Expectations of the Expecting

(blog post written on January 20, the day before Miss Cheapist went into labor…) 

Happy New Year!  For months Miss Cheapist has been preoccupied with matters of lesser literary significance.  But as they taught in high school, it’s important to “write from the heart,” so, she will ‘fess up and find a launching point from the truth.   Readers, Miss Cheapist is actually married, (now call her Ms. Cheapist), and expecting a baby (gasp)!  While she has experienced an unexpected popularity on account of this new identity and enjoys her new hetero-normative status immensely, it still seemed too predictable to share online the travails of another expectant 30-something woman living in Brooklyn proper.   Moreover, she feared that any insight she had about pregnancy would be overshadowed once she had to give birth and take care of a baby, and she hesitated to offer smug commentary before the “hard stuff” began.   But as she enters her 41^st week of pregnancy, it seems necessary to reflect upon the many expectations held by the Expectant.  She can’t help but wonder, how much is too much?  When does a post-modern celebration of fertility and desire for children quickly decline into self-absorption (and sometimes self-pity) and unrealistic ideals that can never be fulfilled?   In effect, are women cheapening themselves when they decrease their expectations, or are they simply putting things in proper perspective?  

In Ms. Cheapist’s experience, the expectant mother encounters many different narratives as she approaches her delivery date.  One school of thought in particular emphasizes that there is a “natural” and fulfilling childbirth ideal that mothers-to-be can strive for with the assistance of a conscientious partner and/or other practitioners outside of the medical industrial complex.  Those most fervent are the ‘regretful;’ mothers who lament the “horrible” experience of their first deliveries, speaking of hard, fast labors, rushed with Pitocin, numbed with an inevitable epidural, sometimes culminating in a C-section that robs them of the true connection they could gain with their baby through their vaginal walls.  For their following children, they enlist the aid of prenatal yogis, doulas and mid-wives to help them achieve that optimum birth experience.   At the center of this ethos is the mother herself, her needs and body are a temple to be preserved, and a baby who must be sheltered from a cold, assessment-driven, surgical, and financially-motivated world.   Miss Cheapist found most of it valid, at times, a bit didactic and alarmist, but not completely offensive.  She even liked the notion that for once, she could shed her class guilt and exist at the center of the universe, connected to other women who also chose to “bring life into this world,” and receive special treatment for it.

All these fantasies and polemics came to a screeching halt when she spoke to her own mother, who possessed the mentality that childbirth was a thing to endure, mostly alone, and was primarily for the purpose of delivering a healthy baby.   Sensing her daughter’s mounting self-obsession, Mother Cheapist commented dryly, “You know, people are dying in the world too,” and proceeded to list the many tragic losses that occurred in 2008, making special note of the struggles of the elderly who she felt a special obligation to care for, instead of a pregnant daughter.   Why would you have any special needs, Mother Cheapist wondered, when you, are the luckiest person on earth to be expecting a child?  Post-partum support?  You will be so happy to have little bambini, you won’t need anyone!   As an immigrant, Mother Cheapist  lacked the support of her own extended family when she gave birth to Ms Cheapist, just recently arrived to a new country, her husband passed out from the drama of the experience, leaving her to labor on her own, her only ally being her trusted (male) doctor.   With this notch on her belt, it was hard for her to understand all the attention that a woman needed for something that was supposed to be relatively “natural” and routine.   Moreover, she did not hesitate to assign extra responsibility to the mother.  Miscarriage was attributed to over-activity.  Episiotomy was necessary to avoid deforming a child’s head and brain through forceps or suction.  C-section?  Unquestionably the safest way to get a baby out and nothing to fear!   Who cares if you can get cut?   A resilient woman had the natural resources to be sewn up and heal; however, the baby was too vulnerable to withstand anything.  And another “martyr mother” archetype is born! 

To all this, Ms. Cheapist brattily responded, “I really don’t care!”  If her feelings were diminished, then she could invalidate the experiences of others.  But when the sting of rejection that comes when contradicted by those we respect diminished,  Ms. Cheapist came to a realization.  Her own mother really struggled with this idea of expectation and had found her own way around it.   It seemed that if she learned to expect nothing, then she would never be disappointed.  Without disappointment, one would not experience defeat.  It was her mother’s rationale and faith in her own ability to persevere that allowed her to survive through difficult times, and in its own right, offered her feelings of empowerment.    Although she spoke of things more crassly and with less romance than those in the other camp, in effect, the idea that pain, emotional and physical, was worth the joy of having children, rang consistently between the two schools of thought.   In effect, it is true that our expectations about childbirth are shaped by culture, and we all make a decision to take a risk…expect the most, or prepare yourself for something else.  Miss Cheapist would love to conserve her expectations, but given the excess and desires that make up her own cultural milieu, it may be easier said than done.   

Inheritance of the Lost

First of all, Miss Cheapist is so happy that Obama was elected the 44^th President of the United States. She will take a tremendous risk and say that her faith in democracy is restored, and she looks to the future reconnected with her own past idealism. The news of his victory also marked the end of her two- month long period of writer’s block, and she was finally able to finish this post.

With the stock market seeming to fall to the same odds as tugging the slot machines in AC and the profitability of real estate debunked, Miss Cheapist feels more confidently than ever that inheriting money is the only reliable way to get rich. However, acceptance of family money can also bring with it certain obligations and complicity, and as a result, cannot be over-analyzed or relied upon. If anything, the current financial crisis confirms that being really rich requires the exploitation of others, in effect, rendering all big money (old or new) somewhat dirty. Regardless, family money always will be highly valued and worth discussing because its influence (and absence) remains with us always; it begins with childhood narratives, evolves into adult hang-ups and with time, shapes retirement realities.

Miss Cheapist has noticed that in every family, children are given a certain message about money. More often than not, it is shrouded in mystery, and parents present themselves as either richer or poorer than they really are, with the hopes that it will cultivate a certain work ethic in their child. Those who fear that their children will become spoiled may lecture about how they must struggle to carve out a middle class existence and can still barely afford anything; all the while hiding the truth that they are indeed the ‘millionaires next door.’ Such parents promote anti-materialism and austerity plans, even charging market-value rent when a 30-something moves back home. Others, fearing their children will become anxious among peers with more spending power, reassure them that the coffers are well maintained, buy everything that “other kids have,” and promise that money will flow freely for generations to come—even when such security may not really exist. As time passes, new messages about money can emerge, depending upon what seems to motivate the descendant. Money is only doled out as an incentive or reward, while for others, the lesson of doing things just for the sake of contributing is emphasized, and as a result, material rewards are withheld. Some self-made parents may simply create distance between their own wealth and that of their children, taking greater pride in the possibility that their own tenacity and “tough love” will create another generation of Horatio Algers, and not complacent pleasure seeking parasites of the trust fund ilk. To Miss Cheapist, these are all different versions of the same mind-fuck that persists in the parent-child relationship, where control trumps all else, even when tinged with good intentions. Perhaps in a Part II installation of this post, she can bore you with various anecdotes about family money and the lessons learned--from Tori Spelling to her own peers who have inherited money as a result of family tragedy, the stories are far too extensive to tell here.

