The Language of Money

The language of money is one of, hardship and privilege. Wealth, or lack there of, is definitive, it determines where you live, what you do, education, style, health, comfort, and entertainment. It is status, a label in which we are all unavoidably bound. Money is limiting and can set you free. It can make or break a person, a family, a relationship.

Since I was very young I would always hear people claim that they would rather be poor and happy than wealthy and discontent. While this is an enchanting thought, the flighty people who so effortlessly make such a statement have obviously never struggled financially. Anyone who has ever had to deal with the anxiety and heartbreak of not knowing where their next meal is coming from, or whether or not they will be able to afford college would never make such a statement, not without thoroughly contemplating both sides of the situation, because the truth is, how could anyone be sad when they have no limits in life, when they can literally afford to do and have whatever they want?

When I was younger my mom always cooked quiche or casserole for dinner because we were too poor to afford much else. I didn't mind quiche very much, but I hated the casserole. Macaroni noodles, an ambiguous form of cheese food, sometimes ground beef, and the obligatory slivers of some mucous-colored vegetable (perhaps onion or celery), all piled together in the dreaded white casserole dish. Not only did I have to endure casserole for dinner, but its remnants, cold and sticky from the fridge, were microwaved for lunch until all of it was eaten.

On occasion, I would attempt to dispose of the slimy noodles, quietly shove them off the plastic plate where they lied, lifeless and stale. On one particularly low Tuesday, I stood up from the table and indiscreetly scraped the freshly prepared mush off of my plate and into the garbage disposal. I watched as the noodles slid off the pale pink dish and couldn’t help but smile, there was just something so satisfying about the sight of the detestable food finally reaching it’s rightful destination.

As I turned with pride to walk back to my seat at the table I expected to hear out of my mother’s mouth, something along the lines of, “There are starving children in China.” Instead, there was silence. I glanced over at my mother, her eyes were filled with tears, never in my life have I ever felt so selfish. It wasn’t her fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, but I had disrespected her, which is something that would never happen again.

My brothers stared at me in disbelief, “What’s your problem?” Daniel asked, his face was solemn and relentless. Daniel is only thirteen months older than I am, we had always understood each other, but my act of protest caught him so off guard that his eyes that once sparkled with empathy were now grave and unamused.

I didn’t even know how to respond, there was nothing I could say to compensate for what was apparently an unspeakable act. I wanted to look at my mother, but couldn’t. I was afraid that if I did the pain her eyes would be all too real.

“What?” I to this day I have no idea why I said anything at all, this was probably the worst time to be such a smart ass. The question sounded so insincere, as if there were any way I didn’t know why thery were all so indignant. I rinsed the remains off my plate then walked quietly to my room. I felt terrible.

I guess this is one of those moments where one kicks one's self, but if you've ever tried it, it takes a considerable amount of balance and is ineffective in the way of punishment, so instead I spent the night in tears, how feeble. I knew we couldn’t afford much more than cooked noodles and yet, I let my selfish thoughts conquer me. I was hoping that by the time the sun rose all would be forgotten, I even prepared myself for the idea that the repulsive food may be waiting for me at lunch, cruel and unforgiving, mocking me in that silly white casserole dish. However, to my immense surprise, all was forgotten. No one spoke a word of the incident and I never again complained about any adversity my family had to endure together.

It’s odd how this one act, a simple gesture, impacted everyone so strongly. However superfluous now, at the time, money was such a tender