What is the American Dream?

What is the American Dream?

A house in the suburbs, with a few kids and a dog. Dad makes enough so Mom can stay home. Idyllic.

But that goes hand in hand with the valium-popping housewives of the 1950s, suddenly isolated from the city communities they knew, but living the dream of homeownership and embodying the new-fangled idea of prosperity and success.

So whose dream was it?

A friend of mine used to work at a home for elderly retired nuns. She said they were some of the most interesting women she'd ever met. Some of them—now in their 80s—told her they joined the order not primarily out of faith, but because for women 60 years ago, there were few options available other than becoming a wife and mother. And that wasn't what they were interested in.

As we talk about the changing American Dream, I wonder if we ever really understood exactly what the dream was in the first place.

My mother gave up the classroom when I was young, choosing to stay home with me and my two sisters until the youngest was in first grade. She spent 12 years with us. She and my dad graduated college without student loans, and were able to buy the house they still live in within four years of their marriage.

I know she appreciated the ability to stay home with us—and I know she is grateful their lives allowed that to happen. But she also often joked that she’d have to work longer to make up for that 12-year break.

Last year, changes in the field of education got her thinking about retirement a little earlier than she had originally planned. She found herself working 12-hour days, and spending eight hours doing school work on weekends. Combine that with the policy changes associated with the budget repair bill, and the decision became clear.

Now, she is taking jobs as a sub, and has considered working part-time for colleges or school districts—in part to make up the income lost during her 12-year break from her career to stay home with me and my sisters.

Before my son was born almost four years ago, the idea of 12 weeks away from work for maternity leave terrified me. I had friends promise to stop by regularly, because I was afraid of spending all that time by myself with the baby.

All. That. Time.

Three months.

That's it.

Going back to work was hard, but there was also no way that we could figure out to have a full-time stay-at-home parent at our house. And whenever we talked about it, my husband was the one who would have been staying home.

We came out of school with tens of thousands in student loans, with car loans, with credit card debt, no savings—and, for me, no job.

In those early post-college days, just getting a job in journalism was the fulfillment of a dream. It was at a small, free weekly, where I covered two communities, and made so little that I had to get a part-time job teaching dance to cover my bills. Thankfully, even in a contracting industry, I managed to stay employed.

Over the next 10 years I saw talented people lose their jobs, in my field and in my family. I watched empty desks be turned into coffee stations and offices become small conference rooms where people went to talk about how uneasy they were with the latest shift and change. I heard the nervousness whenever there was another vote on whether or not to extend unemployment benefits, or pass a stimulus package.

No matter where I looked, the economy was forcing people I knew to make difficult decisions on healthcare, retirement, what bills to pay first. Which collection agency to take the most seriously. How far afield to look for work.

Suddenly the dream wasn't so much about living in a personal paradise—it was about getting by.

Is that the new American Dream? Just staying afloat?

My dream has little to do with the trappings of success. Would I like a new car? Sure. A new house? Why not. But when I have to choose between spending my energy fueling those things or fueling a community of people that loves each other and supports each other, the new-house-new-car dream fizzles.

I'm OK with my 4-year-old son and newborn daughter sharing a room. I'm OK with reducing the stuff in our small house to make room for the things a baby needs.

In fact, I'm more than OK with it: It's my dream.

Harmony within our family, within our home, within our community. No matter what it looks like on the outside, if it's joy inside, we'll be living our dream.