While an elite group of Gordon Geckos and their reptiles in training have sacked the country with 700 billion plus dollars of bad investments, the rest of us must wait helplessly to witness the true impact of this nasty “correction.” Is this really what we wanted? Will New York become affordable for ordinary working people, or does our reliance on these scions of industry now force us to tumble down with them? Will socialism reign supreme? Sadly it seems that the classes are so economically intertwined that a sort of family drama is playing itself out on a national scale: the fallen paternal figure and a second generation that must suffer the consequences. Seems many of us have become infantilized by the paternal negligence of a free market, and as we outgrow our illusion of rugged individualism, it’s very possible that our collective inheritance will drift even farther from reach.

On Hiding Privilege

Old School Hall at Punahou: to deny or embrace?

To the disappointment of those who believe that economic difference trumps all other identities, race and gender continue to define the Presidential race. Yet discussions of whether or not America ready for a Black President, or if a female candidate will promote the best interests of women only offer opportunities for speculation and delusional spurts of optimism. It seems that many Americans want a President who inspires their trust¸ and since no one wants to explicitly talk about race or age, questions about Obama and McCain’s class backgrounds surround both campaigns. Both have been called out for being too privileged to understand that ambiguous demographic of the “average American,” group becoming more important to woo as the economy speeds south.

Obama’s so-called ‘out-of touch’ comments about ‘bitter, gun-loving,’ working class white people were assumed to be a reflection of his elite education and lack of experience. McCain’s resume includes an heiress wife, a decorated naval family, and so many homes that he can’t keep count. McCain even had to placate voters with an absurd announcement of his own victim-hood: “Once I did not even have a kitchen table!” Obama represents his prep school experience in Hawaii as one where he was one of the only African-American males there, and instead of his education at Punahou being something that made him a member of an elite group, it helped form his racial identity where in the future, he could empathize with those who felt marginalized in society.

In spite of the fact that Obama has ignited a movement of people who were previously disenchanted with the system, as well as millions of others from many different backgrounds, politics and the social climate of this country demands that he play down his intelligence and access to education. Unfortunately this is a pressure that many minorities feel they must submit to in order to fit in, both on the playground and professionally. This is not an experience limited to minorities—after all, some twenty-somethings with trust funds adopt the urban vernacular for street ‘cred and volunteer in the third world to shed the stigma of a sheltered, privileged existence. Unfortunately, this habit of understating ones ability and fortune seems to have more negative effects for men of color, and for Obama, who is always seen as an exception to any norm, his privilege offers him contradictory liabilities and opportunities. That he has the resources to play down puts him on an even playing field with elite men like McCain, Bush and Gore, as his credentials help him to be perceived as “Presidential.” As a result, Miss Cheapist, in her novice attempt at punditry, would say it’s not worth it for him to be too humble…while being relatively new to the game works to his advantage, so does the experience that preceded this moment. Recently Miss Cheapist overheard an undecided woman voter stating what many are afraid to utter: “I know I should vote for Obama. Obviously he’s qualified because of he went to Punahou and Harvard, but I don’t know if I want to risk it.” While George Bush was somehow able to mask his genteel background and Andover education with a contrived Southern “folksiness,” Obama, and probably McCain as well, has to cultivate a different type of class identity that appeals those who, for whatever reason, find them out of touch. Fortunately, Obama, with his mixed race and cultural background, as well as his years as a community organizer, has earned a reputation of objectivity; a listener willing to look at new solutions. Ironically, this ability to see things from different points of view seems to come from being in the greatest position of privilege possible, something difficult and unnecessary to disguise.

Miss Cheapist takes in the campus.

Finally, it’s important to mention that downplaying the Punahou prep school experience is something shared by many alum, political hopefuls and otherwise. Whenever Miss Cheapist told others in Hawaii that she attended the elite institution, she was disdainfully mocked for attending the “rich white school,” and assumed to be a snob. She would hesitate to tell people where she went to school for fear that she would be pre-judged, or worse yet, harrassed. At the age of 16, her own driving teacher commented to her that the reason she failed the driving test three times was she was unable to “come down to our level, honey,” rather than a lack of comfort on the road. Even as an adult, it was assumed that she was unable to relate to others simply because she had the chance to attend an incredible school that boasted an Olympic swimming pool, a glass-blowing lab, fourteen tennis courts and Ivy League college placement. Yes, of course her schooling made her a snob who believed she deserved it all, but at the same time, she appreciated the opportunity she gained. She later came to learn that where you went to school is as random as what family you were born into, and really depended on what you made of your education. But humility does not require deception. An education is nothing to hide, especially for someone who does not have a legacy to fall back on, and needs all the help she can get. At first Miss Cheapist gravitated toward Obama because they shared a common experience, and he seemed to really understand the complexity of identity in the 21^st century. Now she realizes it is exactly his ability to reach the majority without necessarily identifying with them that made him so special.

In search of six figures

a spread of appetizers for dinner party discussed below

Recently, at a dinner party where everyone was drunk and well-fed enough to share a series of glib confessions, Miss Cheapist announced, “My goal is to make six figures.” Silence fell over the table, then laughter, until one of her friends, also a colleague, responded, “What are you going to do, sell crack to your students?” Readers, you know Miss Cheapist works in a humble profession—teaching—where few imagine room for growth or prosperity. Yes, some make more when they enter the tedium of administrative work, but they claim do it for a higher purpose, and not for the love of money. How telling that he felt she could only earn six figures as a drug dealer. Was this how he viewed Miss Cheapist’s potential as an individual, or did it reflect his low expectations for himself and others working in the same field? As guilt pervades the not-for-profit sector, Miss Cheapist often received the message that to truly serve others, she must abandon any dreams of adequate compensation. After being a seasoned professional, Miss Cheapist refuses to buy that argument. Although she too was once paralyzed with class guilt, “entitlement role models” taught her that in order to help others, she could not go cheap on herself.

One such role model was Miss Cheapist’s friend, L., who worked with her at a previous job as a fund-raiser. On the job, L. referred often to her marketing background, wielding her Microsoft Office chops and her ability to translate corporate vernacular into a lingo of not-for-profit self-improvement with great confidence and charm. But L.’s most inspiring achievement took place before she even started. Recognizing that she was accustomed to a particular standard of living, and aware of her own self worth, L. negotiated a salary that was higher than anyone else who worked at the organization, aside from the boss himself. At that time, it was a mere $46,000, but as not-for-profit workers are made aware of the fact that their salaries are the product of donations and as a result must hover below market rate, the amount, when leaked, made her the subject of great envy and distrust. Miss Cheapist was initially miffed by L.’s aggressive self advocacy because it seemed to devalue her own achievements, but over time, L.’s relentless work ethic and generous spirit won her over. Moreover, she realized that L.’s brave negotiation set the bar higher for everyone else at the job to be paid more.

