Dear Economy,
I don’t understand you, I admit it. I should by now—I’ve known you long enough. But every time I think I’ve got a handle on what you’re all about, my theory goes up in flames, like my heating budget for the winter. You’re a sly one, a real fast talker, a confidence man. I always used to wish you’d pay attention to me—the Girl Next Door. I used to think we’d be good together, if you took some anger management courses first. Now, not so much. I’m smarter than I was then. I don’t expect too much out of you anymore.
I know you and Wall Street are all serious and stuff. And I know your parents love the fact that you and Wall Street are all coupled up. It makes them look good, prosperous. Your family shops in bulk at Capitalism R Us and flashes whiter-than-white made-for-TV grins at the rest of the block and thinks of itself as a pretty powerful clan. It would be impressive if it weren’t so pathetic.
I watch you come and go from my bedroom window. You don’t seem to need me much most of the time, or notice I’m there. You’re obsessed with Wall Street, everybody knows that. You’ve got her all over the inside of your locker, I know, I saw. I used to feel that way about Kevin Bacon from Footloose.
But whenever you and Wall Street have a falling out, the story changes. You stomp around and wind up on my doorstep, cussing, being all lovesick and lovelorn, demanding my attention and friendship, acting like you care. Then, when I offer advice, you totally ignore me and go back to doing the same old crap.
I know you and Wall Street have been going steady for some time. I can’t say I like her. I think she’s out for herself. She doesn’t give me the time of day. When I tried to get to know her better, for your sake, she said I’d need a minimum of $1000 before she’d even look at me. When I told her I didn’t have $1000 just yet because I lost my job and have $65K in student loans, she turned on her heel and walked away with her buddies, laughing. I think she was off to vote for herself for Prom Queen.
And even don’t get me started on her family. Cripes.
So now I hear through the grapevine that Wall Street’s in big trouble. You guys have been in trouble before, but this time, you’ve really blown it. Some people are saying you’re to blame; others are saying she got what she had coming. I won’t tell you the kind of words folks are using. You can probably imagine.
I’m thinking all of what I’ve been hearing is true, or close to it, because you’ve been leaving me crazy notes in my mailbox and in my locker. You keep signing them with fake names, but I know it’s you. You want me to fork over some cash to help you and Wall Street out of your mess. You say you don’t plan on paying it back, soon or ever, but that I should just trust you when you say it will help me out down the line.
My mama brought me up right. Meaning: Generally, I like to help out, to pitch in. But this time, I’ve had enough of your crap, you and Wall Street’s. I’ll help you out, but only on my terms.
If you want my tax refund for the next 10 years, I’ll consider it if and only if you forgive all my student loans, the ones I can’t even make a dent in, not if I want to keep a roof over my head and feed my kids. That would be a nice start. If you want my help, you’re going to have to pony up with some universal health insurance. I’ve been wearing the same glasses for 6 years, and buying my contact lenses online from Canada, guessing at my prescription, and man, my eyes hurt. If you want my help, you’re going to have to cut up your credit cards, and keep your paws off NPR and PBS, permanently.
You’re going to have to stop spouting that rhetoric about how we’re all in this together—suddenly—when you haven’t paid an ounce of attention to those of us who’ve been worse off than you and Wall Street for years.
You don’t get to take money from the people that you and Wall Street don’t let into your clubhouse. Except you two will probably find a way to do just that. That’s just who you are. Who listens to the Girl Next Door, the one without $100—let alone $1000—to her name? Not you.
Go on, tell me I belong in Denmark. I probably do. Too bad I can’t afford to get there. Denmark’s approach to its people makes sense to me, the concept of ‘you get what you pay for,’ when it comes to government programs that try to bridge the gap between rich and poor. I like the concept of living in a country that has a safety net that helps the people instead of the institutions that have forgotten what people are.
Call me naive; call me a socialist. I gave up caring what you thought of me a while back, after you swiped my credit cards after the bankruptcy. If I can figure out how to live on cash, not credit, I’m sure you and Wall Street can too. You’re supposed to be a lot smarter than I am. So I hear. Time and time again.
All I’m going to say from now on? Good luck with Wall Street, Economy. I always told you she was high-maintenance.
And stop bothering me already. You’re not getting my unemployment check. Not this week, at least.
Sincerely,
The Girl Next Door
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