Identity Politics

A thought experiment, the experts say. In my mind, as my family likes to say.

I suppose a good starting point is when the State in its infinite wisdom decreed descendants of French Huguenots must wear the Huguenot Cross patch. Regulations called for it to be of silver thread, at least 3 inches in length, 2” wide, and worn 4” below the center of the neckline.

This far, far side of my family came into Charleston during the mid-1700s. Only by short-term decision-making did my family start to move back into South Carolina 30+ years ago—no grand plan, no sense of our historical connection to the place.

I wore my cross—6” and 4”. Bold, said I. Friends used other words. Detractors said the kind of things to my face or at the barber shop or in the grocery store that until lately only appeared anonymously in social media. One of my favorite local restaurants wrote on a credit card receipt “Please, do not come back”.

The deportation order came worded as a request: “The Sovereign State of South Carolina asks you to take up residence outside its territorial borders by midnight, June 1, 2016.”

How genteel. The confiscations would start at twelve-o-one.

My option—only option according to the mandates—was a small cruise ship that would take me along with another 400 or 500 souls to Savannah. My family in Greenville would go by train to Charlotte.

No, I could not bring my dog. Fortunately a former student, now a vet tech, quietly arranged to pick him up from me.

No, none of my belongings could be shipped outside the state. Two bags that I could carry would be all that I would have in the world when I walked up that gangplank.

My banker, a sailing comrade, made arrangements to wire all of my savings to a bank in Asheville. My state retirement check would be suspended indefinitely—nice word that, suspended—beginning June 1.

It was a heck of a garage sale, let me tell you. Turns out my reading material really was idiosyncratic. No more than half the thousand books sold. Not even for a quarter apiece could I find buyers for hundreds of titles.

The cane back couch—a family heirloom more than a 100 years old went for $200. The hundred-year-old white oak buffet built in Michigan, $100. The gentleman’s armoire with mother-of-pearl crescents, $40. My leather recliner, $20. Lawnmower, $5. Etc, etc, etc. Framed photos taken by students, a painting, too. Just a buck or two. Five rooms of furniture and the kitchen and outdoor/lawn equipment, gone.

Five weeks can pass quickly. The goodbyes—so many friends and colleagues after almost 31 years—were squeezes of my hands, kisses on the cheek, hugs that seemed heartfelt.

Prescriptions were forwarded to a pharmacy in Asheville. My doctor made a few calls and found a general practitioner who would take me in as a patient. At least for the short term.

Sold my truck for three grand to a kid who lives down the street.

The afternoon at the ship was as I expected. On one side was the jeering mob, on the other side a smaller gathering wearing armbands with the emblem of the cross—a kind, if foolish gesture. Mobs, you know.

Yes, there were some folks I knew boarding. Some well-known locals, too. One of the local new scene’s brightest star, two city councilmen, a member of county council. A former mayor. There would be 10 more boat loads, at least.

The plan was simple enough. Disembark in Savannah, take a bus to Atlanta, switch to a bus to Chattanooga, then another to Asheville.

Asheville is another ancestral home—English on that far, far side.

My family—parents, sister and brother-in-law, 6 nieces and nephews, 4 in-laws, and 17 of my sister’s grandchildren would be in Charlotte. No jobs, two bags per head, and whatever was going to happen.

By the time I found a hotel room in Asheville, the news was already out, the North Carolina state legislature was concerned about the costs being incurred with the flood of immigrants. Perhaps, expulsion would be best.

I thought about Chattanooga, my mother’s birthplace. Or Knoxville, a friend of mine from high school lived there. Just outside Cleveland with a former colleague and his wife. Or maybe to Houston and my brother.

Perhaps I would join the rest of the family and together we would try to rebuild rather than scattering.

Oh, one more thing. I do speak American English, so I have that going for me.

Nova Scotia?

Stinkin' Rich!

Today, I come to find out, I am stinkin’ rich.

No, no lottery ticket. No inheritance. No pool of natural gas beneath my yard. Turns out that my retirement income puts me comfortably into the Top 1%--in the world.

Around $32,000 for household income does it. Me, a 1-percenter. Here in the US that would be about the 25^th percentile, but I fall in roughly with the 40^th percentile club. That’s household income, not individual.

Over $400,000 is needed to elevate into the Top 1% here in the US. Uh, that would not me.

About 1 in 10 in the world are without safe water. I have safe water. (Or so I think.) One in 3 do not have access to a toilet. Toilet? Check. Actually, check check.

Nearly 20% of the world’s population is without electricity. Me? Check.

As much as 60% of the world awaits the arrival of the internet. For better or worse. Okay, for better. Here, check.

Apparently around 15% of the 8 billion of us still don’t have a cell phone—not even a flip phone like my trusty old model. Check.

And as for food, somewhere between 10-13% world-wide are going hungry. Remember, we’re talking around 800,000,000. That’s about the population of the US, once, and again, and more than half again.

Food? Check.

