Money

We've been going through some hard times. When I was a little girl, I was fortunate enough to have some beautiful, truly lovely liberal people as neighbors. Their children were older than I, my siblings' age, so they all took me on as the pet project, as it were. Their house was enchanting, a oaken, dark, warm-wood home that was filled with treasures in every bookcase and hanging on every wall. The photos, before it was easy to print large-format photos from digital cameras, were poster-size and all from the husband's hikes throughout the world.

They are a truly extraordinary couple, and their children and grandchildren continue this tradition. My greatest memories of childhood are actually of them, the love and wonder they imbued in every word and conversation they engaged with me. Their parents, both ironically, had been missionaries in South Africa and like many who had experienced this, became very liberal as a result. I have learned more about how to live life from them than I ever shall from anyone else. At 92, the same age as my father would have been if he was still alive, they are the most vibrant, youthful, and adventuresome people I know.

I am so happy that I have had the opportunity to know them. They have taken me, clearly, under their wing. One of their favorite stories is that my family, the only East Asian-American family on the cul-de-sac, displayed a level of strictness that rivaled the von Trapp family in the movie, The Sound of Music. Except, evidently, when it came to me. At least, when I was a toddler, because once I was cognizant, my life became as hard as my siblings'. But for a while, I had a charm that commanded my entire family: "I remember your entire family would be outside, working under your parents stern eyes and you would come out and shout and everyone, just everyone, would drop what they were doing and come running!" And then she would laugh at the memory. It is, indeed, her favorite memory of me and I confess it is one of mine, as well. Through her eyes.

They knew that we were experiencing hard times, and so the husband, I'll call him Mr. Schuyler because I like that name, said that at one point early in his career, he had done some missionary work, too. Mind you, these are not religious people. However, he had done some. As a result, he receives a modest monthly stipend of $120.

He told us he was going to give it to us.

I was floored.

The generosity, the love, of these people continues to amaze and silence me.


Throughout our past four years of financial hardship, I have striven for a normalcy that my father and mother were never able to share with my family. My daughter has several piggy banks she's been given from various people and whenever I have an extra dollar or two, even a ten or twenty, I put them in there. Along with lots of change. Whatever we have. I want her to feel abundance and not adopt the stress, especially because it is inappropriate, of adult concerns.

Not that she cares, because she doesn't. I am determined not to have her grow up like me, but she has this wonderful innocence about money that is refreshing in this den of jadedness called Pacific Palisades. So at the beginning of one month, after having experienced a particularly difficult situation in choosing whether or not to keep insurance for our newborn and our then five-year old, I felt an intense wave of gratitude for this check. At least we would be able to eat decently.

I must have danced a jig, or at least, my version of one. I tend to cheer when I'm happy, and no, I was never a cheerleader (I had a brain). I just find that joy and gratitude, if they don't spontaneously inspire singing, must be expressed physically. Hence the jumping up and down.

My older daughter was equally ecstatic and asked what happened. "Oh, you know, the Schuylers? They're always sending you the origami paper, those really cool cards she makes for us, and all kinds of projects? Well, they sent us some money! Isn't that soo nice? We are soo lucky!"

Honestly, I just don't know where my daughter comes from. This was her response: "Mama! I have so much money in my banks! I don't need it. Can I send it to them? To thank them?"

Once, I saw my girl kitty, Pinky, as she was trying to train our then-newly adopted kitty, Sasquatch. She noted that, despite his youth (at the time only five months), he was already living up to his name. Messy, shaggy fur. So, true to any woman, she put him in a headlock and began grooming his head. Vigorously.

That is what I wanted to do to my daughter. She is just love personified. What? I think it is completely normal to want to put my daughter in a headlock and groom her. Completely.