In making L. an ally, Miss Cheapist learned a valuable lesson about the workplace: if you are effective and work hard, you should be able to ask for what you want. Many avoid demanding more from the workplace because they fear it will lead to employer harassment or jealousy from peers, and quickly they end up feeling bitter and exploited, unable to stand up for themselves. Ironically, although L. was able to secure her salary, her boss never let her forget how privileged she was to receive that amount, often accusing her of being too “corporate” and out of touch with the mission of the organization. It's six years later, and she has left that job, now holding a Master’s Degree and lucrative job offer abroad. Although nobody’s life is perfect, her trajectory offers important lessons for all. If your boss begrudges you a desired salary, your future with him/her is probably limited. Ask and you might get more: have your requests be denied and receive a little more information about how the job may be unsuitable for the long term. So many organizations, not-for- profit and otherwise, seem to suffer from huge turnover when workers feel their ambition subtly stifled and requests made for an improved work place unreasonably dismissed. More importantly, how can someone help others if they are constantly worried about money? Inevitably, corners will be cut, and people burn out.

Miss Cheapist is still brainstorming ways to reach her goal. Her own mother recently emailed her in a business-like manner, noting that as Miss Cheapist has yet to "make it," she should not feel entitled to any of the objects from her family home. Make your own money first, then ask your parents for help (because you won't really need it) was the official message of self-made, tough love. Since her mother is obviously the best arbiter of reality, Miss Cheapist feels even more motivated to apply herself, and come up with a get-rich-quick scheme. Perhaps by adding greater specificity to her ambitions, she will finally arrive. If you have a formula for success, please feel free to comment and offer details on the sacrifices and caveats found along the path to wealth. In the past year we have discussed downward mobility, fantasies and secrets (see past posts if just tuning in now). A relationship between all these themes is slowly emerging. But is Miss Cheapist moving in the right direction?

Miss Cheapist and even cheaper sister

Sister Cheapist taking the ocean breezes of Venice Beach, CA

Miss Cheapist received the news in May that her sister, A., planned to move to Lost Angeles after the summer to pursue a degree in architecture, abandoning her lucrative job as a software consultant for something more artistic. A.’s pending departure marked the year anniversary of the blog (which was inspired by the Virginia suburb that she called home, as well as her frugal spending habits), and also reflected the general themes of East Coast abandonment that served as the subtext for Miss Cheapist’s regular musings. Given that everyone else found a better life in California, why wouldn’t A.? Who could resist its still developing cultural landscape, coastal modernism, and the chance to sight celebrities? When the feeling of being the remaining survivor after a nuclear holocaust gave way to quiet acceptance, Miss Cheapist went south to help her sister pack and move. In that experience, she learned quickly that her interpretation of cheapism was generational, as her sister lived in a realm simply known as “cheap.” Anxious that becoming a full-time graduate student would leave her a pauper, A. practiced a risky approach to cheapness, gambling in the world of Craigslist commerce.

Sister, cousin and Miss Cheapist (left to right) in the early 90s . All following pictures are of items sold online and photographed by A.

Miss Cheapist always thought of Craigslist as a place inhabited by amateur and seasoned child prostitutes, wanna-bes and their greatest fans. As many of her teenage students marketed themselves and found inappropriate friends through this medium, her assessment of the site fell just right of Nancy Reagan. For the less deviant, Craigslist is better known as a clearing-house for “stuff,” obviously a front for its greater purpose of bartering and subjugating bodies (to crudely borrow from postmodernism). What a great way for axe murderers to seduce twenty-somethings with limited budgets and expensive tastes: advertise a stylish piece of furniture and invite Net-faithful young’ uns to ones lair under a “cash and carry" policy. Or better yet, troll the site for college co-eds looking to sell their belongings online…and then access to their homes with little suspicion. But don't worry. Miss Cheapist is malleable. Those who see Craigslist as a rebellion against the retail industrial complex and a means of Paglia-esque female empowerment will be glad to know that through a few experiences with A., her opinion of the site did change. She came to learn:

Kind, hard-working people really need cheap stuff. The first couple to call was very persistent about a specific meeting time to view A.’s couch. Miss Cheapist saw their rigidity as an indicator that they were controlling freaks and warned her sister of confrontation if the meeting in person went sour. Please cancel, she said, and A. did not listen. When the couch coveters finally arrived, they appeared to be perfectly normal: a sweet, newly engaged South Asian couple (both architects by training) who had just moved from Texas and wanted to furnish their new life, cheaply. A., in an effort to make the situation legitimate, often asked buyers about their professions, reasons for purchasing the item and even their educational backgrounds. Perhaps it made for comforting small talk as strangers entered her home. Or maybe it was important that these beloved possessions go to people who met her approval. It turned out the couch was too expensive for the couple; they asked A. for a lower price, but she refused. Even when it seemed the couch was out of reach, they still sat and chatted for twenty minutes, the man leaving with her undergraduate duplicate packet of HBS case studies (estimated value of $100) for ten dollars. Miss Cheapist was so touched by their congeniality and humility that she almost convinced her sister to give the couch away to them. After all, they clearly deserved a prize for not being axe murderers; just average Americans pursuing a dream of cheap domesticity.

Some people take the time to give things away for free, and others are willing to go the distance to help them. One critical piece of advice Miss Cheapist gave A. was to purchase quality moving boxes. A. instead collected several odd-sized and partially deconstructed boxes from random hallways, with the intention of finding ways to “make it work.” After much insistence from Miss Cheapist, she finally sought out better boxes…by looking on Craigslist. Within minutes she found a woman who had 10-15 boxes to give away (side-note: 20-somethings really know how to use search engines). The woman just moved and was looking for someone to take away her boxes. Again, Miss Cheapist was very suspicious, and warned her sister not to allow herself to risk her life and precious packing time just to save a few dollars. A. ignored her, and Miss Cheapist reluctantly followed her sister on the fifteen minute drive to the woman’s apartment. Again, the visit was surprisingly fruitful: the woman was not an impersonator, and she had genuine intentions. She even helped to bring down some of the boxes from her fourth floor walk-up and offered a few words of advice on moving.

Some people find it difficult to buy new items at retail prices, and at the same time, they have the resources to move a three piece sectional within a moment's notice. The second couple that came to see the couch at 9:30 PM had visited other sellers that day and seemed ready to seal the deal. The woman unfolded herself into the couch and put her feet up, marking her territory. Within five minutes of saying she would take it, her brother-in-law arrived in the parking lot, ready to help carry and transport it home in a large van. A few minutes later, Miss Cheapist found herself watching “Girlfriends” reruns from the floor, while her sister fingered the $800 cash in hand. The transaction ran so smoothly that Miss Cheapist even considered selling something on-line. Unfortunately nothing of value, short of herself, came to mind.

