LITMIR.BIZ

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that Dee is interested in my dilemma, even if she disagrees with me. For years I have been simmering inside about having wealth, but I’ve had few chances to talk with others who have both money and a sense of responsibility about what to do with it. Dee is a full-time philanthropist, and a woman who has wrestled with privilege for six decades and made seemingly thoughtful choices. I wonder if her path holds any guidance for me.

      I have never been to the Harvard Club. I iron a shirt, fuss over my tie and walk down the broad boulevard of Commonwealth Avenue in Boston’s Back Bay, where the median is lined with sculptures of literary figures and political leaders. On each side are four- and five-story homes, granite slab and brick behemoths with large picture windows and ivy. Some are divided into apartment buildings or condominiums, but many are still occupied by single families. Approaching the Harvard Club reminds me of another important aphorism of privilege – along with “never touch the principal” – which is, “always look like you belong.” I stride confidently past the large awning and doorman at the Harvard Club.

I meet Dee in the club lounge. She strides in, hair long, shoulder bag swinging. She is wearing a crisp knee-length black skirt and a breezy white blouse with a golden basket lapel pin that she explains is a symbol of Nantucket Island, where she has a “cottage.” The lounge is remarkably free of cigar smoke and captains of industry. There are several low-rise chairs and fairly ordinary people – men not even wearing ties – sitting and reading newspapers.

      “Dee,” I whisper, “Where are the Monopoly Man plutocrats and the wingback chairs?”

      “Oh yes,” she deadpans. “They are in the gentlemen’s smoking lounge pulling the hidden levers of power. They don’t allow the ladies in there.” We enter the dining room, and Dee waves to several other women she knows. “I have to tell you a joke,” she says, glancing up from her menu with a puckish grin. Her face is tanned and freckled since I’d seen her a few weeks earlier.

      Dusk is settling in over the Charles River, and a proper Boston gentleman is walking home from his day’s duty at the Brahmin law firm of Prescott, Cabot, and Newell. As he climbs Beacon Hill toward his stately red brick row house, he spies a lady of the night, standing in a shadowy doorway. As he passes, he averts his eyes, but not before recognizing his dearest first cousin.

      “Addy,” he stutters. “Addy, is it you?”

      “Yes Arthur,” she whispers with shame.

      “But Addy … why? Why you?”

      “Why, Arthur,” his cousin responds. “It was either this or invade the principal.”

      We both roar with laughter. Dee is right about one thing. I am naive about “principal,” “assets,” “income,” and “inherited legacies.” But Dee is prying my eyes open to the world of wealth preservation. “Chuck, you can do a lot of good if you hold onto the money.” Dee smiles. “As the corpus grows, you have more income that you can give away.”

      “Corpus?” I am stuck on the word.

“You know … the body … the principal.”

      “I can’t help interrupting, but that word,” I shake my head. “When I hear ‘Corpus’ I think of ‘Corpus Christi’.”

      “Yes, of course,” chuckles Dee. “The body of Christ. Like the little wafer I palm once a week down at old Trinity Church.” I know that Dee is a member of Trinity Church and serves on several church committees. But she is no stuffy WASP former debutante.

      “I understand the theory,” I continue. “The principal is thy fount. It is the gift that keeps giving. It is the goose that lays the golden egg. You don’t barbecue the goose.”

      Dee looks at me with a mix of bemusement and sadness. “What’s wrong with preserving an asset?” Where do I begin? I think. I picture my older friend Juanita Nelson standing in her two-room cabin talking about usury and the immorality of people with mountains of wealth living off interest. Where did that income come from?

      I think about the Bernardston mobile home tenants and other low-income people I work with, who take second jobs to pay the high interest rates on their homes. I want to draw their voices into the conversation.

      “I don’t want to live off other people’s labor.”

      “Oh Chuck, people need access to credit,” Dee says, missing my point. “Borrowing and interest are what makes the world go around.”

      “Not the world I want to live in.” I start to talk about my views on wealth and poverty in society, but Dee steers the conversation back to the personal.

      “Do you feel bad about having money?” she asks.

      “Well, maybe, because I had nothing to do with earning it.”

      “Guilt is a dead end,” she nods with certainty.

      “Dee, isn’t there a part of guilt that is okay, that’s sort of a sign of our humanness?” I am struggling for the right words. “Maybe guilt is the wrong word, but don’t you feel something when you see the distance between your own good fortune and the suffering of others?”

“There is nothing good about guilt,” she pronounces, skating past my words. I sense this is in the pantheon of rich people’s aphorisms along with “never touch the principal” and “if you have to ask ‘how much?’ you can’t afford it.”

      “But what about being … responsible?”

      “Well, of course, I believe in responsibility, but Chuck, do you feel responsible for all the world’s suffering?” I hear slight mocking in her question, in a way I’ve heard people dismiss those who “want to change the world.”

      “I want to be responsible about how my own income is earned. And I do feel responsible for doing what we can to alleviate suffering.”

      “No Chuck, you and I are not responsible for the horrible suffering.” She sighs. “But we can each do our little part.” She starts to talk about the good work funded by her charity.

      “I’m not really interested in philanthropy,” I interrupt gently, not wanting to be disrespectful. “Giving is important, of course. But it seems the first step is not to unfairly benefit from the current rules of the game.”

      “Fairness is complicated,” Dee says. “Fairness for who?”

      “Fairness for those who are left out by the current system – people who don’t own wealth and assets.”

      “Are you a Marxist?” She eyes me.

      “No, I thought I was being a Christian. Dee, I don’t believe the state should own businesses. But I do think there is a class system, and I’ve seen how it squeezes some people …”

      She interrupts me: “There are good rich people and evil rich people. There are good poor people and evil poor people. It’s not as simple as you think.”

“Yes, Dee, of course.” I feel a wave of doubt. Maybe I am too idealistic. Maybe I am … foolish. Our salads and fish arrive, but I am so absorbed I hardly notice. Dee asks me what has given me these ideas. I describe my experience working with mobile home park residents and low-income tenants. I tell her about a group of tenants in Waterbury Connecticut who are organizing to save and buy their apartments. Dee listens with interest, munching on her food.

      “Think of the money you could raise to solve these problems,” Dee says.

      “But Dee, this is not about charitable giving – it is about returning to people what is rightfully theirs to start with. I want to address the roots of the problems, not just send charity band-aids. I want to have a bigger impact.”

      “That’s good,” she affirms. “That’s right. But Chuck, you are a little naive … and selfish to be considering distributing your assets.”

      “Selfish?”

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