I have an extraordinary standard of living. By world standards. Perspective, you say? Sure enough. Nearly a decade ago, I moved from one school district in the county to the other. In that relocation, I went from the 65^th percentile in household earnings to the 95^th. Without a change to income.

My income has dropped by 25% in retirement. House, water, electricity, internet, toilets, truck, appliances—check and check and check again. A one-percenter, still.

I am. Stinkin’. Rich.

A Good Word

The occasion, a party celebrating a boy’s 4^th birthday. The location, a farm a short drive from Charleston. Some of the picnic tables were in the shade of a mature live oak, all of us and the tree under a spring-blue sky and late-morning sun.

A number of former colleagues showed for this gathering, nearly a homecoming for me after 3 years of retirement.  Scampering about, children—a handful I remembered back when, tucked into adult arms like loaves of bread—now walking and talking, running and sliding and swinging, some hanging together like cousins.

With the adults, hugs, a bit scuttlebutt exchanged, laughter, some diverted by their attentiveness to children as needed. A type of peace, like an easiness in the saddle, embraced us, this timeout of sorts, a weekend morning for those still working. Teachers and counselors and administrators and supporting staff—all those that I worked with, the kind of folks you tell your kid to go see when there is a problem.

The birthday boy shared his morning of fame, weaving among the children and allowing a few words here and there for adults. He was more generous with his hugs. Slender and wide-eyed, with his smiles he roped us in. In truth, a lot of us needed no corralling, we were right there in the moment with him.

During the drive home I wondered how many birthday parties were underway across the country. All the turmoil of the world arrested by a focus on children. A war-weary world at times—do those who maim and kill children parent with such kindness of spirit?

But all such horrors—and a lot of simpler concerns—were vanquished from that place in time. Even as the children coursed on with their children-ness, a very particular kind of calm settled our world for those few hours.

Today, in thinking of the scene, that atmosphere, there are words I wonder about that may these days seem like throw-away words, but if so, they shouldn’t be let go. Pleasant, lovely, delightful. And no need for super to convey the moment.

It was, it seemed to me, all good.

A Little Money Business

The word fiduciary in a headline caught my eye the other day. New federal regulations and guidance on fiduciary duties in the investment services sector. My notice of—as in passing—was born of my brief 9 months as a registered representative for a Wall Street mutual fund company in Minneapolis in 1983-84.

At the time I was in my mind a high school English teacher, but jobs were nearly impossible to come by and I needed money. One district had over 200 English applications on file. At least the personnel secretary was kind enough to let me watch her put my paperwork in a file cabinet drawer.

My only interview chance imploded when I answered honestly about a school newspaper reporting alcohol being sold to minors. Apparently that had happened the year before, and since the local police chief, the mayor, and the district’s superintendent went ballistic on the principal, he was in no mood for hard-hitting journalistic endeavors.

The assistant principal had warned me the topic would come up, and so it did—first question, right out of the box. I went with “Yes”, as in a worthy story if all the i’s and t’s were handled. I could heard the assistant principal sigh. The interview was over in 5 minutes. Turned out the opening went to a new education grad, with a journalism emphasis in public relations.

No job, end of August, and I scoured the local newspapers. The ad was a small one about working in the investment sector, no experience required. Well I met that requirement.

After a short interview with the district manager, I signed on and attended training sessions for two weeks so that I could take the Series 6 exam to sell mutual funds and the state test to do the same, and I started studying for the state insurance exam on my own. I passed all the tests the first time around and two weeks later started teaching a prep class for the Series 6 because as my manager T— alertly noted,” Hey, you’re a teacher”.

The company was new to the Twin Cities, and so the home office set a modest goal of $1,000,000 worth of accounts for the first 12 months. We did that the first month and every month after and set the first-year-record for a new office with $14 million in accounts.

“Fantastic” New York said. “Incredible” they said. Except every Monday morning my manager was chewed out by the folks in New York for not selling more. So what did T— do? Chewed out all the reps every Tuesday morning for not selling more. The key word here might seem to be chewing, but selling is the one to pay attention to.

The salary for reps was 100% commission-based. My manager had a base salary and received a slice of the loaf based on our numbers, and so too the regional vice president, and on up the corporate ladder. Bring in more money, make more money. Win-win.

Disclaimer time: Just my experience in a short period of time in one office for one investment firm.

This business was a tough business. Consistently 70-80% of new reps were done within 3 months. They would have a big first month by hitting up family and friends, usually for IRAs and savings investment plans, and so take on an apartment lease, buy a new car, and think themselves to be living large. Then their business would drop off for lack of referrals and contacts, and month 2 bills were coming due, and so by month 3, they were gone. Generally, the reps quickest to fold were between 19 and 22.

The manager would call 2 or 3 of the senior reps—yep, that was me at 31—and divvy up the accounts to be serviced. T— doled them like baseball trading cards. Sometimes it would be just one, but usually 5 or 6. And more often than not, what a mess. The wrong kind of fund for the circumstances. Out we would go and try to explain how where their money was invested was not so appropriate and why we would recommend putting the money elsewhere. Rarely a fun moment at the kitchen table.

