Assigning Meaning

Our money was, at one point in time, backed by the Federal Reserve. (In other words, the paper money represented a portion of gold at Fort Knox.) But long ago, that system became meaningless. The amount of currency printed now far exceeds the actual amount of gold in the Reserve. If a citizen (also oddly known as "customer" to some journalists) of the United States went to Fort Knox to exchange her paper money for gold, she would be rather disappointed when she found out that the exchange could not be made. The reason that might occur is if people realized the dollar is meaningless and someone decided to get the gold just in case the shit hit the fan. But what's funny is that if the shit did hit the fan, gold would be meaningless as well. Gold has no actual physical value. If water runs out, or food is scarce, nobody will care about green pieces of paper or shiny metals.

I'm not an end-timist. I don't stockpile canned food anywhere in my home. (Actually, I avoid buying anything canned.) I'm not even scared of that happening. Not because I know it won't, but because I think it would be fun if it did. An apocolyptic environment would bring whimsical flair to the droningly monotonous times we are living in now. (I admit that to be an exaggeration, but a fun sentence to compose.)

In the age of credit and debit cards, the meaning of paper money is obvious as well (it's meaningless). I rarely even write checks. I balance my account online. All of my "money" is a number in a computer. When money isn't even a physical reality, it's annoyingly apparent how much of an illusion it is. I don't mean illusion in the Hindu "maya," all the world is an illusion, sense of the term. I mean that the concept of money is something we all agree has value; you can't do anything without it and you can do everything with a lot of it (in that sense, you can do everything having to do with buying things with it). I don't know a lot about the history of money. But I do know that somehow we, at least in the U.S., decided that gold had value. And then paper money. And now a card that connects to a computerized account that literally moves a number from one account to the other. We all agree on this. We have assigned it this meaning, therefore it matters.

It is similar with other things. Take the diamond ring. An important SYMBOL to engaged girls in this country. (Or diamond anything: a grill that rappers might wear over their teeth or diamond collars you can buy for your tiny dog from Juicy Couture.) Or what about the car? Very specific cars have more value than others. We have assigned much value to these things, but as far as I can see the only reason a diamond has any meaning at all is because we say that it has meaning. Or because someone sold us a bill of goods and told us it had meaning and we kept on believing it. Some of the most expensive cars are so expensive because they go very fast. Which we have assigned a high value, for no apparent reason whatsoever.

It's almost as if very expensive things have value because of the fact that they are very expensive. The value in that is that other people will see your Mercedes, or giant diamond, or the Yves St. Laurant lable on your handbag and know that you threw a bunch of cash down and therefore are very wealthy (or are dating someone very wealthy). It's a flaunting of wealth that I find excessive in this country, and for some reason excessive in the city I grew up, Dallas. (Although this is, no doubt, everywhere.) We not only assign meaning to gold, paper money, and the objects that those things can buy (the more money put down, the higher the value), but we have assigned value to having a lot of money. Rich people are successful, and they can do anything, and on and on. Everyone wants more money than they already have. Period. Everyone I know wants more money than they have; I include on this list my upper middle class parents and my blue collar (but not factory-worker) friends.

Capital is the supreme symbol of capitalism. I stand somewhere in between admitting capitalism is better than socialism and admitting capitalism sucks and we should all become communal, socialist-anarchists. The problem I see is that many people equate the value of a dollar (which we have assigned) with the ability to accumulate things. Accumulating more and more things. Never being satisfied with what you have. The need to consume. This is a form of greed. Not your typical, "all the guy wants is money" definition, but greed--"I DESERVE more than I have, in fact I DESERVE anything I want" definition.

There are countless narrative themes in which people finally have all the money or fame they want, and they are surprised when there is no true peace or happiness there. We could all decide to agree that simply getting rid of things, the ecologically sound way, is of highest value. And then we will finally be happy. (Or not, but we can create that myth and see if it's true.) You see, in greed we can never be satisfied because there is always something else to buy, something else to consume: the new version of some tech device, a new spring wardrobe, a house that we can't afford. But in getting rid of things there comes a point when you just can't get rid of anything else. Except yourself. And that's a good thing.

A common conversation that comes up when my family eats dinner together is variations of answers to this question, "If the shit did hit the fan, what would your role be?" I come from a family of lawyers, and so the talents for foraging and instinct survival are little. Because of my gender, I can fall back on the answer, 'Well I can produce children, so that's a talent." But I can't do much else in the wild, where paper won't fill my belly, gold won't keep me warm, and a Mercedes won't drive me anywhere, unless I miraculously rediscover oil.