"Just about everyone I know calls me by the nickname I got in college 25 years ago. I use this name professionally. My husband and even my father use it. Those who do refer to me by my given name almost always shorten it in some way.
So it was obvious, for a few years back in my mid-30's (this was pre-caller ID for me), when the person on the other end of the phone was a debt collector. No one else ever asked for Jacqueline.
Here's a typical exchange — which took place several times a day — from that time in my life:
"May I speak to Jackal Lean?"
"She's not here right now," I said.
"Do you know when she'll be back?"
"I'm not sure. Next month sometime maybe?"
"Is there a number where I can reach her?"
Sometimes I told the caller that I couldn't take a message. Other times that yes, I'd be glad to take a message — but then I never wrote down the name of the company or the number they gave to return the call.
These calls annoyed me. They scared me. I had nothing to give the debt collectors. I earned very little back then. What money I did make, I spent bringing up my son, alone, without child support. Admittedly, I was lousy when it came to personal finance, so the rare professional triumph was always cause for great celebration and more foolish spending rather than a chance to put a dent in credit-card balances that had become as abstract and insurmountable as Mount Parnassus.
Like so many others I know, I used credit cards to bridge that expanse (often quite broad) between what I made (on average, for many years, less than two grand per month) and what I needed (to cover child care, food, rent, utilities, gas). I also used credit cards to cheer myself up. I had only a few cards, and by far the highest limit on any of them was just $3,000. For the most part, I managed to send in the minimum monthly payment required of me. I did not, however, often manage much more than that. Interest accrued; balances grew even after the months when I avoided buying on credit.
Then a medical emergency in 1997 sent me from teetering on the edge to a plunge into the abyss of financial doom. I got the news from a tactless medical specialist. "Your jeans are going to fit a lot better once they get that thing out," he said, referring to a large tumor that had been discovered wrapped around my left ovary.
One profession's tumor is another's pre-existing condition. At least I was lucky enough medically. The malignant growth and ovary were removed surgically, I escaped the need for chemo and radiation and no new tumors appeared. But I was less fortunate when it came to insurance. At the time I was going through this crisis, I was in the midst of terminating a very brief marriage — and my comfortable status on my former husband's health plan. The tumor meant that I couldn't qualify for my own policy to cover the parts of me that most needed covering. To stay on my ex's policy, I had to pay $500 per month as part of a Cobra program.
I could either have insurance or keep paying my credit-card minimums. I could not do both. I chose the former. Which is when the phone started ringing. And ringing. And ringing. By the time the Cobra plan expired, around a year and a half later, my credit was ruined, and there was no hope of getting back on track. The phone kept ringing.
While I don't think I ever got used to the calls, I did develop some conditioned responses, determined by the caller's personality. If he was cheerful (rare), I returned the favor. Abrasive? I snapped at her. Once in a while, I sensed the caller was nice — too nice for the job he or she had accepted.
Occasionally with one of these soft touches, rather than deny that I was, in fact, Jackal Lean, I would own up to being the indebted party. I'd explain my situation — give all the details, embellished the way you might tell your story to the stranger sitting in the next seat over on an airplane. I explained to one debt collector — who I'm pretty sure was not making enough money at her horrible job to pay her own bills — that I was a single mom, that I was broke, that all my bills were overdue, that my electricity was scheduled for disconnect and on and on. By the end of the call she was in tears, begging me to visit a local branch of her church. "They'll feed you and your son tonight," she promised me. I still feel bad about that.
In late 2002, after five years of negotiating these calls, and of imagining that I'd somehow conquer my debt, I acknowledged it would never really happen. I filed for bankruptcy to free myself of around $20,000 of debt. It felt good. I was full of relief and gratitude for the chance to start again. I did not feel the guilt I feared I would. And I came to love the sound of no phone ringing, of not having to lie and say Jackal Lean was somewhere else."
Bankruptcy is no longer a sin. Bush's new Bankruptcy law is.
Edited by:
Martin s. Friedlander, Esq.
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Posted by: Bankruptcy Services | January 08, 2010 at 03:29 AM