Generic Gen- Xer, Not
By Deldelp Bernal Medina

As time goes by and my need for financial support from my parents increases rather than the opposite I have found personal pain in this awkward situation. No job prospects in sight, with baby-sitting as my only recourse. No four year institution ready to accept me and a spotty mental health history. What is a girl to do? My account balance as of February the tenth is one hundred dollars, one hundred tears and headaches as far as I am concerned. "How do I pay my daily transportation, and other school related costs?"is the question always looming, nagging me for an answer.Then there is the medical insurance that will soon run out, since I have reached, according to that large Orwellian insurance company, the age of maturity.

My personal conundrum is not will I ever attain the level of wealth my parents have since they are barely middle class. Or how will I keep up with my stereo payments since I don't have one. It is whether I will make it out of the California educational system dignity intact and with actual knowledge.

I have grown used to shopping at second hand and outlet shops. I can't imagine shopping at Macy's or Nordstoms and giving up my hard earned cash for a fifty dollar shirt or pants, knowing full well that I could buy three or four of the same at the local Salvation Army store. Aspirations and dreams abound in my head but reality is always staring at me in the face. The three dollars in my wallet deter me from thinking of grandiose weekend plans. No pizza and a movie, the American weekend standard. I search for all work and no play with the hopes of being able to pay off my first credit card bill. A bill not of debauchery but of necessity, my text books.

Cry as I may over my sometimes disheartening situation, I try to remember of my grandparents dreams. Without a high school education and plenty of chutzspah, a country girl from Plato, Departamento Del Atlantico and a trained typewriter repairman from Mompos, Departamento de Bolivar, Colombia, South America put seven children through college, all to attain degrees except one. That one is my father who was to be an architect extrordinaire, and ended being an art historian without a degree but plenty of research to back him up. My family history isthat of the underdog. The odd one out, the well educated and traveled but never wealthy. I have seen the Sistine chapel and have attended expensive private schools but I've never owned a stereo, a personal computer or other material goods that put me into the middle class American slacker category. To slack is to have the accruements that make middle-class life easy and still bemoan your fate.

I want the freedom that only money can afford you. The freedom not to worry if going to dinner will bankrupt me. Or if my ambition of being an artist full time will not lead to anemia and other nutritional problems.

Since my current problems are capital related I dream of escaping to a place where capital is not an issue. I don't dream of having titles or owning stocks or bonds, but rather of escaping to a non-capitalist place. I dream of Cuba. Tropical paradise, full of brown sugar and dark coffee. Compadres with brains and comadres with guts. Having the Latin-American paradise without even knowing. Dancing and creating, singing a lullaby, a hypnotic song convincing me to come. Then the news reports of increasing shortages, of miss management, of pig headed decrepit rulers awake me and disorient me. I wonder once more how far can I stretch three dollars.