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Mary Urban Endrich, my mother's mother, in front of their garage in Old Saybrook, CT |
Economic recessions hit poor people the hardest.
The Great Depression following the market crash in 1929 lasted a full decade, ending only in 1939 with the advent of World War II and the "boom" provided by a wartime economy of military production.
It turned many peoples lives upside down forever -- including my grandparents' and parents'.
Never again did we live in fear of not having enough food.
Never again did any of us live without fear that this could happen again.
Hunger gets into your bones.
The wealthy remain insulated. No matter how hard the market crashes, the robber barons have always survived -- and in fact generally get richer.
The stock market, in which today many keep their retirement savings, went from a record high earlier this year to a 10% loss these past three weeks, losing approximately $5 trillion in value.
It would be nice to think these numbers are abstract, or, if you don't have any savings, disconnected from your health and well being.
However, when markets contract severely, as they are currently doing, it also means jobs and wages contract.
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Mary's house, in which both my mother and I grew up, on the Middletown Road in Old Saybrook, CT |
At its peak in 1933, 25% of the U.S. workforce, or approximately 12.83 million people, were unemployed.
Millions of people lost their homes and hit the road, seeking food and shelter.
My mother's parents, Mary and Richard, were able to hold onto their home and my grandmother's generosity was legendary.
They were lucky my grandfather had bought the property more than 10 years earlier. On it, Mary managed a "family farm" of one cow, chickens, and a large truck garden on the town line between Essex and Old Saybrook, CT.
Born to Bohemian immigrants on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, Mary had grown up on the farm to which they had escaped in Killingworth, CT. She could grow anything, cook anything, and would feed anyone who came to her door.
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Mary Urban, center, with her father, butcher and farmer Frantisek behind her plus unknown relatives. |
The "hobos," as my mother and aunt called them -- the unhoused and unemployed who took to the rails and roads -- marked an X on the road in front of my grandmother's house to communicate to their fellow travelers that this was a place at which they might find food.
Mostly doughnuts fried in lard!
Despite their safety and relative privilege, the looming sense of disaster never departed our household.
Mary's great depression -- she was also probably bipolar, and I grew up in the drama of that -- has now become my own.
The economic news has given me nightmares of starving as an old woman with no supports.
While I know this is my family legacy, born of the 20th century's Great Depression, of fearing there will be food shortages and never enough I am truly lucky to have never -- until now -- worried about this in my lifetime.
My generation has been blessed with relative peace and prosperity.
It is not that there is not always horror happening around us: we are flawed humans, some of whom still try to live in god's image and many of whom don't.
Many in the U.S. worship only the golden calf, as it were.
I find it unutterably sad to be living inside a national culture with few values left. One that has sold our soul for material accumulation.
It makes me miss my grandmother's booming voice and laugh, her largesse with whatever she had, her love for family and pride in her new land.
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My aunt Evelyn, grandmother Mary, me the littlest, cousin Cindy in my grandmother's garden between her house and ours. |
Her cultivation. Of zinnias, corn, yellow squash -- and me.
And for those of us who still value the gift of this creation we've been given, we do our best to give to the land, to cultivate it. To give of ourselves to others.
We might still, ultimately, starve from the greed and machinations of the wealthy.
The roots of the U.S. are in the genocide of the native cultures that cultivated this continent before the founders' arrivals; in the enslavement of Africans to build wealth from the stolen land; in the ongoing callousness with which workers and their family are excluded and mistreated by those with wealth and privilege -- all the things the practices of diversity, equity, and inclusion were created to heal.
But we will have our doughnuts. And our souls.