Privilege is a topic that doesn’t always receive the subjectivity and nuance it deserves. In “How I Got Here,” writers reflect on their experience of privilege (or lack thereof) in their writing careers. We hope these personal essays will help us appreciate the complexities of individual experience and view each other in a clearer light.
An MFA is a shot in the dark. It is a degree that costs thousands and thousands of dollars to pursue and yet has absolutely zero (0) guarantee of any type of employment. You get an MFA out of sheer love or delusion. When I applied to writing programs in the fall of 2011, I did so simply because I knew I loved writing and wanted to get better at it. I also applied because I had, and have had for my entire life, my own personal patrons of the arts.
There have been many calls lately for writers and artists to be more transparent about their financial situations, from the Twitter hashtag #PublishingPaidMe to essay collections to this very series. I remember when I first read Ann Bauer’s essay on Salon about how her heart surgeon husband “sponsors” her writing career and how much I appreciated her honesty. So, let me lay it all out there for you. When it comes to education, the rule in my family is: they pay, no questions asked. It’s like that scene in The Sopranos, when Meadow’s boyfriend tries to pay for Tony’s dinner and Tony is pissed. But instead of “You eat, I pay,” it’s: “You learn, I pay.”
Education has always been a big deal in my family. Both of my parents have Master’s degrees, my mother’s specifically in Music Education, which she used as a piano teacher. Both of my grandmothers achieved higher ed degrees at a time when it wasn’t common for women to even complete high school. My paternal grandfather nearly completed a PhD from MIT in engineering (everything but the dissertation); my maternal grandfather dropped out of law school, but he did so to take over a local driving school because he loved to teach kids how to use cars. Classes, studying, learning, teaching, books—I was taught that these were the most valuable types of currency. I knew from a very young age that there were limits to what I was allowed to ask for in a toy store or a clothing boutique, but the local bookstore? The word “no” did not exist there. In middle school, I memorized my dad’s credit card number so I could order books on the Barnes & Noble website without bothering him (so advanced for 1998!), and he never questioned what I was buying, as long as it was books. He also never questioned how much I was buying because he had access to that other, more literal type of currency—money.
My parents paid for me to go to private schools with prestigious names from the moment I was old enough to read. For pre-school, kindergarten, and elementary school, it was the hippie hands-on local Montessori school ($2,500/year for six years). Middle school was at an elite all-girls academy in an even more elite neighboring town ($10,000/year for five years). I attended a fancy schmancy prep school for high school ($15,000/year for four years) and the alma mater of multiple Secretaries of State for college ($45,000/year for four years). (For those of you keeping track, we’re already up to $305,000 just in tuition.) And schools like this don’t just require money for tuition—what about fees to apply to these schools, the costs associated with all the required standardized tests, the dress-code-appropriate clothes, the hours of private music lessons, the thousands and thousands of dollars of books, the gas/car to get me to-and-from school, the flights to get me to-and-from Russia for the year I studied abroad when I recklessly decided to be a Russian major, the black-and-white film, camera equipment, and oil paints when I recklessly decided to be a studio art minor? (Should we just round up to $500,000 at this point?) And all of this before I even considered getting my MFA. In winter 2012, when I was accepted to a writing program, it wasn’t just any program—it was my dream program at Columbia University’s School of the Arts—and it was also the second-most-expensive MFA program in the United States. (That article claims the tuition was just under $50,000/year for two years in 2013, but with fees and expenses, my parents recall $76,000/year for two years.)
Having access to the money necessary to attend these schools is a huge privilege. Not having any student debt at age 32 is a miracle for my generation. And not just the lack of debt, but the knowledge that, as long as I was accepted, I could go. Only once I was out of college, working as an AmeriCorps teaching fellow at a tuition-free non-profit school in Boston, did I understand that wasn’t the case for everyone. One my eighth graders—a supremely talented writer—was accepted to a fantastic, small, artsy, private high school in the suburbs. She was ecstatic—until she got the financial aid package and realized it wasn’t enough to allow her to attend. She enrolled at a different high school instead and did well there, but I’ve never forgotten her deep disappointment. For me, the hardest part of attending these schools was getting in.
And, once in, I was handed a whole extra dose of privilege. I made life-changing connections through these institutions. When you pay tuition to go to schools like these, you aren’t just paying for the years spent studying there; you’re paying to be part of their alumni networks. I met a writer friend of mine because she was also an alumna of the same prep school, and it was she who suggested I query her literary agent with my book proposal. That writer’s agent became my agent, too, and, as a result, I sold my book to Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. That probably wouldn’t have happened if my parents hadn’t paid for me to go to that institution. Through my college and grad school networks, I have met dozens of other writers and artists. I maintained those connections post-graduation and, through them, I have gotten interview assignments, big jobs, writing projects, and editorial gigs. Two of my alma maters have paid me to do freelance assignments for their sleek alumni magazines, and my private high school hired me on as history/English faculty—a job I definitely got in part (mostly) because I was an alum. Sure, I am someone who is good at maintaining friendships and connections. I am the one who plans reunion weekends with my long-time buddies, who reaches out to acquaintances on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, who isn’t afraid to send a email to a friend-of-a-friend. Through years of researching for nonfiction pieces, I am skilled at cold calling strangers. Yes, that is part of my personality, and it has helped me achieve success as a writer. But learning how to network is one of the key skills taught at prestigious institutions.
