Things My Dad Gave Me: A Scarcity Mindset
My dad died a week ago Friday. Iâm trying to process his loss the best I can (with no help from my insane relatives), which involves a lot of reflection on our better memories, which either center on shared musical experiences, or Christmas. But of course the rougher memories trickle in as well.
I remember the year my dad declared bankrupcy like it was yesterday. He was living in Tobyhana, a small town in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. He was driving a gold Daewoo heâd been leasing (Dad loved cars, but hadnât bought one new in decades; used sales or leases were his bag). Heâd been bouncing around apartments in Whitestone, in the city, where everything is smaller and more expensive. So before Tobyhanna, when I came to visit my dad (once every third month, or on holidays) I stayed on couches, or Dad slept on the couch and I took his bed. In my nine years on earth, I never had a room of my own, until that house. I remember when it was empty and he told me it was mine. I remember coming back three months later and heâd bought me a bunk bed, with a futon bottom that folded out into a double bed. He told me I could have a friend come stay sometime if I wanted. I could be so bold as to make friends in Dadâs neighborhood? And not wonder if heâd move again and Iâd never see them again? How novel! I remember us going to Rite Aid, where Dad loved to go on shopping sprees (because you could buy so many things, for so little money per item!) and getting a Little Mermaid figurine to put on the dresser (there was a dresser!). It was the cherry on top of the perfect room sundae, and it was all mine.
I remember three months after that, when he told me it was all gone. The house, the bunk bed, the figurine, the Daewoo. It had all been ârepossessed,â a word Iâd never heard before, by the bank. My mom tried to explain to me the concept of âcredit card debtâ with little success.
The next month was my birthday. Anyone whoâs known me since childhood wouldnât be surprised that I grew up to become a professional vocalist. I was constantly singing, making the world my stage. My elementary school peers nicknamed me âJukebox.â So when my dad bought me a karaoke machine for my birthday, youâd think I wouldâve been over the moon. And I was, until I saw that heâd left the sticker on: âRite Aid - $49.95.âł I didnât know how much $50 was exactly, but it felt like a lot. After my dad left to go back home, I told my mom I didnât want the karaoke machine, and to ask Dad if he could take it back to the store. He called, confused, âDonât you like it?â âI love it, Dad. I just donât need it.âÂ
A few months later was Christmas. I always spent Christmas Eve with Mom, and on Christmas Day, Dad would come pick me up and weâd drive into the city. Weâd go to Radio City Music Hall to see the Rockettes âChristmas Spectacularâ show (cancelled for the rest of this season on the day he died; fitting), then go see the tree in Rockefeller Center, then go ice skating in the plaza, then go look at all the lights in Douglaston.Â
This Christmas was different. We couldnât go see the Rockettes this year, he said. I threw a tantrum. I didnât understand. We could still go see the tree and skate though, which appeased me well enough. But on the way walking there I saw a pretzel vendor. âDad I want a pretzel.â âI thought you wanted to go skating?â âI do! I also want a pretzel!â âYou canât have both.â âWhy not?â âBecause I said so.â I chose skating, of course. But that moment is seered into my brain because it wasnât until years later, when I could grasp the idea of debt, that I realized I couldnât have both because he couldnât afford both. Or Radio City. Or probably skating either, but he made it happen.Â
He taught me the necessity of choice, and the idea of needs versus wants, at far too young an age.Â
So consequently, here at greater than thirty years of age, Iâm still struggling with a scarcity mindset. Even though I donât need to. Scared of âending upâ like my dad, Iâve always been careful with money. Iâve never had a late credit card payment since opening my first account at age eighteen. Iâve foregone so many trips and foods and experiences because I understood that once you spend money, itâs gone forever. Instead, I saved it for a rainy day. I havenât really had one yet, but Iâm still waiting for the shoe to drop. And since I canât shake that feeling, I canât loosen the overly tight grip I have on my own bank account.
My phone is dying. It doesnât have last more than 2 hours off the charger, and you canât hear anyone talking unless you put them on speaker. My tablet shuts off randomly if you look at it funny. I canât use my laptop without keeping it plugged in because the battery is 20 charge cycles from causing permanent damage to the hard drive. I broke three pairs of headphones this year, and havenât gotten new ones; I instead hold my phone and bike with one hand which is crazy dangerous.Â
A phone or tablet is like $700. A laptop is probably double that. But headphones are about $15âand I canât bring myself to buy any of it. And when I do buy nice things for myself, I get massive guilt, and return it all. Almost every time. Because no matter how much money I make, or save, I am always waiting for someone to come take it away, to the point where I not only donât spend money on leisure, I donât even spend it on necessities.Â
I guess my love of minimalism aligns nicely, but I wish it fit for different reasons.Â
What did your parents give you?