The outcome: Based upon the spreadsheet A. created, (20-somethings are very comfortable with Excel), she was able to earn back at least 50% of what she spent on all belongings purchased in Virginia over her years of residence there. Because she kept her prices high, she was even able to make a profit on some items bought previously at a lower price on Craigslist. Winning this strange gamble between frugality and personal safety, she emerged victorious. Still in one piece, she was able to use the extra cash for the move and shed herself the burden of shipping all her possessions across the country. She did good business and learned to live more simply. Freed from attachment to her former life as a corporate stiff, she gained a chance to acquire more, in a new city. It would be only a matter of time that something caught her eye online, and she would have to get it. And the cycle of risk and reward would continue…

Secrets: Miss Cheapist will never tell...

Remember when friendships were defined by our ability to divulge everything? The sign of a true friend was someone you with whom you could unload all your secrets: vices, sexual preferences, hidden mistakes, family scandals, and all other unspeakables in between. Miss Cheapist formed an unexpected bond with a college classmate named J. after he disclosed his dirty little secret. Before that, their relationship had not extended beyond witty party banter and academic de-briefing. But one day, after a particularly charged class about “historical trauma,” J. pulled her aside and admitted that his high school research of family roots yielded the discovery of a slaveholding past, quite a source of shame given his liberal, open-minded ways and his family’s commitment to civil rights. Later he also admitted to being strangely attracted to women of color, and felt guilty about it, hoping that he wasn’t objectifying them for their “otherness.” Although there was probably no connection between the two secrets, his ability to articulate and admit both these things seemed to seal their friendship for life. Although Miss Cheapist has broken her promise in the name of online self- promotion, it’s important to note the point made here. Someone who is openly racist is completely déclassé, but someone who recognizes the contradictions of their views, and knows when to conceal, and when to share, was highly evolved. What self-awareness! The fact that they attended college in the era defined by “political-correctness” made his frankness all the more courageous.

But somewhere between elementary school and our early twenties (when Carrie and SATC brunch buddies set the norm on sharing), an unexpected discretion has taken over. Friend M. recently mentioned this culture of secrecy to Miss Cheapist, wondering how it was possible to have genuine friendships when everything from money to pregnancy seemed suddenly off-limits. In a variety of social settings, her questions meant to show sincere personal interest were received with off-putting comments and a huffy wall of silence. Did her behavior suddenly take a turn for the socially inappropriate or had people become too sensitive? If the latter is true, it seems a shame that friendships no longer require us to share our responses to life’s various passages, both celebratory and tragic. Clearly no one wants to unintentionally alienate their nearest and dearest, but Miss Cheapist suspects there is some benefit to secrecy or at least some reason for this new cheapness of candor!

To further investigate this matter, Miss Cheapist probed her friend N., who still believed in the comfort of a long phone conversation and the healing power of confessionals. Always known for her insight and her pithy one-liners, N. theorized that people are keeping secrets for a number of reasons. 1) They are making a lot of money and they don’t want one anyone to know. 2) They aren’t making money or feeling professional fulfillment and want no one to know. 3) They are desperately unhappy and are ashamed about it, either because they suspect friends will minimize their feelings or feel they are far to fortunate to be so miserable. Given all these different limitations, it is no surprise friends aren’t talking...if N. is right, somewhere between the concerns of both the blessed and the scorned, everything has become taboo! With this explanation, it’s clear that withholding is not personal, or a statement of ones trustworthiness. Instead, secrecy has become a coping mechanism, a testament to the power of denial. After all, if we don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist. Miss Cheapist thinks something's gotta change.

The Formula for Good Fortune

Just a few months in and tragic events have revealed that the Year of the Rat has been most unlucky. Miss Cheapist finds herself reeling from deaths of two significant figures in her life, trying to make sense of seemingly unpredictable cycles of fate. Shortly after the Lunar New Year, Miss Cheapist held a small dumpling party and then set off to a vacation in Akumal, Mexico. The vacation was long awaited, and one of the few in recent years that did not require her to fulfill any obligations or accommodate the needs of others. In effect, it was the first “selfish” trip that she and her partner had taken since their nuptials two years earlier (i.e. no weddings to attend or family in attendance)…quite a luxury indeed. Not that they were complaining; the past few years had granted them great fortune: a blowout island wedding, generous support from loved ones, and several subsidized family vacations (as documented in this blog). Actually, there were moments where Miss Cheapist really didn’t believe she deserved any of it, and felt that with the excess of good fortune, there would be some kind of ‘correction,’ when the proverbial ‘other shoe would drop.’ She tried to commit a few good deeds in an effort to compensate for the footprint of indulgence that she was leaving behind. Gratuitous, yes, it seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. You see, in spite of her complaints about expensive urban life and her sense of entitlement to the accoutrements of a neo-Gilded Age NYC, Miss Cheapist secretly felt quite blessed.

So when they received the call informing them that a parent had suddenly died on their first day of the vacation, it seemed that it was their turn to experience something unimaginably unfortunate. Although the two were no strangers to unexpected deaths and familial loss, their previous streak of good luck and their unwavering desire to take a vacation on their own, as well as the eternal nature of their parents made this loss seem particularly unjust. In those first days of shock, so much was uttered in grief, and even more they feared to say out loud. It was at this time when the natural feelings of their own special-ness surfaced, the sense that bad things could not possibly happen to good people. After all, this can’t be our life.

Without organized religion or coherent faith in a higher being, it seemed that the universe was guided by a nameless cheap bastard who only doled out happiness in small servings, and decided quite arbitrarily and prematurely whose turn was next. For the believer, one might similarly wrestle with the deeper meaning of loss, and yet might find comfort in the fact that “everything happens for a reason,” that human beings do not belong to the world of the living, but instead are gifts from God, spending time on earth for a limited time to leave an imprint, but little more. And of course, there is the belief that the deceased enter a world where they feel no suffering, a place that we can’t even pay to get into.

Miss Cheapist may be entering the dangerous territory of uninformed religious interpretation, so she will pause, only to say that in a time period when faith is consumable and believers can vote with their feet, all these points of view were examined in the process of grieving. Even superstition and a curiosity about “crossing over,” were entertained. Dreams were interrogated for deeper messages from the dead, and Miss Cheapist wondered if we receive clues that our lives will be cut short. In effect, do some live larger because they know even more than others, that nothing lasts forever? Should we all just try to live excessively, and throw caution to the wind? Or is caution necessary to prevent accidents and injury? In a world that seemed so possible to control and organize, Miss Cheapist saw all the patterns recede and the equations of fate impossible to balance. Although it was just two months ago that all this happened, time stopped and stretched thin, and Miss Cheapist remained in the world of the living, wondering just what the future held.

Chinese for a Week: Happy New Year!

