I feel incredible warmth when I’m given cold, hard cash
http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2016/jan/01/cash-money-freedom-marlon-james Version 0 of 1. This is the season for quite a few things, but more than anything else a self-righteousness over the true meaning of Christmas that afflicts even those who haven’t been to church since the last funeral. Commercialism is the culprit, we hear, and at the centre of it that longstanding old buddy of the devil himself, money. Money is not just the root of all evil – it’s the root of all disconnection. It is why so many children have to live with the dismay of parents actually making their gifts, because lord knows, little Nicky has been waiting all year for that mitten Mummy knitted herself. Nothing is more crass than being reminded of the commercial value of good cheer. And, if that isn’t bad enough, actual money is worse – a sign that the gifter couldn’t be bothered to think of a gift or, worse, the person she’s giving it to. And yet the best gifts I’ve ever got – and by best I mean the most meaningful – have been cold, hard cash. Contrary to cash’s frigid reputation, these two instances were moments of incredible warmth and feeling, creating and reinforcing bonds that endure to this day. Christmas was never a season that we took seriously in our house: no trees, no lights, and for the most part no presents. But a week or so before the 25th, my father would give each of his children $20. This was the 70s, and $20 was quite a bit of money. This would be horrifying to today’s helicopter parent, and wasn’t looked upon that fondly back then either. To other parents this was the ultimate abdication of parental responsibility, a father literally buying his way into his kids’ good books. But I saw it differently. My father trusted me to have the smarts to spend money wisely, and credited me for knowing what I wanted. Even better, he was giving me the means to get it. On a very basic level, my father was giving me a shopping spree every year. But he was also giving me charge over my own fun, trusting my ability to manage money (which sometimes failed but that was also the point) and making me feel like a grown-up. He didn’t buy me Sherlock Holmes, but he gave me the means to walk into the store and choose it for myself, so it felt like a gift from him. Even the tough lessons (buy crap and by January it would be gone) were essential, even if I only picked up those lessons in hindsight. It became a point of pride for me to show my parents how mature I was becoming, based on the things I bought. And if my father was really good at giving me what I wanted, my mother had an instinct for giving me what I needed, usually right at the moment I needed it most. This was when I was 25, and failing at being an adult on my very first try. I had quit my old job but had no new one. A friend emptied the entire contents of my fridge, and held everything in one hand. The situation was funny, but desperate. And I was hungry in that way young adults would never admit to another adult, certainly not his parents. I remember hoping that the reason I had not got rid of that wet teabag on the stove was that I was planning to re-use it. But then my mother paid me a visit. I put on a good show, telling her I had started my own company, had already picked up a few clients and many more who were interested – that yes, though my business partner and me had only one computer between us, that I was fine. And the reason why there was no food in the fridge was that I always ate out. But mothers, God bless them, mastered the art of recognising the objective correlative long before TS Eliot noticed it in James Joyce. They can see dishes left dirty for days, and know that exact minute you’ve lost a girlfriend; or a room freshly cleaned, and know how many days before you introduce them to the next one. My mother also knew that I was trying hard and failing so far, and that any judgment, even a minor jab, would break me. It wasn’t until after she left that I noticed at the foot of my bed an envelope thick with cash. She knew how desperately I needed it, but also that I would never have asked for it. She knew that had she just shown up with groceries, or offered to pay my rent, she would have made me feel much worse. The cold, hard cash meant she was helping me to help myself. And, funnily enough, the distance with which she gave the gift felt like she was giving me space to fix my life and preserve my dignity. She would say she was just being a good parent. But my mother and father both did the same thing, and it was more then just giving me cash. One was giving me the means to make my own decisions, and the other was giving me a second chance when those decisions had cost me dearly. I may be the only person who feels incredible warmth when I’m given money, but trust me when I say it’s OK to just give me the cash. Marlon James is the author of A Brief History of Seven Killings, winner of the 2015 Man Booker prize. Now available in a special limited edition hardback, £20 |