One of my friends was complaining the other day about the latest way of establishing the pecking order within her parents’ social circles in Florida. “People used to rank each other by the properties they owned,” she said. “Now it’s ‘We used to have money with Madoff.’ Because he was so hard to get into. Isn’t that sick?”
I was torn between laughing and smacking my hand against my forehead. “That almost makes me want to defraud people,” I said. “They’re bragging that they got scammed by the best?” I have the utmost sympathy for people who have lost their life savings to a criminal, whether by force or fraud. But it was just beyond me to reconcile that sympathy with the knowledge that one of the first items on some of the victims’ agenda was to assure themselves and their friends that they were still better than the rest of us.
The other day, I revised my opinion, or softened it a bit. I saw a special on art stolen by the Nazis. One of the victims was still alive when the special was filmed, and he talked about his family being killed, about his family photos being gone, and about family heirlooms that had been stolen. He later saw those heirlooms in a warehouse full of Nazi loot. And I thought how it would feel to see any of my family crystal or furniture (such as it is) in someone else’s home, someone who I knew had stolen it. I would hate to have to justify a claim for its return, especially if I had been reduced in circumstances. I would be angry, and in trying to get what is rightfully mine, I would be humiliated.
This made me think about my mother, and her mother, and the contempt that I have always had for their attitudes about whatever family belongings we have. I have spent the better part of my life listening to one or the other of them talk about various pieces of furniture as though the British Museum is dying to get their hands on our things. (They aren’t.) In fact, going to a museum with my mother, listening to her compare things there with what she has in the corner cupboard, often makes me want to paraphrase Carrie Bradshaw to a wrestling Aidan and Big, and scream to her “We’re middle-class!” The fact is that we are not royalty. We are not aristocrats. I love that Mom has some nice china and crystal, but that’s just because I like them. It isn’t a valid basis for my sense of self.
In this regard, I have a strong difference of opinion with my mother, one that I imagine is very American and very middle class. I do not like the idea of basing my self-worth on any characteristic that was none of my doing. She most enjoys praising my characteristics that were none of my doing, largely because if they are genetic, she gets the credit. Even when she praises my law degree, she adds “talk about salmon swimming upstream,” because her father’s family went to Emory and practiced law in Atlanta. So, do I get the credit, Mom, or do you?
Five hundred words into this, I’m still conflicted. I am well aware that I value myself for many reasons other than the simple possession of a human soul. I value my inherited traits, in spite of the fact that I don’t believe in that. I value my accomplishments, in spite of the fact that I know that I have the potential to achieve much more. And I value the fact that I do know how to stay polite even when I am exhausted and it’s ninety-four degrees outside, how to charm the socks off of anyone, how to be equal to any occasion. I value the fact that my family has instilled the same skills and values in my niece. Does this make me a snob? I don’t think so, because I strongly dislike it when others behave coarsely or rudely. A snob wants to be special; I want everyone to be polite. That said, I love compliments, and I adore understanding a joke that almost no one else gets. It makes me feel smart and witty, more so than everyone else.
What about the inherent judgment in this entire train of thought? Am I castigating people for wanting to feel special about something, working to attain whatever it is that will make them feel special, and then having it stolen from them? How could I? Why don’t I simply feel for them the same mild pity that I feel for my mother and her mother, not because they were victimized, not because they’re broke, but because the money, the stuff, is what they feel is– or was– most valuable about them. That what they are most compelled to brag about is material.
And that is pitiable indeed. First of all, anyone who has watched twenty minutes of television knows that money does not create value in a person, it simply allows them to more greatly express and display their own values. In fact, this can be a detriment, as is evident if those twenty minutes were spent watching Bravo. Second, as Machiavelli pointed out, money is fickle. It’s risky to tie your self-worth to your bank balance. But most importantly, I don’t know anyone who I value most because of what they own. And if I did, I would write that person off as a waste or a load or both.
From an economic standpoint alone, rarity is what we value most. And there are a lot of people with money. Money if fungible; a million bucks is a million bucks; there’s nothing special about your particular million. Why don’t we decide to value things that matter, and that last? What about never making excuses? What about always following your heart in life, refusing to live by default? What about having the courage to face unpleasant truths and overcome them? What about having the compassion to remember to compliment a stranger who looks like they need it? Or having the public spirit to pick up nails off of the ground? Or the tenacity to work harder than you thought you could? Or the creativity to throw a fabulous party on a tiny budget, in a shitty apartment, and still make your guests feel special? When I think of the people I admire most, people I am most grateful know, these are the things that come to my mind. And I know I’m not the only one.
I adore money, and I’d be furious if someone defrauded me. But riskier than any investment is the idea of tying your self-worth to your net worth. And, to my mind, it’s also a clear sign that you don’t know what’s really valuable about you.