Today Manhattan’s Chinatown was abuzz with activity, and Miss Cheapist appreciated it all with the gaze of an Orientalist. There was nothing more satisfying than seeing her own culture as an outsider and preserving it into idealized images, frozen in time. She embraced everything: gold paper glittering from sidewalk stands, a woman carrying plum blossoms wrapped in brown paper, burnt reds of roast duck hanging from windows and customers crowding the markets in search of fresh produce for Thursday’s feast. Chortles of new year greetings rang across alleys and doorframes. Merchants even happily allowed Miss Cheapist to photograph their colorful interiors.

To beat the February blues, Miss Cheapist recommends throwing a Lunar New Year party, if only for an excuse to experience the bargains and festivity of a Chinese supermarket. Her favorite one-stop store for first-timers is "Dynasty" at the northeast corner of Hester and Grand streets. All kinds of supplies can be found here. You can also wander around the area to supplement what you buy there. For any Lunar New Year party, you can find the following items (with preparation suggestions):

Dumplings (a category unto themselves): You can buy different varieties of frozen dumplings and play them off as your own creation, or make them from scratch. The very adventurous can make their own skins; but fresh dumpling skins are found in every grocery store. Round skins are for fried/steamed dumplings (gyoza) and the square ones for won tons. Communal dumpling making is a delightful way to entertain guests, popular in China, especially in the North. You can easily find dumpling recipe online, but remember to always include these ingredients when you create the filling: white pepper (grind the peppercorns whole), Shaoxing cooking wine, a couple tablespoons of cornstarch (so the meat doesn’t become dry), green onions (minced), and Chinese dark soy sauce ("Kikkoman" will not cut it for this dish). If you don't like pork, experiment with shellfish, or ground turkey and chicken, but make sure you use lots of cornstarch and season appropriately. Go light on the sesame oil--just a few dashes will be enough.

The Sauces/Dried Goods Section:

While you are in the sauce section, pick up Japanese rice vinegar and oyster sauce to mix together for a dumpling dipping sauce, and for guests who like to prove their mettle with spicy foods, choose the funkiest hot-sauce you can find on the shelf. Many prefer the Vietnamese brand Siriacha, but Miss Cheapist likes something darker, chunkier and oilier. Other condiments to try are chive oil, peanut sauce and hoisin. In these aisles, you will find many instant marinades to experiment with as well. Each bottle is usually between $1 to $2, so it's worth it to try things out. In light of recent scares, avoid sauces made in mainland China, go for those bottled in Taiwan, Hong Kong, California or New Jersey. Read the fine print! After all, it should be in English.

Stock up on tea, and remember to serve after the meal. Miss Cheapist likes to buy tins of loose leaf oolong, jasmine and green tea. She also likes chrysanthemum tea with a touch of honey, but word on the street is bugs creep their way into the dried flower during the drying and bagging process. Drink at your own risk.

Frozen Food Section:

The scallion pancake: it's a crowd pleaser and you don’t have to make it from scratch. Pick up a frozen package, and fry in a cast iron pan or wok with generous amounts of oil. Cut into triangles with cooking shears, and use the same dumpling sauce.

Edamame/Soybeans: Although corner greengrocers north of Grand Street charge about $3.00 for a bag, you can find sacks (even the shelled variety) of these tasty morsels for at least a dollar less in Chinatown. Stock your freezer!

Sweets: Frozen mochi balls ("tong yun") with red bean or black sesame centers can be quickly boiled and served in a jasmine ginger tea broth for a delicate and surprising dessert. This section also contains Asian flavored ice creams and sorbets. Miss Cheapist likes corn and green bean popsicles, but they are hard to find. Some have stated that Chinese cuisine suffers from a paucity of quality desserts, but that is just not accurate. For more sweets, check out a Chinese bakery. Miss Cheapist likes Fay Da, a bakery with many locations in Manhattan Chinatown and Flushing. More tips on navigating a Chinese bakery later...

Meats: Some grocery stores will have small, affordable trays of thinly carved meats which can be used for a Korean BBQ dish or shabu shabu (hotpot) dinner options.

Fresh Produce: Greens and Fruits
Many different types of greens can be found in an Asian grocery store. Most have made it into mainstream Western diets, so the novelty may have worn off for readers. But to state the obvious: the bittersweet, crisp flavors of these dark veggies make wonderful additions to dishes, or can be served on their own: mustard greens, baby bok choy, gai lan (looks like a slightly larger broccoli rabe), oong choi (looks like watercress)… And don’t forget to spice up your dishes with the herbs: scallions, chives, and cilantro. All these greens are incredibly affordable in Chinatown. To prepare, Miss Cheapist's mother recommends shaving off the tough edges of the greens, chopping them into smaller pieces, and then boiling a few tablespoons water in the pan with dashes of vegetable oil and soy sauce. When the water bubbles, blanche the greens with the cover on until they are still crunchy but well done. Partway through the cooking process, add cooking wine, salt and white pepper. Remove water before everything becomes soggy.

At the end of the meal, you can also serve a medley of exotic fresh fruits such as lichee, long an (see mystery fruit in first picture), durian, fresh tangerine, persimmon or asian pear. Or just stick with an old standby--oranges, served cut against the grain, with skins intact. Fruits at the end of the meal are believed to ease digestion and cleanse the palate.

Prepared Foods:
To kick it up a notch, or to avoid cooking, buy 2 pounds each of roast duck, char siu (BBQ pork) and soy sauce chicken from the prepared foods section. This should cost you no more than $35.00 and you can serve about 20 people with these amounts.

While this guide is by no means comprehensive, it is a start. For every party, remember to decorate with red and gold, invite a diverse group of friends, and make sure everyone has enough to eat and drink! There will be no cheapness in hospitality…bad luck ah.

The Kind that Bind

At the start of a road trip from San Francisco to Los Angeles with her family over the holidays, Miss Cheapist enjoyed the intimacy of the parent/child relationship. She reveled in being able to have mature, non-judgmental conversations with her mother where “active listening” prevailed. It was initially comforting to be with someone who knew her every flaw and made sure she stayed hydrated and ate fruits and vegetables. Miss Cheapist even entertained the fantasy of moving closer to her mother, for good. But after days of zipping through long highways, dry canyons, palm-lined boulevards and broad coastlines, she unconsciously began to regress into her 15-year old self. The car walls folded in on her, and she wanted to argue, sulk, and respond defensively, even without provocation. Not even an “In-and-Out” burger along Highway 101 took the edge off as she struggled with the contradictory impulses to draw her family closer, and at the same time, pull away. All this made her wonder, is it an asset or a liability to live near those who reared us? What is our obligation to our parents as adults, and can we afford to be cheap?

