I walk through Rho parking lot every day on my way home from class. I live in Lovernich, which isn’t that bad, but I happen to reside in the worst building: no ocean view, a refrigerator that smells like rotted cucumber no matter how many boxes of baking soda we lavish upon its odoriferous sensibility, and we don’t have cable. How? I don’t even know, but I’ve been missing out on the “Bachelor” for four weeks, and I’m harboring bitterness in my cold, dark soul — those roses can’t be given out without my opinions so spoken to the void.
My roommates and I have determined to redeem our living situation next year by investing in a New York City bachelorette pad…which will probably just equate to us drooling for hours over Pinterest because who can really afford something of Mila Kunis’s taste right out of college? She is selling her place right now for more than the cost groceries for a normal human’s lifetime. If this person ate lamb shanks and cold-pressed juice every day. Like, who does that?
Actually, this little side rant has brought me to my main point, which is surprising because, who would have thought I may actually say something of substance in this article? Or not. We’ll see. Stay tuned.
Dear readers, as I stroll through Rho parking lot to my humble apartment with its sad, blue carpet and Formica counter tops from the ’80s, I just so happen to pass these cars in succession: the newest Ferrari, the newest Hummer, the newest Porsche — okay, maybe they weren’t all the newest, but you get my meaning. Then, in all its grandeur, a beat up Honda sat next to them with a crunched front bender and too many bumper stickers. The poor Honda, in all its poorness, sat there, proud of its poorness and frowning at its glitzy neighbors as if to say, “I’m good just the way I am,” which is true. The Honda was so good, just the way it is.
I patted the Honda on the hood as if to say, I’m here with you, dear friend. Then I glared at the nice cars and told them that it’s not that great to be so shiny anyway, and so what that I use coupons and buy generic brands. What a shame, I tell them, what a crying shame that you are so nice. You should be embarrassed to be so pretty and nice-looking. Your owners shouldn’t drive you, and no one at college should drive you. We should all be eating Top Ramen and complaining about debt. No one should own or drive anything, experience things or be nicer than — well, me. My roommate coined the phrase “token poor” and I like to think it applies nicely to my friend, the Honda and obviously, me.
Of course, in our own minds, we are all token poors. We all have less than the next person and we all definitely have less than what we want to have. I know, personally, that I take claim in my “poor” status and blame those with more than me for having more than me.
I call myself the token poor to be funny, to draw the “oh man, me too” kind of sympathy from my peers and to pat myself on the back that I’m not like any one of those fancy cars over there. I am better because I am not materialistic. I am better, because of my born-in circumstance of not being the heiress of Wall Street or the next Princess of Genovia. So basically, I find my betterness in something that is pretty much entirely dependent on my circumstances.
Never mind anything that makes me actually me: my immaturity, my hopes and dreams, my many faults and my constant worry that maybe I’m a troll and won’t make anything of my life. Never mind any of the intangibles that define a person. All I care about, in that moment in the parking lot, is that there are people out there with more than me and I am therefore better than them because I have less. It’s a strange logic, but it’s very real to me and the beat up Honda. It’s also very ugly. And recognizing this strange, ugly logic that isn’t really logic in myself is like hugging a cactus. It’s prickly, painful and leaves red welts because obviously I’m allergic to cactuses.
When I — and we — shame those who have the nice cars, fancy apartments with ocean views, who never worry about their next tuition payment, who have bills to blow and who have designer everything is, itself, a shame.
Why can’t I appreciate the rumble of the Ferrari, the straight up coolness of the Hummer and the speed of the Porsche and then move on? Why do I feel the need to justify my having less and hate their having more? Why do I shame the rich and then shame myself for these thoughts?
This will be continued because I have more questions for myself and you. Also, I can’t find my own car in Rho, so I’ll be wandering around among these trophy machines for a while, stewing upon my own nonexistent . Find me, please, before I abstract myself into oblivion. And watch the sun set with me over these shiny hoods because the passage of time seems to relieve all burdens, even those wrought of your own doing.
__________
Follow Taylor Nam on Twitter: @nam_nam330
