Mac Liman, 2011 with an afterword from 2023
In 2007 I was 25 years old. I was living communally in Denver, raising chickens and teaching bicycle mechanics, growing and dumpstering food, working at a bookstore with my mom and my twin brother, and trying to be a good friend and neighbor. That year my dad informed me that I owned $20,000 worth of stock in the S&P 500.
I am a rich kid. My dad has a lot of money and I was raised owning class. By 2007 I had been thinking/writing/reading/talking for a few years about being raised rich. My class privilege affected the choices I made about my activism and also my daily life since I had no debt. My family could help cover the cost of medical supplies for my type 1 diabetes, and my parents paid when we traveled or went out to eat. But this was the first time that I had direct control over inherited money.
Meanwhile my housemate Chad had amassed a sizable debt on his US Bank credit card after several years of traveling, choosing more-fulfilling-but-lower-paying jobs and working to start his own farm. He shared anxiety about his debt; about the monthly payments and interest rates and how the stress and guilt and awfulness increased exponentially when he was delinquent on a payment. He felt that after all his intentional choices to make the world a better place he was still sending a big check to a massive bank every month. He told me he was the kind of middle class Christian man who didn’t mind that “money comes and goes” in his life. And yet these payments were outpacing his income, and where this particular money was going felt extra bad.
Over the course of a year I sold the stocks. I donated $4,000 to local social justice organizations, lent $9,000 to a friend’s business to pay down a line of credit, used $4,000 as down-payment on a shared house, and squirreled away $1,000 in my bedside table. The remaining funds were just about $2,000 – exactly what Chad needed to pay off his debt and stop patronizing US Bank.
Chad and I set a coffee date to discuss our respective two-thousand-dollar-situations and what it could feel and look like to use my inheritance to pay off his debt. So began the Loan Fund.
Feelings first: I didn’t feel like this money was “mine.” I wanted it to be used for good and I needed help to do that. I was excited to have someone else to make decisions with about this money. I care about Chad. I was glad that we had been honest enough about class and money that we could make this connection in the first place. On some level, Chad believed he did not deserve financial help and his credit card debt was proof that he was inherently irresponsible or stupid; that he deserved the stress and compounding consequences. We agreed that this situation was proof that money and wealth coming in and out of people’s lives is not often related to merit. If he is stupid for not having a safety net to draw from, does that mean I am smarter or better because I was born to parents who gave me this money to loan? I conceded that I am *occasionally* more responsible when it comes to feeding the chickens and washing dishes at home, but I am neither better nor more deserving. We both agreed this should be something we do without blame or shame.
Logistics: Chad asked that we use the money as a loan and agreed we should co-create the terms so that we could make it work for both of us as well as possible. I had two requirements for the terms: 1) It must be 0% interest. I don’t like the idea of making money from money, or that people who do not already have money should have to pay more to have some. 2) We should set up a way to communicate about the progress of payments to allow for flexibility and so I could avoid being the only one to “bring it up” (I worried I would feel or act like a loan officer). Chad required 1) that there be enough structure to keep him accountable (he worried he would forget about the Loan Fund if there wasn’t some way to keep this present in his mind and monthly budget) and 2) that he cancel his credit card ASAP.
We brainstormed and did math about the amount and frequency of payments and ways to make sure it could change as time went on. We ultimately decided he would use the $2,000 to pay the full balance on the card and then make $70 monthly payments — much more affordable than the credit card payment — to me for 2.5 years. We would have quarterly check-ins to be pre-set in our calendars and initiated by both of us. The money would be kept in a green envelope in my room, and we would check off each payment on a register as it was made. As the money was returned, it would become “The Loan Fund.” We wrote all this up as a “Comraderandum” that we both signed electronically and filed away in an email folder somewhere. I wrote him a check and he paid off the credit card immediately!
The most encouraging part for me was that Chad could regain some positive feelings about what he was doing in his life and with his money. After hiding and fretting about this credit card for so long, he couldn’t wait to return to feeling gratitude for his privileges. Additionally, we both felt like his income that would no longer be paid to US Bank was suddenly extra valuable. Not only would Chad have new disposable income, but it was money we had saved from the evil grasp of a corporate bank! With this loan, we had ensured that Chad’s money would never be used as a predatory loan or to finance a detention center or to lobby for oil; we felt like superheroes. This thought was so compelling that we created an addendum to the Comraderandum: The money Chad saved by refinancing with the Loan Fund would ONLY be used for things that are Totally Awesome – things that make him happy, grateful, excited about life, and hopeful for the future.
