Gifting: A Toxic Trait.

My bank account consists of the remnants of all that my parents deposited for my use during college. It was meant to last for a short duration: the beginning of orientation before freshman year and perhaps a few months in. It wasn’t until my trifold, snap closure, cognac and mahogany brown monogrammed Coach wallet was stolen in second semester senior year, that any money was withdrawn from my bank account. Get this: I never involved myself with anything bank-related, alma mater aside. My daily treks were inundated with Wharton’s legacy of business mavens assigned tasks all too similar to those set out by another Wharton alum and a certain former reality television maverick turned-president, Donald Trump. The homework was near identical to challenges seen on The Apprentice.

Like any millenial writer who grew up writing in cursive and didn’t have a cell phone until high school, (a Motorola Pebble and Razor), I penned my pin and account number on a slip of paper that I slipped into one of my wallet pockets. The person who swiped my wallet had entered the bank a few blocks down from the supermarket, not even a couple of minutes after committing the crime, and wiped my bank account clean. After months of investigation concluded, I received a phone call and mail to my home back in New York, where I remained after I had graduated. The bank notified me that all the stolen money was returned. The envelope contents included 60-minute-level pixel images of the man who pick-pocketed me, including his short trip to the bank a few minutes later. He was being held in custody.

Flash forward 9 years later: My bank account consists of the returned money, the severance package from my two-weeks’ time at a major magazine that shuttered down suddenly in the thick of the print-is-dead era – 2015. My bank account also included payment for a few freelance articles – two of which were killed – and paychecks from my time in retail during the heyday of my anorexia – something that at first was meant to help me heal but instead became another way for me to be on the balls of my feet for an endless amount of hours, without food.

I use whatever money I have for making purchases that uphold my penchant for appreciating the finer things in life, including food items like sumo oranges that cost $3.99 per pound, and certified organic raw cashew butter, potent eau de parfum from Europe, and designer floor-length dresses, pants, and blouses. In the vein of investing in quality and not quantity, meaning a low turnover rate, these purchases are as rare as the oud wood imported from the Arab peninsula or the saffron threads tediously plucked from the Kashmiri floral buds that I enrobe my body in after both my morning and evening showers, even if that means the highly valued concentrate will only come into contact with an unwed bed, unappreciated by no one but myself. The saturated perfume will also serve to battle the overwhelming smell of sweat-laden air I was exposed to while at the gym. The perfume on my skin protected myself from the gym smell, almost like a broken hollandaise sauce. The fragrance fends off the offending smell from absorbing into my pores and then its muscle mass becomes fatigued, lets its guard down and washes off with my incessant scrubbing in my post-workout bath.

The bulk of my debit charges and cash withdrawal are gifts for holidays, birthdays, thanks, ‘thinking of you’ – essentially, walk down the Hallmark card aisle and that it is near-to my account statement. I enjoy gifting and it is something best left unrequited. What I mean to say is, for me, receiving gifts is akin to having my photo taken in that it is desired to a certain degree, but is neither necessary nor expected. Sure, I would like to document my person, however, not in the sense of being vain. The probability of me disliking my photo is high. Possession is a symbol of human progression. To have is to hold, quite literally, and this tangibility is quintessentially human. It’s a sign of life, as well as having earned, either by means of merit or making enough of a human connection to warrant another’s acknowledgment of your being.  Back to gift giving: I retain the same childlike glee at having someone gift me anything, when it is completely unexpected and the person is someone I had never gifted. When the gift comes from kin, or anyone with who I have an established relationship, it is riddled with shame and guilt, markedly, as I have aged.

A month ago, a box left at my doorstep had a return address from the European fragrance sommelier I adore. Neither me nor anyone else had ordered me the rather expensive perfume. Let’s put it this way, there are no such thing as samples. And what could mistakenly be considered a sample in negligible fluid ounces costs more than half of the original amount. Inside was a slim bottle that was larger than a sample but less than a regular-sized bottle. Suffice it to say, its value was not small. A card noted appreciation at my frequent visits to the shop, purchases, and social media-publicized adoration for the brand. The merchant with whom I have had lengthy conversations, shed tears in front of, and hugged pre-COVID signed it. It was a thoughtful gesture, and I was on a high. Then and there I decided I would drop by with some culinary confections.

This desire to show my thanks could be considered my toxic trait. I imagine it is like what Lorelei Gilmore references about daughter Rory, and her daughter’s then-boyfriend, Dean, partaking in when neither refused to hang up the phone first, continuously reiterating, “no, you’re prettier.” This toxic trait includes not being gifted necessarily, but instead being given something voluntarily. At the gym, post-COVID, I mistakenly thought the 45-minutes of drills had ended and chucked my surgical mask, only to realize I still had sprints. Another gym-goer took out her leopard-printed disposable mask that may have cost more for aesthetic purposes, though I have always demonized animal print on something other than the animal on which it is naturally derived. I felt horrible, and so I promised to purchase a Starbucks gift card, enough for a beverage. She refused to accept it, vehemently so, until I told her to just enjoy a drink on me. Either the awkwardness of the exchange, the start of the workout, or the universal basic human need to ingest fluids, led to her finally accepting the card.