According to H., a childhood friend who moved to Manhattan immediately after graduating from an unnamed Northeastern women’s college, the city is divided into two groups: A) those who stayed/moved back into the city and remain close to their parent(s) and B) those who left their hometowns with many dreams, uncertain of when they would return home and reestablish those bonds. On this same topic, H. also offered an observation about “Sex and the City,” commenting that although the show thoroughly reviewed many topics, rarely were parents and their influence on urban life explored. Why? Is family too complicated to be sexy?

Western psychoanalytic theory argues that in order to fully thrive, one must separate herself from her parents and develop an independent identity. Yet many native New Yorkers, even those who worship at the altar of analysis, still cherish those ties that bind, living in their parents’ homes (or next door), having weekly dinners, seeking advice on all major decisions, relying on familiar networks for employment, and frequenting the establishments they grew up with. To a certain extent, this loyalty and closeness is enviable; in a city that is based upon relationships and insular communities, who wants to start from ground zero all the time? The benefits of maintaining a commitment to ones family are innumerable, and those who weather the highs and lows seem to be well rewarded. On the outside, it appears that tolerating the low level buzz of dysfunction is a cost worth taking on. After all, we were probably far more annoying as teenagers.

But for many, such closeness makes it difficult to break from the conventions and expectations of childhood. Even if we experienced periods of rebellion, it becomes so easy to reinforce the past. Deep into our thirties, we wonder if we can even recognize ourselves in the thick of our own inherited prejudices and idiosyncrasies. For this reason just as many New Yorkers have left for other cities like San Francisco, Chicago, Shanghai and Buenos Aires, looking to gain space, find themselves, and put down new roots. However, is it so easy to just pick up and leave? As the years pass, there is increased responsibility to care for parents who, may become frail or just yearn for a closer connection to their children. Although many see this as a burden, there is nothing more satisfying that being able to provide for them as adults, and to have few regrets about abandonment or fears that our own children will do the same to us.

But what about Miss Cheapist? She moved away from home years ago filled with possibility of gaining greater opportunity in New York, wanting to make everyone proud of her accomplishments. With time and many transitions, Miss Cheapist discovered that one can live a morally sound, fun, and rather unexceptional life in New York, and dreams don’t easily transpire into reality. And worse, many of her native New Yorker friends do inaccurately view her as indulged in her autonomy, and belonging to a tribe of people who have temporarily settled here. Although the city, her relationship to a lifelong mate and the mission of her profession still holds great meaning for her, Miss Cheapist is always haunted by the possibility that she may be making a terrible mistake. Is she being emotionally cheap by maintaining this distance, or is she waiting to mature into someone with greater resilience, and perhaps even more needed? As she wrestles with this matter, she can’t take for granted that it is a luxury to have a happy and healthy parent. She can afford a bit of freedom, but not ingratitude. For the time being, she will remain a child.

Sweet, Sweet Fantasy (with apologies to M. Carey)

(the popular fantasy of an apartment in Harlem overlooking Central Park)

Several years ago, Miss Cheapist tried therapy as a way to navigate different transitions that she faced. At the time, it was productive, primarily because she realized how little she really understood about herself. One memorable evening on the couch, she shared a feeling of suffocation from the desires and expectations of those closest to her. With fatigue, she sighed, “I’m just so overwhelmed with everyone else’s fantasies!” Her therapist, a woman who never changed the register of her voice, and colored her office with photographs from travels in the Himalayas, responded, “And what is your fantasy?” Her question gave Miss Cheapist pause. She wondered, when it seemed easier to respond to others, rather than barrel forward with her own dreams, did she really dare to fantasize? Or by doing so, was she only setting herself up for failure? Even after using the word so glibly to describe the predicament of others, when she had to look inward, the concept of “fantasy” really seemed so difficult to define.

In the holiday season when everyone is determined to articulate their wishes, and for the less cheap, make the wishes of others actually come true, it seems appropriate to determine the value of fantasies. Who can even afford them? At first blush, it seems that fantasy comes easy, especially through television. Miss Cheapist, most recently, has thrown herself into the unexpectedly enthralling Gossip Girl: a constructed TV world of earnest, class-conscious teen love, self-congratulatory WASPdom, unfettered bitchiness, and photogenic NYC streetscapes. The unapologetic Whiteness of the show was potentially alienating, and yet Miss Cheapist found herself emotionally drawn to the characters (who doesn’t want to be Serena Van der Woodsen). This show has become a panacea for the seasonal affective disorder that inevitably arrives with late autumn. Can we call that appeal anything other than the power of fantasy? Yes, television, with its porn aesthetic and ability to take ordinary people and transform them into 21^st century beauty queens, definitely provides fantasy.

However, underlying our fantasies is the belief that we can access them, making them another type of aspiration. Are fantasies our generation’s way of setting goals? The fantasies of Miss Cheapist’s peer group are diverse. Some revolve around getting out of work for the rest of our healthy, able years: spending ones days trying to catch the largest fish imaginable on a fly rod, becoming a trucker and traveling the highways of America with ones spouse in the passenger seat, moving to rural America and owning a gun, or having a baby and becoming a stay-at-home mom. And other fantasies seem more pragmatic, a way to cope with everyday anxieties: having one extra bedroom, buying a brownstone in Bed-Stuy only to have the market immediately take off, renovating a kitchen in the Provencal style, affording an original Eames chair, and of course, marrying rich. Other fantasies involve wealth achieved by artistic impulse: producing the next home design trend from ones Bushwick studio based on an art school thesis, going to architecture school and becoming the next Maya Lin, establishing a homemade jewelry business, selling restored vintage clothes on E-bay, moving to China and capitalizing on the new contemporary art scene…and of course, the fantasy of having ones blog discovered by an book agent and becoming the next Bridget Jones! Miss Cheapist is even willing to admit that she recently wished for unnamed forces to catapult her small, episodic blog about an whiny, cheap, Asian girl into a cable television show that rivaled “Sex and the City” in its scope and impact.

Will these fantasies be mocked years later as mere indulgence? Will they be seen as suffocating the less fortunate of this post-Gilded Age? Or will the residue of Internet millionaires (hello, Wikipedia, Facebook, Google, et. al) and Myspace-created celebrities actually mark this decade as a revial of the American dream? Are fantasies heightened because people believe now, more than ever, that they can be realized? Or perhaps we are craving fantasy in the face of an impeding national crisis: economic recession, environmental catastrophe, recognition of the limitations of democracy, heightened nativism, and a loss of faith in the ability of public institutions to lead and provide a safety net for the neediest. Oh Miss Cheapist, really, what is your fantasy?

Down with Downward Mobility

Ten years of working as a teacher, and two expensive degrees later, Miss Cheapist contemplated the notion of downward mobility—or more specifically, whether or not her personal ethos of fiscal cheapism and emotional generosity was working for her. She began to yearn for the advancement experienced by her corporate lawyer friends, who once toiled away at teaching and publishing jobs, and years later, regained consciousness and chose to obtain marketable graduate degrees. Now they make six figures with chunky bonuses. When the thrill of being the first in her family to receive such an elite education finally subsided, Miss Cheapist had to question the true value of her education and the cost of her parents’ sacrifice. Was teaching a true calling, or was it delaying her from developing ambitions and a sense of practicality? Moreover, was she isolating herself from others with the claim that “money didn’t matter,” and that she couldn’t do a job “just for the money?”