At the time, we were both volunteer Hotline Advocates on a 24-hour crisis line operated by a kickass queer liberation organization called The Colorado Anti-Violence Program (CAVP). Chad decided to give a portion of the “rescued” money to CAVP. For him, the opposite of giving money to US Bank was supporting social justice community organizing and so that’s what he did.
After several months of payments came in from Chad, I found myself in conversation with another friend who discovered she had $200 of student loan administrative fees that would prevent her from getting transcripts (another $200) to apply for grad school (also expensive). I explained the Loan Fund and my arrangement with Chad and she asked to borrow. We met, laid out our fears and concerns, wrote up the terms of the loan, and created another green envelope.
As of today, eight people (including myself) have borrowed money from the Loan Fund. The money has been used to pay rent during times of unexpected unemployment, pay overdraft fees, pay off credit card debt, front emergency money to a direct service organization that was temporarily caught up in bureaucratic delays, and post bond. Most recently, money was loaned to Occupy Denver for legal support. The amounts have ranged from $180 to $2,000. $1,500 is out in the world right now; $500 is in my dresser drawer.
Not everything has been feel-good or easy, though. I have learned a lot along the way and still have unanswered questions. What I learned: This happened because two friends talked to each other about money. I had been talking about my class privilege with friends and housemates for some time (thanks to organizations like Resource Generation and the Chinook Fund), and so I knew it would not be a shock when I told people I inherited money and began asking them what they thought I should do with it. Even so, I was nervous to talk about how uncomfortable and angry and confused and scared having these resources made me feel. I feared that people would think it was ridiculous or insulting that I feel stress about having money while most people around me feel stress for not having enough. I worried that it would make us further apart rather than closer together. When Chad told me about the stress he was experiencing about paying his credit card bills and not being able to save up for a truck or to visit family or do things he cares about, I’m glad my fear didn’t silence me. If it had, we might never have made this connection.
Talking about this money was sometimes insulting and/or irritating to people, though. But I also discovered that talking about my inheritance devoid of emotion was often even more insulting. It sounded like “not only do I have this and you don’t, but I don’t even have feelings about it.” I was sharing $ in the spirit of anti-capitalism and redistribution, but without showing my struggles I was being less authentic and trustworthy, and that denial had the potential to dismiss the huge feelings that everybody has about classism and money. This is a pattern in lots of parts of my life – many relationships have suffered from me trying to be pragmatic, downplay my emotions and seem like I have my shit together – and I learned some of this from my owning class upbringing. With practice, this can shift.
The biggest challenge is that I have put the Loan Fund into an ambiguous ownerless position. The money I inherited never felt like it was mine so in many ways I treat the Loan Fund like it is also “not mine.” “It’s not my money; it’s the Loan Fund,” I say. I assure borrowers that the consequence of not paying is that someone else won’t be able to borrow that money to deal with whatever situation they need it for, but I won’t stop inviting them to dinner or wrenching on bikes with them because they owe “it” money. I actually trust that I can notice, interrupt and deal if I am feeling discomfort or resentment because of someone’s behavior related to the Loan Fund, but saying “it’s not mine” sometimes feels like a sneaky way to avoid hard feelings.
Plus, it remains that you must know me to know the Fund exists and to ask for the money. I accept and account for the payments. If someone doesn’t pay, I’m the one they talk to. And in the event that someday someone who asks for a loan doesn’t get it, I will be the one who makes that decision. On the one hand, distancing the money from myself has made it emotionally easier for me to lend and easier for others to receive (some have literally said “I wouldn’t feel right borrowing money from you, friend, but since it’s the Loan Fund…”) but it has also made it less accountable. If something belongs to everyone or to no one, who is responsible for mismanagement? Who do you call out if something’s not right? And if the same mistakes are repeated, what then? These are questions I will continue to ask to borrowers and friends.
