And perhaps more pressingly, how is my wife surviving this?
The point here is twofold: First, only the particulars of our story are unique. With an unemployment rate of 9.2%, there are likely millions of people in similar situations. Second, the psychology of poverty is brutal. Whereas we tend to think of "depression" as an individual phenomena, a marker of bad brain chemistry, bad luck, or bad decision making, the fact remains that systemic forces (like the worth of our house) are contributing, and frequently, defining characteristics of such psychology. And in a while, I'll tell you a narrative (or two) to drive this point home as violently as I can.
For now, I need to go sell something for considerably less than its worth.
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