I live in a big ass house

My family lives in a mansion on top of a hill. It’s kind of beautiful honestly. We have these huge open rooms we use for different purposes. In one of them there’s our ping pong table. In another, there’s the piano & the fireplace. And then in the courtyard, our grill, and the fire pit we all gather around. I think our kitchen is the best feature: always spotless, because Adelina comes to clean twice a week, with white tiles, granite countertops, and these long glass windows that take up the whole wall. They let in the light in the mornings, and we can see over the mountains and into the city.

It feels weird describing my house like this. It sounds so luxurious, and it is. But to me, having basically grown up there, it kind of just feels like life.

We moved in when I was in 9th grade. Before that we lived in a more modest, upper-middle class, suburban home. I remember I was pissed when we first moved. Because in 9th grade, for the first time in my life, I had neighborhood friends. Like the type of friends you hangout with after school. I’d never had that before, so it kind of meant the world to me. When my family moved I had to leave them behind, and that made me really angry & sad.

I put up a huge fight honestly. It’s kind of hilarious to think back on. I really was the typical angsty teenager, just my reasons for being upset were pretty unique, “I don’t want to move into the new mansion!” For the months leading up to the move, I made it very clear how upset I was about it all.

The week we moved in was actually the worst. My parents were already stressed about moving, and my anger just added fuel to the fire. I refused to help move a single thing. I couldn’t help it. I was a principled man, and I stood true to my values. I wasn’t going to sellout and help aid the tyrannical regime. I had to go on strike.

I remember one of the movers was this Mexican guy, and somehow me and him got to talking, and he started telling me about what he does. When he had time, he would pack toys & supplies, and he would truck them down to Mexico, where he gave them to children & families. I thought that was the realest shit I’d ever heard, and so I offered to give him all my toys. And obviously my spoiled ass had a lot of fucking toys. My nerf swords, my Pokemon cards, my laser tag guns, my Magic Tree House collection, I gave him all that shit.

Later that day, I told my parents what I’d done. Obviously I had to flex. I wasn’t trying to give away all my toys without at least getting commended for my kindness & generosity. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the response I received.

My parents actually got really fucking mad at me for what I’d done, and it started a huge argument. They started saying shit about how the toys weren’t mine to give away. They had paid for them. And I was like yeah, but you gave them to me. And I don’t even use most that shit anymore. And anyways, you never would’ve even noticed the toys were gone if I hadn’t just told you. Obviously I was completely right, I always am when I argue with my parents, and that just made them even more angry.

I really started taking the moral high ground. At one point I compared my actions to Jesus Christ and Guru Nanak (founder of my family’s Sikh religion). My parents thought that was pretty funny but they were still pissed. We stayed mad at each other for a couple days, but we got over it.

The argument was just such a huge deal at the time. There was so much tension leading up to it, and it all culminated during that fight. I was outraged that we had moved, outraged that my charity had been met with anger, and not approval. My parents were pissed cause I had straight up been an asshole for the last few months. Everyone was stressed and we all took it out on each other.

The argument literally still gets brought up to this day. This summer we were all eating dinner with my cousins in Chicago and my uncle lightheartedly brought it up. My parents started making jokes about my, now infamous Guru Nanak comparison, and I started getting defensive. Straight up I am still salty. Cause honestly it is fucked up. If my kid volunteered to give away all their toys I would be so fucking proud of them. It’s actually still so hard to believe my parents got mad at me for that.

But I guess I got to have empathy for them. My parents didn’t grow up rich & spoiled like me. My Papa in particular grew up relatively poor. His parents were immigrants, and he was first generation. Often, he’ll tell me about the cockroaches that used to infest their apartment, the arguments his parents would have over money, fueled by the constant stress of never having enough. He worked hard his entire fucking life so he could become the successful ass lawyer he is, so he could provide for me & Kirin, so he could give us everything he never had.

So when I gave away my toys, maybe it seemed like a rejection of the love & affection he’d given me. To me they were just toys, to him they were gifts, they were his love.

—————————————————————————————-

To this day, I’m still embarrassed by our mansion. By now at least, I have the confidence to invite people over to our house, or to write about it in this blog. But when we first moved in, I was so fucking embarrassed. I purposely didn’t invite friends over for a long time. And when friends would give me rides, I’d tell them to pick me up and drop me off at the gate of our community. Cause conveniently, the gate is located at the bottom of our hill, so my friends could scoop me without having to drive up, without having to pass the rows of mansions, without having to drop me off at the top, and watch me walk through the big ass steel front doors of my house.

I think my embarrassment stemmed from guilt. I didn’t want to be caught in a mansion. Not the kind with a pool that overlooks the mountainside, and an elevator that takes you upstairs, and a whole ass guest house for our grandparents that still refuse to move in. How could I live in such luxury while my friends lived in one story homes?

I think my embarrassment also stemmed from my insecurities. I wanted people to like me for me, and not for my big ass house. I didn’t want my reputation to be the rich kid with the mansion. The kid that, maybe if you become friends with him, you can go hangout and ride the fucking elevator (me and my friends have since done this, and turns out it is quite fun).

But yeah, I felt guilty about having more than others, and about having done nothing to earn it. I was afraid people would judge me for it. I didn’t want to seem entitled. Worse, I didn’t want people to befriend me, just so they could have a taste of it too.

