"House-Rich, Millennial Edition": On Looking Rich While Being Poor

“What cost more, the shoes or the bag?”

It was an electronic message, but I could feel the sneer radiate from my palm, where my phone was open to an Instagram message I had received after prompting my followers to ask me a question.

Captioned on a picture of me hanging from a tree during a night out and wearing a pair of Comme des Garcons Converse sneakers and an Opening Ceremony tote bag, I figured I’d get the same types of responses as I typically do- snarky questions from friends meant to force a reaction, strangers shooting their shot, or questions about my work. I stared at the screen for several moments before rewording my own response, over and over.  

For those that are wondering, the shoes run you about $125. The bag costs $45 and I was able to snag it for half off during a winter sale. But those numbers aren’t really important- the man who typed the question to me wasn’t in the market for a versatile work bag, as I was when I found it (and subsequently deliberated over buying it for two days straight). His question wasn’t even really a question- it was a provocation. It was a value judgment- a weird, strangely complex form of virtue signaling borne from the comment sections of sites like Reddit, YouTube and Instagram. This type of virtue signaling has been happening for years in comment sections around the web, tacked onto the posts of influencers and celebrities, with countless anonymous stranger after stranger asserting their thoughts on the clothing, makeup, body types and thoughts expressed in the content. And here I was reading my own small version of it. And this version poked fun at my supposed wealth - the wealth I theoretically had because of what I was wearing.

The thing was, that image of me above told a story, just like every photo, comment, or random tweet does - a microstory. These stories, as many of us know and have come to realize throughout this era of social media, collectively create an image of us to both those who know us and those who don’t. And my image, to this person is that of a well-off, well-connected young woman bopping around the city of Chicago. I look well-traveled, I look moderately wealthy, I look like I’m invited to the right things and consume the right products. I look, in some minor ways, aspirational. Like the micro-est of microinfluencers.

But of course those pictures don’t tell a full story, or even half a story. We know this. We know this because we read articles about girls who get famous from turning this assumption into performance art and because we see digital (read: not real) influencers making actual (read: real) money as they soar in followers. Everybody wants to look like a better version of themselves online. But what are the implications of that image being used to place someone in a socioeconomic class? What do I gain from projecting this view of myself, consciously or subconciously? And what do I lose?

Well, we can begin with the truth. I grew up as a child raised partially in foster care. Each phase of my adolescence was tinged with the realities of poverty. Many of my earliest recollections involve frigid trailer homes without electricity or gas, boiled hotdogs wrapped in WonderBread, and the constant, conscious knowledge of Being Poor. Being Poor in rural Michigan isn’t an anomaly, especially if you also happen to be a person of color. In a state where young people are more likely to be poor than senior citizens, Black people have two and half times the poverty rate of white people and almost half of single mothers with children under 5 live in poverty, it was something I wasn’t conscious of as a systemic disadvantage (at the time) but I was never not aware of the differences between my life and that of my classmates. That was just the story that had been written for me.

From the time I was in fourth grade and lost a playground bet that cost us dinner money to the sixth grade inquisitions about my fashion choices (not owning Hollister or Abercrombie in those days was what The Plastics would’ve called “social suicide”) to the hushed whisper from a teacher as a senior in high school asking if I wanted help buying prom tickets, I never bought into the idea that children don’t understand class or money or capitalism. I may not have known the specifics, but I could tell the difference between my Fyre-festival-esque lunches and the Lunchables everyone else was eating. Social media just didn’t exist to document it.

But I was one of the “lucky” ones, in more ways than one. Being lightskinned protected me from much of the discrimination many darker skinned Black folks face. I had a knack for working my way through the formal education system, and I moved through it with relative academic ease, albeit the financial struggles that weighed on my shoulders throughout. But after high school, I wanted something I couldn’t name, and I figured education was the way to get there. And once I had a degree, I’d get a job, and things would magically fall into place, right? I’d be done with poverty. I’d be able to create my own story.

