It's a cliche that money doesn't buy happiness. But I'm starting with a cliche. Too bad. I chose a career that means I'll never make a lot of money. That's OK. That's my choice, and I don't regret it. I still have a happy, fulfilled life with friends, travel, great books, and my necessities more than met. Of course a bit more money would make some things easier, but that's always the case. And I don't think anyone, anywhere should have to live in abject poverty, unable to obtain food, health care, or a roof over their head. There's no real reason that should be the case given how much wealth exists in the world - in New York City alone. There is also the fact that really wealthy people just tend to be less interesting overall. Yes, that's a generalization. But it's my experience. That's right. I'm saying too much money makes people boring. Just read the travel section of the New York Times for an example. There is a disproportionate emphasis on luxury travel. Some of it is to really cool destinations. But why would anyone want to go to Myanmar, for example, just to hang out on a private yacht the whole time? It sounds dull (and possibly exploitative, which is another issue). I had tons of fun in Europe last year staying in hostels and locally owned hotels, eating local cuisine, and seeing cultural and geographical sites.
For about a year, I dated a guy who could afford to do pretty much whatever he wanted. He would fly to another city or even country for a weekend just for a rock concert. He owned most of the products Apple put out (and when I mentioned needing a new battery for my 2006 MacBook, his response was "why don't you just get a new computer?"). He would take me out to dinners that cost approximately my monthly rent. We went to restaurants where they just brought foie gras to the table as an in-between-course snack. A trip to Las Vegas involved a 1200 dollar (for two people) helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon. The views were fabulous. I got motion sickness and threw up. I never asked to go to any of these places, and I certainly couldn't pay for them. It wasn't that I didn't have qualms about the lifestyle I got to enjoy when I was with him, and it wasn't why I was dating him (that would be because we had a great first date where it turned out we read the same SF novels, to our mutual surprise and delight). I just pushed all my qualms aside. I didn't really realize the league I was playing in until a few dates in, when I got a glimpse of how much the wine he ordered cost at the restaurant where we were eating. But I liked him, and I felt it wasn't my place to critique - and I was enjoying myself, in spite of feeling like a bit of a fraud when waiters behaved like the servants on Downton Abbey and acted as though we were the upstairs folks. I always, deep down, knew there was something wrong about it. That I couldn't drink 300 dollar wine one day and walk past the homeless guy in my neighborhood the next and really be OK with that. Every year I assign my students to read Peter Singer's controversial New York Times piece, The Singer Solution to World Poverty, in which Singer passionately, and controversially argues that not donating a significant percentage of one's income to charity renders one culpable for the millions of children dying of easily treatable diseases in the developing world. There are problems with Singer's rhetoric that I and the students discuss, but over the years I've come to agree with the nugget of his argument. And it nagged at me as I ate those beautiful, luxurious dinners and drank that ridiculously expensive wine. And then there was the simple fact that I always had just as much fun, if not more, going to a movie and hitting a diner or pub afterwards. Eventually, it became clearer to me that we didn't share all of the same values, though I don't think he was a bad person. We had our first fight about the Chicago teachers' strike. I'll not go into the details - it's probably easy to infer the positions we had on it. And even as I realized this stuff, I still liked him - and maybe I was getting a little hooked on the lifestyle.
But he really had no concept of certain things, and I think that's partly due to not really comprehending a need to worry about money or a need to budget and plan. And this seeped into other aspects of his character - a general carelessness or neglect about a need to take responsibility for things he'd said or offered to do. He offered to give me his old MacBook a couple of times (it was newer than mine). After refusing a few times, I eventually accepted, but it never happened. Not a huge deal, really. He didn't owe it to me. But why offer? And what if I'd counted on it? (I eventually learned never to count on offers like that - he'd make them frequently.) And then he'd just forget when we had plans, which was a bigger deal. Or he'd forget to tell me he couldn't make our date after all, and I'd be stuck home on Saturday night, unable to find new plans at the last minute because he didn't tell me in time. Eventually, he moved away for a better job and I didn't think long distance would be a good idea. I think in some ways I had a lucky escape. Because I don't want to start to value things like 300 dollar wine. And the other thing - we never seemed to talk about those SF novels or any of the cool stuff we had seemed to have in common. It was always about the food or the wine or ... I don't even recall really. He was always saying how money wasn't really important. And I don't think he'd always had it (he was a bit cagey about his childhood), but he certainly didn't seem to know how to live without it when I knew him.
And maybe it's not really so much that money makes people boring, but that it causes amnesia. Because it's so easy to turn a blind eye to those who have nothing when one is eating a $200 dollar five course tasting menu and getting drunk on champagne and lighting and being treated like royalty. I certainly was in some danger of forgetting, though I always returned to the real world at the end of the evening. I also told myself if I ended up with this guy, I would do some good with whatever I gained from it. But it's never really enough, is it? Giving to charity and forgetting about it? That doesn't make anyone a better person. It just eases a prickling conscience a bit, or serves as a nice tax write-off. But it also helps the amnesia along. I have respect for those people with means who actually go out into the world and do things hands on. When there are homeless people sitting outside when I'm on the way home from the Michelin star restaurant, it makes it hard to forget. And I'm not saying I have the solution to this dilemma, but I think some redistribution of wealth is probably necessary for us to live in a moral world (I can say that. I'm not running for office).
On a less extreme level, I've even noticed my friends who are making comfortable salaries of their own for the first time in their lives starting to forget. I had a friend suggest that my lifestyle was less than grown-up because I couldn't afford to do certain things - I can't splurge on Broadway tickets or trips to Hawaii. Not right now at least. A couple of years ago, this person couldn't either. Amnesia.
Finally - I really don't resent anyone for living a comfortable life, and I certainly enjoy buying things I don't need from time to time. I just think more people should be able to have the things they do need. And that it's easy to forget not only what it's like not to live that life, but that one also can get into a rut and become just a little bit dull as a result.
(I guess I have two theses here, which is not great writing, but hopefully my point was clear).
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