Deciding To Be Poor In Order To Be Rich

Yesterday, for the first time in a long time, I told the story about how my partner, Rich, and I met. It's the silliest story in the world, one that involves "just knowing" that we'd be together before we had even met, keeping a box of "Rich" trinkets - name tags he had worn, a sticker he had given me, and a napkin that represented the first time I touched his arm - hidden in my sock drawer, and then the first time we danced, or really danced around a conversation. What sicky-sweet, wholly endearing lunacy!

That story led to the one about living in a migrant worker shack, and selling blood to eat, and picking wildflowers for presents because we couldn't afford much more.. etc.

In my mind, these stories are highly romanticised. I see them as a time when I was happy and carefree despite having nothing or maybe because we had nothing. And yes, I do remember having to decide which bills to pay. I remember the sting of embarrassment when my credit card(s) were rejected when I tried to buy books for school, or when I had to count pennies at the gas station to see exactly where I had to stop the pump. If my car died or got towed, I wouldn't be able to drive for a month, or until I could save enough to get it fixed or un-impounded. The idea of actually going out to dinner was hilarious - as in Taco Bell was a date.

The great thing about this time in my life was I didn't consider myself poor. I knew I always had a place to stay (even if that meant going back home). I knew I wouldn't starve. AND I had so many friends in similar circumstances that we were creative in how we shared. We lent (read "gave" because there was no expectation of paying anything back, unless it was rent) each other cash - shared bank loans, crashed at each other's places, fed each other, and spent a lot of time simply hanging out because that was the entertainment we could afford.

Was this community?

Without going into too much detail, I had (I suppose) the opportunity to revisit my life pre-SUV, pre-responsibility, and pre-suburbia. I could imagine what living in community really could be, though I would have had to do it carefully with a one year old Baby Jack. I could almost concretely see my life in a community where I left all of my "comfortable" security (and the lonely solitude that comes with it) to be in a place where I had the time to "hang out" with people again. I would be vulnerable, exposed - two qualities that fly in the face of my culture's defining value of 'pulling yourself up by your bootstraps."

In short, I would have to sell back my version of The American Dream.

Please don't misunderstand. I'm not talking about patriotism here. I do love my country. It is made up of good, hardworking people. Somehow, though, I think we got a little bit distracted by what we could own, rather than seeing the value in what we have or can be. I absolutely am the poster child for the typical independent, self-reliant, white picket fence American. It's not necessarily a bad thing, but for me it isn't THE dream.

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I applied to be an international teacher and was accepted into a program that will match me to schools in Europe and/or Latin America. Rich has proudly applied to be a stay at home dad - his dream. Though I'm eager to go RIGHT NOW (so much so that I am literally grinding my teeth together in anticipation and have sent cover letters and resumes and applications to at least 15 schools), I will probably have to wait another year. One year. Next year.

I'm not sure where we'll go. I don't know how we'll live without two incomes. I don't know what will happen to our 403B's or how fast we can sell everything we own, save our pots and pans and shoes. But we've made the decision. We're going. And I am so happy about the prospect of it all that I can hardly breathe.