Get Good with Money: Ten Simple Steps to Becoming Financially Whole

Book Preface

About ten years ago these were the words that replayed in my head as I sat crying and packing up my things. For a couple of reasons, I couldn’t afford my condo and had to move out, pronto.
This was 2009 and we were in the middle of the Great Recession. The recession was like a scary monster that lurked around every corner—we were all talking about it and several friends had lost their jobs due to it. I had assumed I was in the clear because I was a preschool teacher and teaching jobs were supposed to be recession-proof, right?
Unfortunately, my school was a nonprofit, and the corporate entities that kept us going no longer had the funds to do so. Three days earlier I’d learned that I—and all the staff—was out of work. As usual I’d been living on savings over the summer months (I was paid on a nine-month basis and had to plan ahead to stretch it through the full twelve) and hadn’t seen this layoff coming. That was one of the reasons I now couldn’t afford my mortgage and was moving out in a rush.
But let me stop—I’m getting ahead of myself. So much happened before my meltdown. Let me take it back to the very beginning. Cue overly dramatic dream sequence music…
My parents are pretty awesome. They were born and raised in small, rural villages in Nigeria. My dad came to the United States first. He had little money and a dream for more. He later brought my mother, the love of his life, from a neighboring village to join him. Through hard work, discipline,and a sickening work ethic, they both earned two degrees (a bachelor’s in economics and an MBA in finance for my dad and a bachelor’s and master’s in nursing for my mom), held down great jobs (both are now retired), and had five lovely, college-educated daughters. I’m the second
(and wildest) of those daughters.
My parents have also always been masters at weaving financial lessons into our day-to-day activities. Here’s a perfect example. I’ll set the scene: Roselle, New Jersey, July 1986. I was six years old and heavily focused on riding my bike, playing outside, and eating ice cream. You know, serious six-year-old stuff. But I had three siblings (at that time), two of whom were also interested in ice cream, which would have added up to a pretty big expense for my parents if we’d all been allowed to buy it from the ice cream truck every day. So my parents had devised a unique and financially responsible way for my sisters and me to enjoy treats: We each had a weekly Ice Cream Day, which allowed us to ask for a dollar when the ice cream truck came around. The others could eat the cheaper, store-bought variety stashed in the freezer.
I can remember one specific occasion when my day came up. I heard the distinctive sound of the ice cream truck bell as it came down the street. I quickly ran into the house to collect my dollar.
“Daddy!” I said excitedly. “The ice cream man is here and today is my day!”
“Odochi,” he said a little gravely. (Odochi, pronounced O-dough-chee, is my Nigerian name.) “Odochi, the water man just left with your dollar.”
My six-year-old mind immediately started racing. Had the police been called? Was anybody hurt in the robbery? If it wasn’t a robbery, what did the water man have to do with the ice cream that was in the truck that was getting closer with every minute?
I’m guessing you’re just as confused as I was. So let me step back just a little further and explain the significance of the water man. At six years old, I was obsessed with water. My obsession often led to me turning on all the faucets in the house to enjoy the soothing sounds of running water no matter what room I was in at the time. As you can imagine, this habit did not go over well with my mom and dad, who (a) paid for that running water and (b) were very budget conscious. Which explains what my dad said next:

I have only a vague recollection of what happened next; the trauma has clearly caused me to block out this part of my history. According to eyewitnesses (my sisters), I dramatically flung my body to the floor in a temper tantrum. Later that night, I cried myself to sleep, lamenting the unfairness of it all.
The next morning, my dad sat me down and I had my very first, purposeful, conscious money talk. I learned that things cost money and that the choices I make have a direct impact on my quality of life. In other words, there is no such thing as a small financial choice. We each must learn how to weigh our short-term desires against our long-term goals. The question is, will you choose water or ice cream?
By age twenty-six, I thought I had taken this important lesson to heart and I was proud of my balanced finances and frequent wise choices. After all, I had defied math and managed to save $40,000 in a little under three years, even though my teacher’s salary started at $39,000. My credit score was an 802 out of 850 (A++, baby). And a year before—at the tender age of twenty-five—I had bought the aforementioned condo.

Sound too good to be true? It was…

Get your pearls ready.…You’ll be clutching them in a minute.