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Put it on vibrate

I had a nice long talk with my mom this morning. Dammit I love her. She's dealt with so much in her life. I've been told that the things she *didn't* do to protect us from our father mean that she doesn't deserve my devotion. But fuck that noise. No one knows what she herself was doing, and why and the sacrifices that she put up with in order to let us be okay with this life we'd been brought into. She did a good job. If I had had any other mother, I would be dead. I would have killed myself with that first suicide note when I was 10. I had the resolve, and had no real reason to keep living with everything that had been done to me. I was convinced, utterly and completely, of just how broken I was and of my own inability to ever repair it.
Just the fact of her loving me stopped me. And from there I found more reasons. She's the reason I was alive in the first place, and she's the reason I'm alive today.
So talking to her is wonderful. She gets me. She really does. And she appreciates the way I think. Great to have that. Everyone who meets my mom loves my mom. She's just this incredible creature.
We were talking today about my problems with the well-monied.
Not those who do well for themselves. Not those who have had a good run of things on their own. Specifically those people who were born with it. And not *all* of them are a problem.
Rhett, for example, as far as I know has always had quite a bit of wealth backing him. But he doesn't lord it over people. He doesn't assume that everyone always had what he had. He doesn't have that strange dissonance between his life and reality as it presents for others.
He's wonderful, and he just happens to be well off.
My problem comes in with people like Steven.
Steven was someone I met years ago. And he's never really left my brain. Met him online and he was insistent about my calling him. He was here at the beach for winter break. His parents lived out at chick's beach and he wanted to hang. I found him horribly pompous. He told me I had a "manly voice" when I was very sleepy. My tone drops quite a bit with exhaustion and he gave me no reason to be perky or laughing. But I met him anyway... out of curiosity. It would be like going to a zoo where the creatures ran free and drove their daddy's cars.
He pulled up outside of our place, knocked on the wrong person's door... the downstairs neighbor pointed him upstairs... he came up, totally bemused by the fact that the whole house wasn't mine and Tom's. We went to his parents' house. This enormous ... ENORMOUS... house on a stretch of private beach with 4 garages and 8 bedrooms and brand new all wood floors and huge bay windows with seats and pillows that hadn't been touched since the interior designer plumped them just so. Everything coordinated and flowed... it was like walking into Martha Stewart's house. He made me an enormous drink(gin and tonic with ONE ice cube in a huge glass. Gin gin gin and a splash of tonic) and took me to his room. It was the attic room... meant to be a playroom of sorts. It was the entire top level of the house. Huge. bigger than the entirety of my apartment. And he ran around, showing me his toys. His massive computer, his wall of cds, complaining that these 700 or so were just the things he had here... the ones he really *liked*, 200 odd, were still at school. He showed me his camera... one that Tom had drooled over, being a professional photographer, and dismissed, as the well over a thousand dollar price tag was out of his range... one that Steven admitted that he had no clue how to use.
I gulped down my putrid drink (I hate gin) hoping that drunkeness would make him more bareable. We ended up in the garage so he could show me the two range rovers, the suburban, the porshe and the two beamers, and grab some coronas out of the fridge.
He was drunk, I was drunk.
So we went to the strip for a drive.
It was 3 am, the night before christmas eve, and he was making comments about me, asking questions. He thought the things I had written on my hands were quaint. My way too large and very unravelled and safety pinned (to keep it together) black sweater wrapped around me (think Delirium from Sandman), my boots, my pallor. He attempted to impress with talk about his time at Oxford and the goth scene and how he knows all about the *real* goths. Handed me a box of tapes and told me to find something interesting. I started questioning him back... why me? why was he out here with lil old me? And he admitted that my dilapidated neighborhood and raggedy dress and lack of the finer things intrigued him. He was just a rich boy, looking for thrills in my poor little life. He was baffled that I had no bank account. Astounded that I've never been on a family vacation (his family goes to spain every year... he's so *very* bored with it). Insane with humor over the fact that I wasn't given a car when I was 16. That I wasn't given tons of money when I graduated high school. That I had been on but one plane necessary trip and I had never stepped foot in new york or las vegas. He was a tourist.
He found me exotic and strange because I wasn't a rich kid like him.
He was 26, in law school in Alabama, and using everything at his disposal (his mommy and daddy's money) to impress me
Lacking a real place to go, I directed him to norfolk. Angry and tired of him, I thought I could take him to the cafe and ditch him, get a different ride, get the fuck out of his company.
That was a disaster. He made enemies everytime he opened his mouth. He was rude, degrading. He mocked them all openly. My friends. He got on the bad side of Toad super quick, telling him that he looked like he was trying to be a nosferatu with his hairless head and sunken in cheeks. (Toad had just finished a round of kemo. He looked like hell. He had every reason to) He pissed off everyone he talked to and his presence there was just ... an eyesore. Abercrombie and Fitch clothes, CK cologne, attitude store bought and money pampered.
I ended up puking in the lil alley. He insisted on breakfast. He tried kissing me in the car. My openly laughing at him didn't register. I told him how much he repulsed me. He offered to buy me something. I told him I thought he was a slimy little prick. He said he would take me for a ride in his dad's porsche and I would change my mind.


I haven't seen him for quite awhile. That was the last time. He tracked me down a few times to try to get together, but I was always busy. He was a little rich boy, trying to slum it for the cool points it would get him. He mocked my life with his presence.
And I've known far too many like him.
Pampered kids acting like they're really down and out.... because it's not *cool* to be rich.
I believe Joe's word was Trustafarians. Perfect. Perfect gaddamned word.
And they'll end up just like the parents they pretend to revile. They'll end up in gated communities, with gardeners and housekeepers and a guy to change their lightbulbs.
And that's where they should stay.


I'm not happy about this prejudice. But growing up with nothing made me rather unsympathetic to the trials and tribulations of those who've got the full repast laid out before them.


And it's not so much the situation they're in...but they attitude they take. Not all of them do it. It's pretty evenly split. A lot of them are good people with good hearts and intentions. And some of them just need a lil snap snap to wake them up. Others really are just fully great. They get the fact that they had it really good in some ways that other people just weren't privy to.


GRRRRRRR..
I dunno.
This all came about because of a recent run in with someone who really made me think about what we have and what we want and what we are willing to do to get it.
And it's not resolved and it's not okay and I dunno how to act toward people now.
Yes, Yes... just be myself..
but ya see.. I have no clue just what being myself is.
hmm..
more coffee.

Comments

mjfgates
May. 9th, 2001 11:23 am (UTC)
Ooooh, rich kiddies.
Went to high school with a bunch'a those... they're... interesting. IN a way. Not quite as bad, I think, because it's mostly the baby-boomers who seem to dump the huge piles of cash on their children.

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