The last time I saw my Uncle before he died, it was at a Waffle House in Atlanta in the summer of 2009, my 22nd birthday. My Aunt, whom I was staying with at the time, had contacted him (her ex) to let him know I was in town. He wanted to see me before I left, and we sat at that greasy yellow diner for maybe an hour, maybe more talking and drinking coffee.
I think about this time with my Uncle a lot, actually, partially because just a few months later he took his own life. I replay the conversations we had that morning. We both struggled sleeping, he had received a text from an unrecognized number about country music, couldn’t figure out who it was. It wasn't the world's most meaningful conversation, but it mattered.
The part of that morning that really breaks my heart is where he handed me a birthday card with random bills in it. If I recall correctly there were 20s 5s, 10s. Like always, he gave a lavish birthday gift. Had I been 14, rather than 22 it would have been an even bigger deal. Money is always nice, regardless. But in retrospect I remember those crumpled bills in the birthday card, and I flinch.
Before he and my Aunt split, they were very generous to my family, not just with their money but also with their time. As kids they took me and my brother to Disney World. My brother would go for rides in his Porsche. They would take us fishing out on their boat, the whole family would go to decadent lunches at their country club.
But also, when he passed away, we learned that his money situation, especially after the GFC was not what we (or most people) thought it was. The details of this are not the point of this Substack, but what is, is that, especially as kids, we came to presume that every time we saw them, it was not just about the value of each others presence and precious time, it was about money and stuff. And looking back on that, I feel shame, although I know this is what kids universally do. All kids love candy, money and treats. Shamelessly. Gifts and generosity can cater to an animalistic, childlike part of human nature. I’ve been thinking and writing about generosity a lot lately.
That $100 or whatever it was that he passed across the table meant more than it should have. Part of me worries that he thought I (and likely so many other people in his life) wanted to see him for the money first and the time he offered second, if that at all.
Modern society has little compassion for rich white men. He was perceived as all these things, with ex wives as well. I can't imagine the psychology of being seen as a wallet first and foremost. Pursuing a creative career shelters me (to a degree) from being perceived as rich, but wealth is relative. I have had moments while travelling in poverty-stricken places where I’m sure I come across as a walking dollar sign. It’s not a great feeling.
What it must be like to constantly worry people around you, especially those closest to you, seeing you as a financial investment more than anything else.
Young women worry about being valued for beauty or youth, but as troubling as this is, being valued purely for money strikes me as worse. At least your genetics never get taken to court, meaningless as they may be. Money is more arbitrary and easier to lose. I guess it’s not a competition.
I still love going to see my Aunt in Atlanta. Her big thing is (same as it was in my childhood) taking me shopping. Every time we do it, I tell her that while I do appreciate her generosity and (actually more importantly her good eye for fashion), the most important thing about our time together is exactly that.
A danger lurks with associating other people with anything other than their personality. If I want to see anyone for any reason other than the way they make me feel, I need to examine why.
I wish my Uncle knew I just wanted to see him, that I didn't really care about the birthday money. I wish I had thought more about my own relationship with him before he died. I wish he could have known that all those lavish trips were great but my favorite moments with him were just talking and laughing over a meal, sitting in lawn chairs in the backyard or deck, talking in the car.
He was such a funny man! He had mischievous smile. He could so easily invoke joy in me and my brother. He told the funniest jokes and stories. He had shameless, zany antics! He dressed up as Santa every Christmas and woke us up at 4am, banging pots and pans in Santa boxers and a megaphone.
"Wake Up! It's time to open presents, everybody!"
He was kind. I wish I could have protected him from vultures. I hope he never saw me as a vulture, and I hope I never was a vulture.
Things I’m learning about this week:
This article in NYT about kids becoming estranged from their parents in part by influential, questionable TikTok therapists depressed me deeply.
This NPR article on crows doing basic math got me really excited.