Diary: Broke

I used to have an unhealthy relationship with money.

I was a child prodigy Pacman junkie. The papi store under my apartment building was always prepared with extra rolls of quarters on Saturday mornings knowing that many of my Saturdays were dedicated to hours of Pacman. Between the in and out goers and the growing crowd of onlookers, I consumed everyone’s attention. They were fascinated by how an elementary aged girl managed to beat each level with ease and never seem to run out of money to play. There was no such thing as allowing someone else to play. The block respected my commitment and no one ever fought me about it. They enjoyed watching me play more than playing on their own. Plus, it did help that my father was right outside of the store yapping it up with his friends while I played for hours.

He was well-respected in our neighborhood and everyone knew I was his daughter so very seldom did I run into any problems. He talked and I played. I played and he talked. When the roll of quarters ended, I would run outside to my father and ask for more money to exchange for more quarters. I was given twenty dollar bill after twenty dollar bill, not realizing that one specific Saturday morning, I recklessly spent $100 in the machine on several rounds of play. My father didn’t realize it either until he counted what was in his pocket after dinner. When he realized he was missing $100, it didn’t dawn on him that he recklessly handed it over to me in increments of twenty dollar bills in the course of his talking and my playing. He didn’t even seem annoyed. I guess he figured that his choice to oblige my video game fix was not a license to project upset.

“A penny saved is a penny earned.”

—Benjamin Franklin, scientist, writer, innovator

And this is where my beautifully messy relationship with money began.

I didn’t really learn what it was like to be broke until my second year of grad school. I moved into an open floor concept, one-bedroom apartment, with the help of my parents, and was responsible for furnishing the place. It was a tough financial time for my parents so the wellspring that was once an abundant stream became a trickle. My father lost his full-time job and my mom had to manage the financial weight for some time. They made it clear that while they were able to support in some regard that they needed me to be frugal and extra aware of how I was spending what money I did have left and although they knew I wasn’t being irresponsible with the little that I had, the little I had never felt little next to their support. I felt so guilty for being a twenty-three year old grad school student without the ability to help my parents in their time of need let alone release them from having to support me altogether.

I toggled between being too ambitious and over learned. Yet, I knew that the grad school path was a stellar decision in my academic journey. I didn’t expect it to highlight the growing up I had to do. I was broke—lots of knowledge but little money; lots of books but no surplus to show for it; an air mattress for a bed and a mouse for a friend. I was ruffing it but I was filled with gratitude and knew I had to do more.

This ambition and desire for more a thorough academic imprint didn’t shift much throughout the years, but after a repossession, some student loan debt, the investment that was daycare, and becoming a full time entrepreneur, I have found myself back in the pool of asking a question I haven’t asked in some years: Why am I still broke? Why is here still so hard? What have I failed to steward well?

I know some of the answer to this and a fraction of the answer has me in a chokehold. My relationship with money has changed drastically but I am still not where I want to be. The woman I have a vision of against the woman I am at present are not yet at a place of congruence. They are familiar with each other, but their rhythms are not yet parallel. They look alike but they are not the same. What becomes of ambition against the backdrop of lack? Did I spend too much time in school? Did I disappoint my parents? Am I disappointing God? How can I un-disappoint me?

I’m unpacking the history I’ve lived and overcome and even in the reality of seemingly being broke, I am not without. I also know there’s more. There has to be more because I have more to give.

Good thing God doesn’t give up on us and good thing there are always pennies to collect.