My birthday is forthcoming, and yet I feel remarkably guarded at the thought of being gifted anything from my parents, particularly when they already provide for me – car payments and maintenance, cell phone, health insurance, out-of-pocket doctors’ insurance, clothing, grocery, and shelter. My mother is someone who shows her love, maybe it’s love or perhaps an obligatory show of niceties toward an offspring she hates, through materialism. She’ll purchase the French fragrance I douse myself in, or the religious amulets fabricated from precious stones and 24-karat gold that I hold dear to my heart in spite of her daily remark that there is no God. She’ll offer to drive me somewhere, so long as dinner doesn’t have to be made, nothing is on television for her to watch, she has someone to call, completed her workout, or finished painting her nails and blowing out her hair.

My mother’s toxic trait isn’t the aforementioned putting of herself first. I am, after all, an adult woman. According to my father, this means that I know what my mother’s motives are for suddenly taking to exercise religiously and favoring Thai food – he’s getting at something that has been gnawing at him and I honest to God have no inkling of a clue as to what he is referring. I am as pure as can be, and am ignorant to any misgivings between man and woman.

My mother’s toxic trait is manifold, but one stands out and it is this resounding need to be negative, as if a miserable existence is something to hold in high regard. Everyday she’ll greet her sister or mother with, “Nada. Misma mierda todos los dias.” This translates to, “nothing. The same shit everyday.” I absolutely detest this type of response to the inquiry, “que hace” or “what are you up to?” My mother is not very refined, and I believe that this is mainly due to her apathy toward academia and highbrow intellect. Even with her choice of car – she’ll eye monster truck-like automobiles. Hummers will stir a singsong humming. Pick-up trucks are her pick-me-ups. Jeeps compel her to jeer at anything without snow tires. She tends to victimize herself, deftly ignoring the fact that we all cater to her on her birthday, and Mother’s Day, two weeks after. In our biracial household, she claims most of the holidays as her own, not even belonging to her children who are merely half of her. And on those days as well, we all do as she wishes and sees fit and that includes the schedule of events if she so desires that we go out – we’re never to go out on the day of because there are too many people - the food on the table, the décor, and the gifts. She says that she doesn’t ask for any of it, and yet her hints are not lost on us either. I gave her the only flowers she likes – tulips – and that I don’t care for. I made reservations at a Michelin-starred restaurant, told them in advance that it was her day so she was served a pana cotta, a trinket box, a whole host of other gifts, and she finally found her Jeep. I could not upkeep the act of being ok with her on-the-day-of pleasantries before raising hell a few hours thereafter. So I confronted her about this toxic trait and asked if she had any awareness as to how we try to make the day cheery and memorable for her. I asked her why she claims things are always crappy when we cater to her wishes. She said she was aware, smiling, genuinely so. I know because I cannot remember the last time I had smiled, or giggled, or didn’t have a deep searing hole burning my insides. And then she said something else that only added fuel to this fire.

She assured me that she would purchase anything I wanted: more high-end perfume, another religious amulet, or that Gucci enamel timepiece I had been eyeing for years. I did not want any of it. I vehemently declined this offer that could be mine for the low, low price of the definition of insanity - doing the same things over and over – gift-giving and receiving. When I tell her this, she becomes agitated and suddenly threatens to return or deny anything I have or may gift her in the future. I know the intention behind my gifts, and I know the distinct nature of her own, and for this reason, including her verbalized and tangible disdain for me, I cannot accept any gift she may give.

Gifting and philanthropy are not synonymous. Raising money for suicide prevention, addiction or eating disorder treatment, for example, are for purposes of bettering someone’s life by ethical conduct, even if it is in contrast to one’s will. Another example is fictional but does well to demonstrate the distinct nature between a gift and donation. Character Lane Kim, from Gilmore Girls, is made to look extraordinarily pregnant, or as one of her fellow cast members referred to her – a fertility goddess. She was expecting twin boys and was still working as a waitress in Luke’s Diner during her final trimester. As she was clearing a table, she picked up the tip from the table and confronted the diner: She proclaimed that she was pregnant and not a charity case who needed their pity, though petty works here too, cash.

The concept of paying it forward, however, is akin to gifting, as is reflected in the cyclic nature of doing for someone as one has done for them, only this time, the giver and recipient are constantly changing. Paying for the Starbucks’ order of the people in the car behind you in the drive-in queue exemplifies this concept. Tipping is included in this scenario. Local news’ propagated scenario of a diner tipping an amount of cash that supersedes any standard gratuity percentage, for example. This gesture amounts to – no pun intended – recognizing the service that someone performs, otherwise only modestly compensated for in salary. Here, one is thought of as deserving, or having earned.

On this birthday, I had been wishing to be kept at peace – no cards, no gifts or grand gestures, and certainly no competitive jabs I claimed to have once thrived on while walking the stone-laid paths of campus.