Essay: Our fickle fortunes

By SARAH STANKORB
Special to the Times-Union

The palm reader giggled as he ran a finger over my hand. “You’ll be poor and you’ll be rich, but you’ll always be bad with money. Fortunately, you’ll also always have someone to take care of you.” I rolled my eyes. I just wasn’t that kind of girl. We were once so broke that we’d swipe the Sunday paper from the stand at the grocery store, just for the coupons we needed, then return the rest before checking out. We only ever did it on Monday nights when the paper was half price, and we justified our theft of manufacturers’ coupons with the assertion that soon the papers would be tossed out anyway.

Being backed into a corner will help you rationalize anything.

I had moved in with my college boyfriend after graduation. With our new degrees and my considerable student debt, we nestled into our first apartment, an efficiency in a Washington, D.C., suburb.

Unsure as to which field I should apply my philosophy degree, I instead latched on to the romantic notion that doing community service for a year on a poverty-level stipend was a logical first step. AmeriCorps would look good on my resume later, someone at the college career center told me. Of course, we assumed my far better credentialed pre-med, biology major, chemistry minor boyfriend would have no trouble landing a job.

It was mid-October. He still hadn’t found work. We were buying groceries on my credit card and hoping we could get a cash advance from his card for the rent. Of course, we didn’t tell our parents. Mine couldn’t help, and his would insist upon it. We were on our own. We’d be fine. We didn’t want anyone to know how bad things were.

And just when things got desperate, he landed a research job. It didn’t pay much, but “not much” was more than twice what I was making. I began my graduate school applications while he set to work applying to medical school.

When we were both accepted, we celebrated with a European backpacking tour via MasterCard.

Two years later, we needed a new plan. I had a freshly minted M.A., and he was mid-way through medical school. I had taken out even more student loans. He had racked up enough that we joked our combined debt could buy us a house. A nice house. I now had a piece of paper that proved my competence at researching and writing on obscure topics. I was both too inexperienced and overqualified for many entry-level jobs. When I took a position at a small Catholic elementary school, I didn’t know enough to know how little I was making. Since my now-husband couldn’t work during medical school, I was the only one earning a paycheck.

We were fine, so long as the car worked and no one got sick. The car broke down. Then the new car broke down. I needed tests at the hospital.

Our noble schemes for getting out of debt receded as we dealt with the newest round of bills.

It’s not impressive to me how much our lives changed as we crept toward the middle class. Instead, I am struck by how each increment became our new normal. Our needs grew to match, if not exceed, our income. We couldn’t get ahead. Each year we shaved off a little debt, but its kin always continued multiplying.

Residency began, bringing with it 30-hour shifts and (finally!) that second paycheck. Even strangers seemed to have a vested interest in our potential wealth. People would ask, “How long until you make real doctor money?” I’d roll my eyes. “Five years. We’re doing just fine though, thanks.”

Then I got pregnant.

Hear the giant whooshing sound as every spare nickel we possessed was sucked into the vortex of parenthood. I went from being reasonably career-driven, to working so that I could work. I wondered if I could simply have my paycheck deposited with the day care.

Yet our lives were richer than they had ever been thanks to the addition of our new baby. Financially, we were more secure than we’d ever been. I thought of the young college grads we were seven years before, skimping on groceries and stealing coupons and felt wistful. I considered all of the bad choices we’d made in the years between and knew we were lucky to have made it through.

“Hey,” says my husband, calling me at work, “lay off the checking account until Friday, OK?”

We had $9. Some bills had been scheduled incorrectly. I’d splurged and stocked up on three cases of diapers.

We’d burned through our savings during my extended maternity leave. Better educated, better credentialed, better paid, and we had $9.

Once, in the year after college, I’d had 67 cents in my bank account, so I guess relative to that, life had improved. But now, we were adults, parents even.

“Don’t worry, we both get paid Friday.” And I couldn’t worry. The amount of money that would appear in just a few days’ time was equal to what we once had to live on for months.

By all standards, we are fortunate. We both have jobs, and we are fairly certain we will continue having them tomorrow. But our heads are ever just above water. There are so many old adages about saving and frugality that fail to apply to us. I’m ashamed of our ability to juggle debt. I’m reticent about the fact that despite my years of hard work, what may get me through in the end was marrying well.

Still, it’s a high-wire act. We keep gambling that we can keep ahead of the waves of debt, that some day we’ll make enough to outpace what we owe. Good fortune, rather than making a fortune, is all that’s sustaining us now.

Sarah Stankorb is a graduate of the University of Chicago and manages communications for a national nonprofit in Washington, D.C. At her day job, she works to support workforce development and creating pathways out of poverty.