The fact that I am a white, cis-gender, able-bodied woman is another privilege—it meant I was easily accepted to and assimilated into these exclusive schools. Sure, my relatives came from working-class, immigrant backgrounds. Sure, I was the first in my family to attend a New England prep school or an Ivy League university. But the European immigrants in my family were able to change their class in a way that a lot of other immigrants and Black Americans could not and still cannot. No one questioned my right to be in those places. Since I wasn’t preoccupied with the institutional racism that is rampant at these schools, I was able to focus on the learning parts of being a student. I could throw myself into my writing and my small, caring classes, where my craft was nurtured and encouraged. I had teachers who noticed my talent and pushed me to work harder. I didn’t get lost in the shuffle. I was fostered, helped, challenged, boosted. For my twenty-one years as a student, all I had to think about was my work, and that goes all the way through grad school, too. For the two years of my MFA program, I didn’t have to worry about Manhattan rent prices or future student loan payments. All I had to worry about was esoteric zine projects for my book-making class or reading George Orwell essays. I could plunge into an MFA program (again: no guarantee of anything) and enjoy learning for the sake of learning. I didn’t have to think about anything besides my writing.
That’s the biggest privilege of all: I didn’t have to think.
In a meta sort of moment, this is the exact thing that I wrote my MFA thesis on—how I was only able to be there, in that program, because of my family’s financial safety net. While I might have been admitted to my MFA program because one of the Columbia professors saw something in my writing sample, the reason I was able to attend was because of the foundation of multiple-generation wealth under my feet.
And the net didn’t vanish as soon as I completed my MFA in 2014. In some ways, that was just the beginning of the support necessary to start my writing career. When I moved back to the Boston area after graduation, my grandparents generously allowed me to live in an apartment in Cambridge that they own, renting (“renting”) it to me for six years as I tried to figure out how to balance freelance writing/editing and teaching. (Market-rate rent in that Cambridge apartment building averages $3,200/month. I did not pay that.) This allowed me to save a lot of the little money I did make. Without the reduced rent (“rent”), no way could I afford to live in Harvard Square and save money making less than $30,000/year.
I also have an incredibly supportive partner––my fiancé, Richie. He is emotionally supportive and didn’t bat an eye when I quit full-time teaching to pursue freelancing. But he is also financially supportive. Richie has a stable job with a steady income. If I have a slow month of freelance assignments, I never worry we won’t be able to eat. Recently Richie and I were able to apply for a mortgage to buy our first home because of him. My own freelance income was too up and down for the bank to take seriously, but thanks to Richie’s W-2s, we got approved for a loan close to half-a-million dollars. ($425,000 to be exact. I’ll tell you, it’s public record.) We can take on this debt knowing that, worse comes to worst, Richie’s salary alone can cover our monthly mortgage payment. And while we both now live in fear of getting fired and losing the house, deep down I know this won’t happen. My grandfather slipped us a check when we moved in to offset expenses. (Cash that my grandfather likes to call “Walking Around Money.”) My dad grabs us toilet paper and big boxes of granola bars when he’s at Costco. (A Costco membership is $60/year, and my dad spends at least $100 every time he goes.) My grandmother buys me new clothes for work. (She loves to shop at T.J. Maxx, but even then, new clothes still cost hundreds of dollars.) My mom pays for me to go to yoga classes with her at the fancy studio down the street. ($175 for a ten-class pass.)
All these little things add up. But more than the cost, these gestures mean I know that I don’t have to worry. I can have a looming mortgage payment ($2,712.51 due on the first of the month!) and still take the time to write essays for small press websites for free. (Essays like this one.) I don’t say that to brag––I say that, I say all this, because I believe that through transparency, things can change. And things need to change.
It’s not fair—it’s outright wrong—that those who can devote hours and hours just to writing and thinking are the ones who have families with deep pockets. It’s way easier to get a book deal before the age of 40 if you haven’t also had to spend decades working one million jobs to support yourself while writing. We need to make things easier for more creative people of all kinds of backgrounds to have access to uninterrupted time for their art—and I don’t just mean scholarships for three-week artist residencies. I mean being able to live daily life in the way that I could when I was an MFA student at Columbia: not having to think about money.
That’s a big ask, and I don’t have a solution to this problem. Not yet, anyway. But one thing I do know is that it is my obligation and my privilege—to use a terrible cliché—to share the wealth. I was able to attend such great institutions because of my family’s support, and I made so many connections through these places, that now, all these years later, is my absolute joy and pleasure to share those networks with as many people as I can and to spend as much of my disposable income and time as possible supporting fellow writers. I connect aspiring authors to literary agents I’ve met, I buy my friends’ books when they are published, I introduce editors I know to writers I know, I help authors set up events at indie bookstores where I have connections, I donate my time and money to support small press and literary community websites (like this one). I’m currently volunteering to help a Boston public school student work on her essays to apply to private high schools where she will have access to connections like the ones I have. I talk to students who want to pursue careers in art or writing to give advice and support. I think about all the help I got along the way, and I try to give the same support back into the world, in every way I can.
If you were born a few rungs up the ladder, chances are it’s because someone above you offered you a hand. Of course, you should keep climbing, keep looking up and staying focused on where you want to be—but that doesn’t mean you can’t turn around and offer a hand to those behind you. Passing it on is the least you can do. And it won’t slow you down. It’s easier to climb together.