After a quick survey, she identified three distinct groups of peers:
1) those enjoying life without analysis, primarily with inherited wealth and expensive hobbies
2) Those who pulled themselves up from their bootstraps, claiming they “earned” it all themselves; and,
3) A nebulous group of others who lived paycheck to paycheck and seemed socially assimilated, but were not on track to meet or surpass their parents in income, assets or sensibility.

This final group remains the downwardly mobile. They are often overwhelmed with the achievements of earlier generations, but believing that their parents sacrificed for their happiness, can justify their own personal choices. They say things like, “I can’t believe my mother held a full-time job, and had dinner ready for us when we came home,” or, “how did they have two kids and a Jetta by the time they were our age?” The downwardly mobile are insightful and articulate--but can they truly be happy if they do not reproduce the life their parents provided for them?

Sadly enough, Miss Cheapist never imagined herself being downwardly mobile. After all, she had a work ethic (think Lloyd on Entourage). Initially attracted to teaching because it was creative, autonomous and ‘meaning-driven,’ the profession lost some of its luster when her former colleagues left schools for corporate America (upwardly mobile), or to work in restaurants and make more money in tips alone (upwardly mobile?), and new colleagues entered as “career changers,” receiving bonuses for their “past work experience” in valued sectors (downwardly mobile, clearly). They were all good people who helped her to feel a part of a dynamic educational community. But after accumulating years of street ‘cred and few transferable skills, Miss Cheapist quickly learned that the only way to make more money was to become a principal. Unfortunately, she did not have the same drive as those who had taught for only few years and felt qualified to run a school, or others who could really serve as vanguards in their own communities. The thought of starting up a whole institution from scratch and carving away a cult of personality in the name of school reform seemed even less suitable for Miss Cheapist than finding work on Wall Street. She was never a fan of reinventing the wheel.

So will cheapism sustain her? Is it realistic to make a difference, but not make a dime? The new climate of transforming the public sector into a “business model,” has pushed for a new language of quantification, and forced all employees to become professional fundraisers and data hounds. Few went into the field for that kind work, especially not to receive lower pay than real bean counters! To many it seems like a wasted investment on education to toil away in the world of middle-management at ones community grassroots organization, and watch CEOs become Executive Directors of the United Ways of the world. Her skepticism depresses Miss Cheapist more than her paycheck. Perhaps she would feel better and develop some real ambitions if there was more respect assigned to the field, and if others could recognize that she doesn’t get paid less--others just get paid far too much! In the meantime, she just has to stay cheap. And maybe get better at math.

Battle of the Sexes: Cheapism & Expectation

A friend once told Miss Cheapist that in finding a man she had to choose between two types: one who made a great deal of money and was emotionally unavailable, and one who made less money, but was more generous with his time and feelings. In the mid-1990s, it seemed that there were indeed these two types of guys: investment bankers who seemed often were first to offer free rounds of drinks and at the same time justified their binge drinking and strip-club addictions to an intense work life. The other group consisted of men dedicated to art and social justice, who had to actually work out their character flaws and pursue sensitive pastimes like yoga and listening. But did sensitivity make a man more reliable?

At that moment, in her early 20s, this friend’s binary of manhood made sense. Realistically, how could one expect a male partner to really embody all desired virtues? After all, Miss Cheapist heard repeated warnings to young women in this post-feminist era that it was impossible to have it all. However, in light of recent facts and anecdotes, she has come to question this idea that women must limit their expectations, in the face of a cheapness of will from the opposite sex. Even when she could accept that women couldn’t have it all, and men couldn’t be all that, she still had to figure out if it was because men were cheap in their motivation, or if they just lacked the ability.

The New York Times recently published an article about successful career women who feared showing off that they made tons of money when dating, for fear that they would scare off men. In the same article, the writer reiterated the latest trend that young women are graduating from high school, and attending college and graduate school in greater numbers than young men. In effect, various sources have implied that there is an impeding crisis in this country; attributed to education, parenting, and even a shared cultural ethos around masculinity.

Many of Miss Cheapist’s female friends have already accepted this reality. They make more money than their partners, choosing to maintain slightly predictable office jobs or going to graduate school to make more money. Meanwhile their partners or husbands are able to maintain free-lance jobs or pursue their artistic passions, often not lucratively. Free from bitterness, women like N. actually prefer that their partners are able to follow their dreams and have passions. N. never wanted to be blamed for robbing a man of the opportunity to find himself (as if all of us have that luxury), and at the same time, believed she could leverage her permissiveness by expecting his domesticity. N.’s criteria for a man was: must be emaciated and hot (in a Diesel model way), artsy, able to complete house chores and, possibly stay at home with the children. She believed that these qualities were actually possible to find in a man, and she had no problem with the role reversal, so long as he fulfilled the role adequately. Somehow she had the fantasy that male pride was not an issue.

Miss Cheapist initially bought into this notion that men would embrace this role, probably because those female friends were wildly successful, and she also heard of men who made sacrifices in an effort to build a nest egg and at the same time, made themselves emotionally available. But slowly she began to realize many men were not interested in taking any responsibility whatsoever, whether it be making enough money to raise a family, or making sure the trash was taken out. It didn’t matter what their occupation--many men did not feel they had to work as hard as women, and scorned conformity as oppressive, but still felt entitled to an upper middle class lifestyle. Miss Cheapist began to hear more stories like those in the New York Times--men who were intimidated by women who made more, but yet weren’t willing to subject themselves to the banality of a desk job or confined to a classroom so that they could be on “equal” footing.

And in the midst of this changing social tide, Miss Cheapist recalled the axiom of her favorite college professor who declared, “Feminism should not eliminate male responsibility!” Did male responsibility become a thing of the past? She was starting to suspect it was a myth to begin with, and for a second, she felt bad that men had such limited options in choosing their identity—"provider," "Mr. Fix-It," "deadbeat," "effeminate." Still, given the history of patriarchy and presence of sexism even today, Miss Cheapist did not want to compromise her expectations for men. Who could she blame? She too wished to pursue her dreams, escape responsibility and travel the Indian subcontinent, live simply on a tropical island. Yet her cheapness in imagination prevented her from envisioning what life would be like without a sense of duty, the predictable routines of being employed, and an unshakeable commitment to martyrdom. Was this characteristic of what society expected of women, or a burden she chose to bear on her own?

