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When I was growing up I, like most kids, didn’t really know if I was rich or poor, wealthy or not. I just knew my life. But as I grew a bit older I found friends who lived in smaller houses and apartments. I found friends who lived in big mansions too. I found friends who scraped by, friends who went to private school and summered on exclusive islands.
But I didn’t really know where I stood until the day we went to our housekeeper Libby’s home (that tells you something right there. I didn’t even know having a housekeeper put you in a certain economic class). All I knew was she had worked for us in Maryland when I was a baby and now was working for us in California after my mother had my younger sister.
I loved her because she told me some day I would be able to beat up my older sister and that if I ate too many oreos I would turn into one. I could think of worse fates. I also liked that she lived in my room with me for a few weeks when my sister was first born. I had a huge downstairs game room with a bunk bed. She slept on the bottom bunk, I on the top. It was great fun.
I had never been so dumbfounded as the moment we drove up to her house. In my eyes it was a completely run down house just this side of being a shack. I really truly felt like she shouldn’t live there, that it was probably really dangerous and it wasn’t right. I thought we should have her continue to live with us. It was a shock to my 10 year old system.
That’s when I first realized not everyone lived like we did. It was the beginning of me understanding money and being rich or poor. But it took me quite a bit longer to even start to learn what it means to be truly wealthy. I am still learning that one, again and again.