Eventually, my insecurities lessened. I started inviting my friends over to my big ass house. I stopped worrying too much about whether they actually liked me or the elevator. But still, whenever I go somewhere new, whether it’s college, or law school where I’m at now, I do my best to hide my privileged roots. I purposely keep my room empty. I take care to never wear anything that looks too expensive. I avoid mentioning that my dad’s a lawyer, my mom’s a doctor, and my whole life I’ve had every advantage you could imagine. Of course, I know it’s not my fault that I was born with more, and others were born with less. But still, I feel so fucking guilty.

—————————————————————————————-

Growing up rich as fuck was definitely an enormous privilege. There was always stability, and always opportunity. I grew up in this white suburb. It was a great neighborhood: no violence, just the right amount of minority families, grassy front lawns, a well funded school. My elementary had this adorable little creek running in front of it where Papa and I would stop to feed the ducks. On the weekends, we’d bike around the neighborhood and the artificial lakes. Our neighbors were cool for the most part. My favorite was this mofo named Larry, who for some reason, was always fucking hosing his driveway. Shit was clean though. I think sometimes the neighbors were racist, but I guess that comes with being a brown family in the suburbs.

I attended the after school programs. I played basketball, soccer, and piano. I had limitless videogames & toys. Never once did I have to worry about food, shelter, or safety. And probably most fortunately, I had a family that was free from the stressors of violence & poverty. Everyday, they gave me all of their love.

When I went to college, I didn’t have to pay a dime. Now I’m in law school, and this shit is so fucking expensive, but I still don’t have to pay a dime. For that reason, I’m utterly terrified when my friends start talking about loans, cause I’m afraid I might have to admit to them that I can’t relate.

I’m sure my family’s wealth has benefited me in more ways than I’m aware of. I have always had every opportunity. I am so fucking fortunate (privileged).

—————————————————————————————-

Wealth has also given me some perspective. I don’t chase the bag at all. I guess cause I already got the bag, shit was literally handed to me. But also, I really have no appreciation for the clothes, the houses, the cars. It’s all just shit rich people like to flex so they can signal to everyone else that they made it.

It doesn’t mean shit. It’s a reflection of their insecurities. It’s a reflection of a culture where we assign more value to property than people. It’s a fucking pointless pursuit, trying to prove our worth with watches on wrists. We’re stuck on the treadmill. When will it be enough?

Meanwhile, we got people, just a zipcode over, without food, without homes, without any kind of support. What’s it like to be them? To have to endure the Arizona summers, our 115 degree highs that are only getting higher. To not have enough to eat. To be treated with disrespect, like you’re not even there. To have to beg for help from strangers that try their hardest to ignore you. Because to the rich, the poor are an inconvenient truth, a reminder of all the suffering that still exists while we build our fucking mansions with our fucking elevators.

How do we tolerate this? Why do I get the school with the creek and the ducks? While others grow up, no creek, no ducks, having to endure all the poverty, stress, & violence. I don’t deserve this shit, and neither do they.

Wealth amidst poverty is immoral. It is the most wretched form of violence. The kind of violence we’ve learned to tolerate & normalize. For every mansion, there is someone without a home. And for every sports car, there is someone without a meal. So long as there is poverty in this world, it is immoral to be rich. It doesn’t matter whether the wealth was “earned”. Because when someone doesn’t even have enough to get by, and we have more than enough ourselves, we have a duty to help them.

How could one’s luxuries ever be more important than another’s necessities? Giving to the poor is often characterized as “charity”. But no, it’s not charity, it’s duty.

And it’s not just the rich, it’s the whole system. The system that allows for these inequities to be produced. The system that allows for poverty amidst such plenty. I don’t know all the solutions, but I know we can do better. At the least, we got to guarantee everyone food, housing, healthcare, education. It’s fucking crazy we live in the richest nation ever and we still haven’t done that. One day, I think we will.

I hope in the future, people look back on us with judgment. Because honestly, how could we? How could we ever justify the mansions & the Mercedes, while next door, people are without homes, literally fucking starving.

—————————————————————————————-

Often, when I buy things for myself, I have these thoughts. Whether it’s new shoes, a concert ticket, ice cream, every dollar is a dollar I could have given to a charity that feeds starving people. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I guess I’m human, and I don’t feel the intensity of others’ suffering as my own. If I did, I certainly would live quite differently. But I do try, although I certainly could try harder.

And I suppose, far more important than any of my spending habits, is the power I have to change the system as a whole. To prevent such poverty from ever being created. We really do have to change this. We can be so much better.

—————————————————————————————-

I started this reflection by writing about the beauty of my family’s mansion. I stand by that, but with some nuance. While the architecture is beautiful, the concept is shameful. That such comfort & wealth can exist amidst such suffering & poverty, that is a disgrace. A great injustice.

Our kitchen on the hill, with its white tiles, the granite countertops, and the view into the city. It’s beautiful from our vantage point, but perhaps not so much for all the people looking up.

–

–

Further Reading

A short article explaining why it’s immoral to be rich:

https://www.currentaffairs.org/2017/06/its-basically-just-immoral-to-be-rich

A longer paper written by philosopher Peter Singer, explaining why the rich have duties to the poor:

Click to access Singer_1972Famine.pdf