A lot of clients placed $2,000 in an IRA account and an overwhelming percentage were doing something they had never done before in their lives, putting money somewhere other than in a bank. A lot were working class, middle class, or retirees. The money was not an insignificant amount to them.

Soon, I was talking the talk. “Going out to get 10k” or “Just 2k but some hot referrals”. At some point taking in $20k was the same as taking in 2. The first time I went out to deal with $50k from a railroad retirement account I was flabbergasted at the prospect. But quickly it was all the same, products sold.

I handled a lot of IRA and SEP accounts. Some folks would ask a lot of questions, some hardly any. If it was a first call, we had a tight script to regurgitate to make the sale. I remember my manager tagging along when I called on an attorney via a referral. A few minutes into the spiel, the attorney said essentially that’s all great, but here’s a check for four thousand. Decide where it goes and give me the paperwork to sign.

Outside the building, the manager just shrugged and said, “You got the 4k”. I only made $112 but was referred to 6 other attorneys in the same building.

Sometimes before a lunch break several of us would sit at a table with one phone and, round-robin, cold call numbers from the phonebook. Just take a page and start calling. Might call an entire column, rarely got an appointment.

Sometimes we would fill out postcard mailers based on phonebook addresses. I liked sending out batches of 100 of our tax-exempt fund, which was well run and well regarded. I would get 1-3 return calls per mailing. Almost always closed an account from those appointments.

And then the fiduciary duty/sales conundrum reared it’s scaly, horned, fire-breathing head.

I got a call in response to a tax-exempt mailer. The woman, in her 60s, widowed, had $50,000 to invest. When I met with her at her apartment, I learned that her income comfortably covered her expenses, but the 50k was all she had beyond her possessions and car. And she was very nervous about anything other than her money market account at her bank.

I explained how the fund worked, talked with her about having enough on hand for six months of expenses, and funds for a car if needed. The prudent—and conservative—recommendation I made was 10k in the tax-exempt fund since that was her focus.

When I got back to the office, T— saw me in the meeting area and asked in his outdoor New York voice “Did you nail the $50k?” Nope, I wrote up 10k and the rest stays in her money market account. Next thing I know I was in his office with 2 other senior reps and I was being verbally flayed.

From that assault came the phrase that led me to declare myself part-time and therefore no longer subject to Tuesday chew-outs. “I expected better from you.” Better. Better? I dealt with my client like she was my mother—now that is all about a fiduciary duty, my friends.

There’s more, of course.

Disclaimer #2: A lot of the business was good business for the clients. I like to think that maybe a few of mine have large nest eggs that make financial decision-making at this stage in their lives easier for them.

Let me leap ahead. Four months after not being my better self I was living Charleston, SC, and in another four months, I accepted a teaching slot. That was nearly 31 years ago.

Down with Sprouts!

We are each of us a member of a loyal opposition.

Of course, with over 7 billion individuals scattered into 195 countries, how could we be otherwise? And speaking of languages, more than 6,000 are spoken in the world today. A couple hundred of those are reported to have fewer than 1000 speakers, which really interests me, but I’ll save that topic for some other time.

I can hear it now: “I don’t care about other languages”.  Indeed.

Maybe, then, Brussels sprouts. I loathe Brussels sprouts. I don’t care if they are packed with vitamins C and K. Loathe, loathe, loathe. And yet friends that I respect, and yes love, love Brussels sprouts.

I’m sorry for their flaw, but I will never cross over to their side. But, here’s the catch—I am not going to war over the sprouts. I am not unfriending sprout-lovers, not bad-mouthing them, not judging them.

Oops. By the way, when someone starts up with I’m not judging—well, I would say “Run”, but honestly, it’s too late.

Nor do I expect to convert someone to a Brussels-sprout-free life. Certainly not by words coming from my mouth as this issue is decidedly a matter of taste in your own mouth.

Maybe because I threw up sprouts when an infant—an out-of-the-mouths-of sort of thing—that I am irrevocably anti-sprouts. I don’t know.

Truth is, we do a lot of deciding for ourselves.

And in this complex world, I find that whatever opinion I might hold—and sometimes conclusion—is a gumbo of variables like culture and family and education and study and instinct coming together. And time.

Really, I can only think of one instance when someone’s position on a serious topic changed my way of thinking in short order. A 9^th grader in a public speaking class I was teaching in the late 90s gave a persuasive speech supporting the wearing of seatbelts. Her case was so compelling that starting that afternoon I never drove again without wearing one.

So my thinking is that most of us rarely reverse ourselves and that most of us come to conclusions and opinions, not leap to them. The other side believes what it believes and will hold on in the very same way I hold on to my positions.

Which is what I try to remember when I hear or read the opinions of others that I disagree with—even if I find them odious.

No doubt, some will disagree with me on that note. Indeed.