Taking a look at the role money has played in my life. It isn’t a pretty picture to paint.
Here is a poem I wrote when I was twenty-three:
“One day soon, I’ll be free of money
And failed relationships.”
Boy, how wrong I was about that first one? I’ll never be free from money. It is the “God” of my world, because that’s what the world has chosen to worship. As part of the millions of the Working Poor (read, slaves), I daily trade my time, my body, my heart, my dreams, my talents and my life for green pieces of paper and various metal coins = survival. Truly, a wage slave is still a slave, without property other than objects to convey a sense of worth or value. It is an uneven, unfair exchange. All the Working Poor get is some bullshit from Wal-Mart or Family Dollar stores. We trade our lives to consume objectified bullshit. Worse, we tell our children, “That’s the way it is.”
Yeah, ain’t that the truth. I hate money, and I hate myself for failing to find a way for me to secure riches. When I see some famous blockheaad who’s wildly successful and famous but can’t stay out of rehab, or is “suffering for their art,” I want to reach for my revolver. But, am I any better? What would I do with more money that I could spend? Sit on it and have a beautiful trophy wife and a house as big as the Bank of America?
I grew up poor and black in a backward, racist town. I didn’t feel poor until the other kids made fun of my old clothes. I didn’t about that so much. But when I couldn’t play on the football team because I couldn’t get $15 for a uniform, I was crushed and began resenting the power money had for others who could get it. I couldn’t get new clothes, or lunch money or braces. I hated my mother for giving up on herself and us kids. I hated myself for having to live in that apartment where there was little love to take the edge off of things. It’s a surprise to me that I am not MORE bitter than I am.
I am disgusted with myself that I have allowed the concept of money rule my life and define my being. It is distasteful, and I feel a rant coming on. Actually, money defines me with it’s negative space. The thing that isn’t there, the lack thereof. I went down the path of the struggling artist. Well, at least I wasn’t burdened with tortured self-destructiveness. I was a pretty happy-go-lucky guy. I just failed at it and went back into wage-slaving.
And then there are the people in the world with EVEN LESS. I would look like a King, to these ones. I bought a pair of adidas running shoes before I realized that they were made in China, probably by some six-year-old kid. Or an entire factory of them… The shame.
What I feel about money must be how I feel about myself.
Not a good feeling. At least I got over on the failed relationship part. I’ve been going out with myself for a couple of weeks, and I think that we are going to work things out. lol
To be continued.