Not Ready to Say Goodbye in Long Island City

Still trying to find the next promised land, Miss Cheapist spent a Saturday afternoon with her two male friends, P. and E., hoping to catch up at PS 1’s weekly Warm Up event and see the disco throwback group, Escort, perform. E. had just enrolled in an urban boot camp with the hope that if he woke up at five AM for two weeks, and allowed three women to scream orders at him, he would be shaken from his routine. A better body was only secondary to being rescued from inevitable feelings of ordinariness. Several young professionals had already dropped out of the program, and E. was still hanging on.
With pride, P. announced that after living in the city for over ten years, he was going to leave New York. He came to realize that he could probably continue to maintain his personal artistic projects, earn money being a free-lance web designer, and remain self-employed at home in any other city. So why not move to Oakland, a place where many of their New England educated peers seemed to escape to and thrive? When Miss Cheapist asked what made him finally take the big leap, after talking wistfully about California for years, he responded, “I never really liked New York. My friends were all here, and now they’re gone. It’s just not the same.” Although she had just returned from a vacation in Hawaii, and was seriously reconsidering the value of being a New Yorker, Miss Cheapist believed that he had oversimplified the issues. She had loved the city once, and occasionally could still see its charm. Yes, many of her closest female friends had moved away and found tremendous opportunities elsewhere, but she could still tally up a significant number of acquaintances who lived there and could be counted on for good times. There would always be familiar people and places; yet it was so easy to feel left out of it all.

“Warm-up” is a dance party and beer fest set against the backdrop of pre-war architecture, bad contemporary art, and tribal house music. The three of them moved shoulder to shoulder with crowds of sweaty, enthusiastic outer borough hipsters and their European friends. There were even Black and Latino participants, a surprisingly diverse group so close to Bedford Avenue, and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves equally. Quickly the trio became aware that there was something special taking place at P.S. 1, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the exhibit. E., often reluctant to admit that he spent much of the late 80s at the Limelight and other haunts with his Persian elite friends, was the first to comment on the fact that this party was actually fun. It had been a long time since he felt the urge to move with such abandon in a public space. What’s going on here, he kept murmuring. Am I still in New York? Miss Cheapist shared E.’s enthusiasm. They danced with nostalgia, and both of them felt for the first time in a while that they could belong to something, even if it was temporary and somewhat superficial. It was unusual to feel a tone of inclusion in a space intended for people to gather in the name of art and leisure. As trite as it may be to assign so much meaning to a makeshift dancefloor, under fuschia plastic architecture, the group was offered a place for anyone willing to participate.

A scene like this may not have convinced P. to stay longer than the autumn in New York, but it did give Miss Cheapist some hope that she could hold on a bit more.

Class loyalties tested on not-so-deserted island

Recently, Miss Cheapist was fortunate enough to spend time on the island of Molokai, Hawaii. The experience could be summarized as unsettling solitude, unmitigated natural beauty, and a home-stay with a transplanted East Coast couple, whose lifestyle embodied a "back to the land"ethos not recognizable as belonging to the 21^st century. Upon her return to New York, Miss Cheapist was forced to revisit the question: What was the city worth to her?

Unlike other islands in Hawaii, which have been developed into tropical play-lands, Molokai and its residents have fought to maintain a landscape and community preserved in time. Its main road runs less than 50 miles, from east to west, without a traffic light. It is dotted with homes of native Hawaiians, many of whom post hand-made signs protesting La'au Point, a concession made by a local group to allow a developer to build on one area for high-end eco-homes, in return for the protection of many more acres for generations to come. Four years ago, the hot-button topic was fighting the influence of "ice" on local youth and families.

With few hotels, paved roads, or shopping centers, one accustomed to the conveniences and luxuries of an island vacation might become frustrated. Not only could the island be much more pleasurable without blatant hostility toward outsiders and more access to recreation outside of expensive or extreme sports. The native-led moratorium on development also seemedl to undermine the chance of improvement in the island residents' quality of life, and many do struggle with the worst poverty in the state. La'au Point was not exactly an eminent domain story of a Bruce Ratner displacing whole communities to build a stadium, a borough given over increased congestion, noise and obnoxious land-grabbing. These proposed homes will barely leave a carbon footprint on the island, and the money from sales will allow the developer to reopen an old hotel, creating more jobs. The amount of protected land offered in exchange is far larger than any won by a grass-roots movement, and would remain untouched into the future. The resistance from Hawaiian groups highlighted how fiercely a betrayed community will fight to hang on to their last remaining assets, expecting reparations for past injustices. Undeniably native Hawaiians have been subjected to a near-genocide in the process of American colonization of the islands. However, could this conflict stall the growth of today's generation of Hawaiians, perpetuating distrust and knee-jerk reactiveness to any change? Uncertain if she was even entitled to an opinion on these local politics, Miss Cheapist felt her class conscience challenged.

The setting allowed her to spend significant time before a vast and unforgiving sea, reflecting upon her existence. Without the distractions and desires of urban life, she quickly became frightened. Once dwarfed by the high prices and lack of authenticity in the city, she then found herself scared of the dark and unable to grapple with her helplessness in the face of unimaginable natural forces.

The city, she realized, allowed her (and many others, she supposed), to delay a necessary process of self-actualization. With nightlife, shopping, and other opportunities to pursue pleasure and companionship, she never really needed to test her own physical strength and mental acuity. Urbanites tend to believe that because they work hard, play hard, and can withstand the threat of "crime," that they have truly challenged themselves. Yet, in nature, another set of skills were required. In New York, Miss Cheapist could always blame something other than herself; there was always someone richer, more savvy, more fit, and more educated than oneself in the city. Survival meant merely accepting this truth and coping with grace.

After Miss Cheapist came to this revelation, she began to observe the lives of her friends who moved there, the M. family. They were not intimidated by Molokai's remoteness, excited by the opportunity to create a garden, spear-fish with sharks for food, educate their child among people of a different race and culture, and actually integrate themselves into a community. They raised corn and squash. Their newly acquired chickens roamed freely on the property and ate homemade grain. After four years of attending an immersion school, their son was fluent in Hawaiian and considered the island his home.

At the same time, they worked crazy hours at their not-for-profit jobs, fought like any other married couple, and worried about paying their mortgage. Not completely disdainful of the trappings of modern life, Mr. M, had formed an unnatural attachment to his newly acquired iPhone. After a hard days work, he clutched it like a drink, taking in segments of Fox reality shows purchased online. It was clear some things would always be inescapable, regardless of one environment. Perhaps they also paid a price for their isolation.

Ms. M joked to Miss Cheapist that if the end of the world ever came, she could always flee to their home, which was created as its own self-sustaining entity. Mr. M. joked that Miss Cheapist would not survive one day in Molokai, silently condemning her existence to one of a spoiled, city girl dependent on a Candace Bushnell fantasy.

He was probably right, on some level, as the visit was more unsettling than relaxing to her by the end. Upon her return, the city no longer seemed to represent the center of the universe. Miss Cheapist knew there was more out there, and her ambitions leaned in a new direction.

But did she have the courage to pursue it?