Meet your Next Gen financial overlords, America. They dine on caviar and apple juice.
Stocking up on GBP became my new hobby.
Men aren’t saving as much proportionally but, because of a glitch in the system that works in their favor (patriarchy), they have more total.
Success is not a straight line; success is a sine curve, even for the Internet famous. That can be really, really hard to remember, and harder still to admit.
I am a person who puts debit cards in her pocket and then leaves them there, and then goes a week without it and is just like, “Okay, I don’t know where my debit card is, I know it’s somewhere in a coat pocket or a jeans pocket or a tote bag, I’ll look for it later.”
Loans with collateral are referred to as “secured debt,” and loans without as “unsecured debt.”
As it turns out, you can’t merely wave your hand in a languorous way and say, “Be a dear and invest it in low-cost index funds won’t you, Philip? There’s a good chap.” I mean, for one thing, who is Philip, is he the butler? And if so how does he have access to the accounts?
Awesome excerpts are available in Salon from Daisy Hernandez’s upcoming book about working at the New York Times. Spoiler alert: she did not have a great time. The hardest part was trying to negotiate a White Male workspace. “Black boys consistently do badly in school,” her editor told her at one point, when she pitched a story about racism. “It’s like it’s genetic!”
Still, for a long time, getting her dream job meant independence, career advancement, and the kind of financial security her parents desperately wanted for her.
At the Times, people spend their days writing and then get paid every two weeks. It happens even if you disagree with Mr. Flaco or if you write a bad piece that needs tons of editing. You still get paid. So, convinced that this life can’t be mine, I insist on taking my intern paycheck to the bank every two weeks and cashing it. Each time the black teller hands me the stack of hundred dollar bills, I feel that I am real and that this is really happening to me. It is a lesson I learned from my mother.
On Fridays, if she had been paid at the factory, Tía Chuchi would take my sister and me to meet my mother at the bank, where she would be waiting on line with a check, that precious slip of paper in her hand. She would take the money from the bank teller in one swift move, as if someone was going to steal it from her, and then she would move over to the side and count the bills, slipping them into a small envelope the way she would place a pillow in a pillowcase. Those dollars were freedom. We could afford an evening meal at McDonald’s and pasteles, too.