On being rich

My daughter tells me that she is caught in some kind of power play. Everyone in her class is busy deciding who is the richest among them all.

She is in grade school and trying to find her way and so when she begins stories like these, I make a mental effort to withhold judgment and allow her own spirit to make sense of things. It is hard work for a mother to remain impartial, to resist the urge to tattle to her teacher.

She tells me that they were taking a survey of who had the most cars, the most houses, the most air-conditioning units and the most baon. I deliberately did not ask her what she said about us, her family and about the things that we own. I listened and instead asked what brought about the conversation. She said it was because a classmate had shown the contents of her wallet and everyone had oohed and aahed that she had with her a thousand pesos. I asked her if she had oohed and aahed along with them. Sheepishly, she said yes.

I understand what it is like to be enthralled by wealth. (Through the days, she would reveal that this classmate has a swimming pool, a helicopter and a home in the States. My daughter’s eyes would get bigger with each new revelation.) It is not as if I am over the fascination with such things myself. The past few weeks I have been in the company of some of the wealthiest women (interviewing them for various writing jobs mostly) and, interestingly enough, my daughter’s struggles with defining self in relation to material wealth is a struggle I am still facing, as well.

I enter these wealthy people’s homes and the probinsiyana in me is both shocked and envious. How I do long for linen napkins in my guest bathroom. How I do long for the perfectly designed-to-look-haphazard bouquet of blooms on my dining table. The tables are spotless and the houses are serene, calm and efficiently run. The creases and edges of this world are less visible and the smells and sights are truly a feast for the senses. What a contrast to my crazy bits-and-pieces-sort-of-life where things don’t quite match and there’s sure to be a tear here and there.

Wealthy women are always wearing just the right thing. I sit most uncomfortably in my ukay-ukay clothes that for some strange reason are always missing a button or do not close well enough. My jewelry does not shine as much and, truth be told, I never quite know how to carry myself in such scenarios. Wealth whispers its own set of rules and its rules are hidden somewhere between the three spoons and forks I need to navigate. Never having been privy to them, I am at a loss.

I watch these women and wonder if their lives are any less complicated than mine because they do not worry about the future the way I do. I wonder if that is a false notion of mine. Because I do have friendships with other wealthy women (and relatives I hardly ever see), I know that behind the expensive saltshakers are real and complex women. But I am adamant about believing that there exists a difference between us as women. Perhaps they worry about how to make their lives meaningful so that their wealth becomes useful. Perhaps they worry about how to raise good children. How difficult it must be to raise children who do not have a concept of not affording anything.

My daughter comes home distraught. I am glad that we are close enough for her to want to share with me right away what is troubling her. She tells me that she lied to her best friend about her wealth. She had claimed that her room had 17 shelves (I know… what an item to compare!).

“But Mommy, she lied, too. First she said she had 12 shelves. When I said I have 17, she changed her answer to 35!”

I asked her why she lied. Of course, she does not really know, but I do. I know she lied because she thinks acceptance is tied to wealth. I know she lied because she is not yet strong enough to stand on her own. It takes courage at that age to accept the limits of one’s self. How is she to say, with pride, that in truth she only has three shelves? How I wish I could figure this all out for her. We hugged and I told her that no matter what, she must know that she has her family to run home to and that there is no need for secrets in our home.

We are walking in the mall and our different versions of psychoses haunt us. I look at scented candles and want to duplicate a wealthy friend’s house, which had so many candles you would literally not need to turn on any lights in her home. I am looking at plates and wondering if I have earned the right and the money to buy a new set of plates. She is looking at clips and girly accessories and the items she points out to are items I have seen on her classmates. Maybe we are fascinated with wealth because we presume that it is inextricably linked to freedom. How difficult it truly is to grow up! We both make concessions. I buy just one scented candle. I buy her a pair of clips. This is enough for us today. After all, we are holding hands.

While walking, she asks me if we are wealthy. I pause and this is what I say in my head. She might not be old enough to understand the truth of what I am about to say; but she is never too young to be told the complicated truth. I ask her how she would define wealthy or rich. She shrugs, probably because it is a value she has merely inferred based on behavior. I tell her that there are different kinds of wealth. I say there’s wealth that’s tied to how much money one has in the bank. It could be about the number of friends one has. It could be about the ability to have a job or profession and the kind of work one is able to produce. It could be about talents and gifts one has. I tell her that material wealth is only about how much one has but that wealth is about many other things and that deep down we are all wealthy and rich in our own way.

This is a life lesson for both of us, right here in the mall, in the middle of consumerism. As she studies her world, she is being taught that the ability to consume or to buy is what gives her value in society (a small one for now). I have to show her otherwise. I have to show her that real value lies within. To do that, I need to understand that this candle in my hand is nothing more than just a candle.

I need to pause here and tell you that there’s one important thing I’ve learned in my years of teaching: Children know when they are being lied to. They have that one gift that becomes dull in people as they grow up: the ability to tell a fake. It’s a difficult lesson to learn but one that I always use on students and especially my children. They know when I am not straight with them, and when I am not, I end up unraveling more than I bargained for.

I wasn’t sure if I was able to get the message across. I wasn’t sure if I had assuaged her fears. I wasn’t sure if I helped to make her stronger. But this much I can tell you.

“Mommy,” she told me a week later, “I am nervous. I wrote her a letter of apology about my lie. I told her that I wasn’t really rich, but that I am rich in talents and family.”

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You may reach me at Rica.Santos@gmail.com.