I’ve always hated rich people. Yeh, “Hate” is a strong word, but what I felt was more than envy or jealousy. I never possessed green eyes (well, sorta light brownish) nor resented those that seemed to glide through life without a hair out of place, but I was deeply offended by the entitlement of those who had more zeros after any number. It was as if whatever they did was somehow worthy of perpetual applause. If they were nice to you, you were supposed to be “honored” by their attention to your insignificance. I know this, since I got married for money and ended up poor.
Since I was a kid, my mom would always share that infamous quote…you know THAT one,
“It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one”. She would tell me to find a wealthy beau since life would be effortless and exciting if I could travel, shop, and not worry about the “b” word, BILLS. I had been working since I was a teenager, schlepping on the subways and toiling as if I had nine kids at home who needed to be fed, when in fact, the money was to support myself and indulge in my passion for fashion, which I inherited from all the women before me. I was always a hard worker and still am. The only thing that angered me were those who said “Well, if you work hard, you’ll be successful.” I learned that you need to work smart, with a lot of luck, while jumping over hurdles and scratching your knees or even breaking a leg if you want to leap ahead of the pack of wolves that will devour you if you dare take a “breather”. I’ve met too many of those and it wasn’t even on the way to my grandma’s house.
So, I took the easy way out. I married a successful guy from a well-to-do family with all the right letters before and after his name. PhD, MBA, BA and most importantly, BS. The latter summed up the situation more succinctly than the others. I thought I would live a stereotypical Upper West Side existence, followed by a ritzy suburb where all the people were homogenous and predictable. Life would be beautifully boring. My problems would consist of the dilemma of whether to go skiing during Winter break or to the Caribbean. My days would be spent shuffling the kids from one activity to the next in whatever SUV was popular and I’d bake for the PTA, the shul and have guests over each Shabbos for a ten-course meal that I perfected. But, it was not meant to be. I became a divorced, single mother without any support. I embodied the “P” word and like the great Oprah says there is “poor” and there is “Po”. I was really, really “Po."
I guess I was lucky that I knew what it was like to stay in the Presidential Suite at the King David every year for a month. I never had the access to money when I was married, but I had lots of trips. I experienced the reality of the rich being different because they are. Sure, they could be friendly, sweet, warm, and even kind, but try talking to them about anyone’s personal problems pertaining to money and their expressions would freeze. It was as if they didn’t want to soil themselves with what the 99% were going through. Even the nicest women I met were completely clueless. The rich are always worried that people only pursue them for their wealth. They are suspicious and will cut you off quicker than an aggressive driver on the BQE. I didn’t find a lot of empathy. I almost understood it, because they were probably hounded by those who were hustling, trying to extract some of their hard-earned wealth. Like a beautiful woman, who is always being pursued, wealthy people are pursued by everyone and everything.
When I finally began to date, my son would ask me why I hated rich men. I was taken aback since I never articulated it in that way, but my children knew me with a deep understanding like the survivors of the Titanic clinging to their dinghy, knew each other.
“I don’t hate them!”, I would retort
“Sure you do, Ma”.
He was right. I found that when a rich man would ask me out, he wouldn’t pick me up, but rather, he’d “summon” me. For example,
“I’m staying at the Four Seasons/Peninsula/Ritz Carlton. Would you like to meet me in the lobby and we can go to dinner?”
Me, being over accommodating would say,
“Sure!”
Then I’d sit for two hours in traffic, circle for another hour for parking (since I didn’t dare ask for anything) and by the time I’d get there I felt like I just crossed the finish line at the NYC marathon.
Usually, the guy would be sweet enough, but everything was about him; His trips, his family, his possessions, his accomplishments which all added up to dollars and nonsense. One guy boasted about purchasing the yellow diamond that Michael Jackson gave to Elizabeth Taylor. When you’re struggling to support your family, it’s the last thing you want to hear. Oh, and this guy did NOT want to hear your “peon problems.”
For the last few years, my son has worked in the financial industry for two different hedge funds. I often hear him say “Now, I understand why you hate rich people”.
I can only hope that he becomes one of them.