When people do not pay back money to the fund, there also is little accountability. Each borrower sets up a structure beforehand for how they want to make payments and handle delays or adjust amounts. But some people still have never paid back the money. And some I expect never will. Almost everyone has taken longer to re-pay than expected because cars break down, jobs are lost, friendships change, and pregnancy, medical emergencies and bigger needs take priority. I am glad the loans can be put “on hold” for these reasons. This is a tremendous opportunity to extend my class privilege to the people around me. In my life, having a financial safety net has meant having the ability to shift priorities as things come up, weather financial emergencies, and take time to think through a crisis or change without being punished with future limitations and fees. But my vision of a more equitable society includes accountability and I’m not always sure how to do that. I want all of us to be lovingly and compassionately held responsible for our actions, but I notice I am most concerned with how to ensure people and institutions with more money and power are held responsible first and foremost. When the practice of lending money and sharing privilege depends on my having so much that one can live without it being returned, then we will continue to depend on excess and inequality – this is not my goal. Historically there have been no consequences for and very little follow-up with the people who haven’t repaid the Loan Fund. One overdue borrower’s phone is repeatedly shut off so I stopped calling. But another borrower ended up repaying one full year after telling me she never would. For now, I don’t have any plans to change what happens when a loan isn’t repaid.
Not everyone who borrowed money from the Fund ended up using a portion “for something Totally Awesome,” but the addendum became a nice genesis story for the Loan Fund. “Refinancing” to free up resources to help each other, make each other happier, and work together to escape cycles of debt and powerlessness. The Loan Fund can be one example of how to lend and borrow money that doesn’t feel soul-sucking. It is an alternative to needing extractive banks to deal with an emergency or get shit done. An alternative to being stuck, trapped, scammed, or conned. It reduces – and sometimes entirely avoids – guilt, shame, self-doubt, and resentment. It is more grounded in our lives, friendships and activism, and has flexibility and creativity. I have hopes to include more people in the process of “stewarding” the Fund. And I hope that it keeps moving and keeps bringing me closer to people.
Chad is still one of my dearest friends. We lived together for four years and participated in dozens of house meetings and projects together. He once took me to the emergency room at 3:am when I overdosed on insulin. He has visited my dad’s mansion in the mountains and attended my Aunt Susie’s funeral. He made his last payment to the Loan Fund about six months ago. This was one year past the intended final payment date and still $490 short of what he originally agreed to repay. He is living in Chicago now, awaiting the arrival of a new baby. And we still talk about resisting capitalism and the politics of money – jobs, bosses, classism, work ethics, what our families think about it, how it moves around and how it doesn’t – all the time. I am still trying to use my class privilege and access to my family’s money for social change. And I stand to inherit over a million dollars some day. Then as now, I will need Chad and all my friends to connect that money to where it really needs to be.
AFTERWORD
It’s 2023! When I wrote this piece 12 years ago I remember trying to “keep it simple and hopeful.” There was/is so much that’s overwhelmingly complex about wealth inequality and how money impacts our relationships but I wanted to encourage fellow people with class privilege to push past some of the noise and TRY something. Rereading it now, it sounds oversimplified AND it’s still true that running an informal loan fund for my friends, housemates, and community members for 11 years was a light lift and totally worth it.
I’m forever grateful that I got to cultivate an early relationship with money that asks “to whom does this really belong?”, that values movement and experimentation, and that practices using $ as a tool for good – grounded to feelings and friendship.
Chad and I are still friends and still love each other. He traveled from Chicago to attend my big queer wedding this past summer. He is having a second kid soon. Since 2012, I have added about $5,000 and 7 new borrowers to this rotating fund over the years. It’s clear that this is/was a small action in the face of global personal debt, but the confidence and skills that came from lending at this scale enabled and normalized larger personal and community actions. I am a member of a co-op investment club, I supported several foundations to divest endowment dollars from the stock market and reinvest in low- and no-interest loans to grantee organizations, and I convinced my dad to invest $50,000 in a fund for BIPOC entrepreneurship in rural Colorado. I continue to campaign for economic justice, mass debt cancellation, and a Just Transition to a Solidarity Economy that will serve us all. At age 40, I don’t regret having shared, loaned nor given a single dollar in my life; I only wish at times that I had done more. Please join me and let’s keep each other posted on what happens next.