So when I moved out of rural Michigan, I learned to do what anyone would in my position: assimilate. Well, to be honest, the process of assimilation began before I moved, by way of a relationship with a boy whose family came from money, and borne out of my desperation at the time to shed much of what I considered my old story- my old life. And this relationship gave me the opportunity. Never had I stepped foot in a wine cellar or worn designer clothing before, but over the course of our almost three-year relationship, I was gifted objects and experiences that, to me, signified that I had Made It: Common Project sneakers, a designer handbag, a nicer phone, tailored jackets. An iPad Mini. A sense of “class”. I started to craft my personal story around these new things, and my online life reflected these new experiences. Did I experience them? Absolutely. Were they my actual story to tell? Hell no. I still went home and struggled over having health insurance; I still had to ask my closest friends to help with my rent. Nonetheless, I picked up interests I never dreamed of before - wine tastings, luxury car shows. Advertising.

And then I moved to Chicago. I later ended the relationship. Turns out that you can take the girl out of the poverty, but her conscience will catch up with her. And I found myself intertwined in a strange world where on sight and online, I fit in - until it was time to talk about anything other than the past few years. My last three years I’d had a solid run at crafting a story built on being, well, affluent - because I’d been given access and an informal education on all things bougie. I attended an expensive private school on scholarship and hefty loans. I started working at the ad agency Leo Burnett. Peers and colleagues assumed I was well - traveled, well - funded and well - educated, which was exactly what I had wanted. Those qualifiers gives you options, opportunities and access - the exact thing I was desperately hoping for as I struggled to break the cycle of poverty I grew up in. But when I wasn’t able to contribute to conversations about Europe trips (hell, even Vegas or Miami trips, for that matter) or didn’t know certain industry knowledge, or when I fell silent in conversations revolving around people’s relationship to their parents, I felt outed and exposed. I felt like a fraud. I had saved the money to buy the shoes to fit the part, I had become culturally adept at living amongst those in a different tax bracket - but I still couldn’t fit in. I still couldn’t escape a past I was always trying to outrun. My story had tons of plot holes.

I learned very quickly during that time that nobody likes a downer. Who wants to hear about intergenerational poverty over dinner? My childhood tales of our meager roadtrips were not impressive here. My anecdotes were unrelatable. And over time, this disconnect that in reality was likely pretty unnoticeable to most people became a chasm in my mind, one that colored my entire perception of my relationships. I was still Other. I was still separated by experience, delineated by the invisible class lines that America tries so hard to pretend don’t exist. And I felt shitty. But I kept posting. Faking it for so long had kind of worked, and I was now invited to things without my ex, with other advertising people, creatives and the trust fund kids who hang out with them and pretend to work while drinking at Soho House. And now I was in a weird place where my online life and my real story were both so obfuscated by the other it was hard to tell the percentage of actual reality in either.

Let’s be clear now: Since graduating college, I am no longer considered poor. I am living with more stability than I ever have before, a salary and a nice apartment. Am I rich? Hell no. I have more loans than the average graduate. I have medical debt. I have three roommates. And I’ve maxed out credit cards to pay essential bills. But I am better, and I am doing alright. The crazy thing about growing up poor, though, is how it impacts your brain and the way you see the world. The way you exist in it. And that mindset, that internal story, is still with me, whenever I marvel at the travel my peers have experienced, see photos of their childhood homes, hear about the camps and classes they went to as kids, hear about the opportunities they have living debt-free as young adults. The story in my head still puts me in the trailer home I grew up in, way out in the country, sitting too close to the staticky television because we couldn’t afford glasses. And that story impacts the way I view the world.

I started writing this piece in September of 2018. But I never could quite figure out just how to end it. I still wrestle with the feelings I felt upon moving to Chicago - shame, bitterness, distance from others. I’ve begun to wrestle with my own internalized classism - one of the reasons behind my double- story- life - and something which manifested in intense shame about how I grew up. And I’ve considered the ways in which I’m more privileged than many - something that is essential for deconstructing these stories and realizing the both the survivalism and triviality embedded in them.

I have had to reckon with my running away, literally and figuratively, from the economic reality I grew up in and the decision I made to leave and not look back. I suppose leaving this piece without a satisfying bow to wrap it in is probably the most accurate depiction of my current state of affairs in that regard. I still wrangle my feelings and manage my image to this day, even since leaving my alma mater and Leo Burnett.

My colleagues at my new job this month expressed shock that I don’t have a passport in casual conversation, and when I offered up the explanation that we didn’t travel much when I was young, they scoffed.

“Not for a minute do I believe that,” one said.

“You don’t seem the type.”