the center of survival
When my grandfather died a few years ago with millions of dollars in the bank, my mom told me not to expect an inheritance because I wasn’t blood related. I can’t remember if she explicitly said it or implied it, but the fact that I am Black was certainly a factor. Years before, I had read a book of my grandfather’s family history spanning from England to America, and the one thing I remember from it was the list of enslaved people who were to be inherited by a son of my grandfather’s distant relative. Black people in this family have always gotten the short end of the stick, apparently.
When I stood up for myself against my adoptive parents racist ideology and they cut me out of their life by changing our “legal relationship,” I was once again reminded that my lack of blood relation was a hindrance to family support.
I’m thinking about support and stability a lot lately because I’m tired and in some ways, I feel stranded. I have lived in New York City for 13 years and it’s always been a place that I said was “forever for now.” Meaning, I’d be here for as long as it made sense. And while I’m not going anywhere for probably two years, living here doesn’t feel sustainable anymore when I look at apartment rental prices or mortgage interest rates. The only way I can afford to buy something in the city is to gentrify an unfamiliar neighborhood and I don’t plan on doing that. Rental prices and brokers fees seem higher than they’ve ever been. The only option left is to rental hop every time a landlord decides to unreasonably increase rent and that is exhausting, speaking as someone in the midst of moving for that very reason.
The reality of living here means working hard to get promoted or change jobs because making more money is the only way to keep your head above water. At least that’s my perspective, because, see above, I have no family help coming to save me if something terrible happens and I drain my savings.
I worked 10-14 hour days frequently throughout my 20s and it paid off: I was able to secure director level roles and a higher-than-average salary for my age and industry, even having a former white-bro boss of mine once tell me, “You know, you're doing better in this industry than most people would expect from someone who looks like you.” Translation: Most people don’t believe that Black women are smart enough for this kind of role.
So much of my life has been in service to survival and the narrative of American life under capitalism: get excellent grades, go to college, do all the right internships, get a good job, get promoted, pad your 401K. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. Hope that by the time you’re 65 years old that you have enough money and good health to secure another 20 years on this earth to finally do all the things you couldn’t when you were grinding. The absence of a family safety net (financial or otherwise) and the fact that as a Black woman I am likely to be paid less than my non-Black peers keeps me feeling the push to climb. But it is daunting to keep looking up at a mountain that never seems to peak.
Getting laid-off late last year was the beginning of my slow turn down the mountain. The privilege of severance and a partner gave me space to reflect and begin to decouple my identity and idea of survival from a high-earning, stressful career.
If you’ve been online over the past year, you’ve probably seen videos about the “soft life." Often times it looks like a skinny white woman in plush sweatpants, a matcha, and an air of ease. But the “soft life” trend actually started with Black women in Nigeria. Via the BBC:
Before migrating to Western consciousness by way of social media, the concept of a Soft Life originated in the Nigerian influencer community. In a context where Nigeria is experiencing its own cost of living crisis, a soft life was never about the flamboyant expressions of materialism or wealth that we'd normally associate with a life of leisure. It doesn't mean expensive spa days or luxury travel. Rather, it asks us to don our most comfortable outfit and consider what a day-to-day life of ease would look like for ourselves.
It sounds idealistic to say I want a soft life when trying to survive the reality of our world today with a rocky economy, on-going war, rights being erased for anyone who isn’t a straight white Christian, rising food prices, and a housing market that’s out of reach for a majority of Americans. What does personal peace and more ease look like when the world feels out of control?
Something that I’ve had to contend with is that if I want a more easeful life, my priorities have to shift. Right now, an easeful life means a job that doesn’t drain my energy. It means shelter that is big enough to feel safe and cozy, but not excessive. It means having a community of friends and loved ones nearby. It’s the freedom to make decisions based upon my feelings and needs versus the waves of economic instability. I want the power to gravitate towards everything that feels good without restriction. Basically what I’m saying is where is Andrew Yang and his universal basic income? Kidding…kind of.
But to have everything that feels vital to what I need now and for my future, I can’t stay in New York forever. This reality has been challenging to accept. I have no idea where I’d go next. My friends and my life are here and starting over somewhere new is unnerving. However, I know that what has been the center of my survival isn’t working anymore. Leaving and staying are both full of discomfort.
I don’t know what this new way of a more easeful existence looks like entirely, but in times like this, I’m reminded of a passage from Rebecca Solnit’s “A Field Guide to Getting Lost” that has always brought me solace in moments of uncomfortable change:
Cut a chrysalis open, and you will find a rotting caterpillar. What you will never find is that mythical creature, half caterpillar, half butterfly, a fit emblem of the human soul, for those whose cat of mind leads them to seek such emblems. No, the process of transformation consists almost entirely of decay. But the butterfly is so fit an emblem of the human soul that its name in Greek is “psyche,” the word for soul. We have not much language to appreciate this phase of decay, this withdrawal, this era of ending that must precede beginning. Nor of the violence of the metamorphosis, which is often spoken of as though it were as graceful as a flower blooming.
Get this week’s playlist here.
Sending big love your way if any of this resonates with you.
Meghan