I inherited a small fortune when I came of age,
Invested it well.
Now, at 35, I have even more money.
Time and commerce are good to the fortunate.
My parents were not born rich. They worked
And saved, got lucky with stock options.
Luck is why my childhood was worry-free.
Why I own a three-thousand square-foot house.
Why my adulthood should be worry-free.
It is your fiduciary duty to insist
That I save—for retirement,
For my nine-month-old’s education—
Live well but within my means.
You are beyond reproach.
But there is something else.
I am a wealthy white male
Whose home stands on stolen land:
Though my ancestors are Diaspora Jews,
Survivors of Holocaust and Pogrom and Gulag,
I am more oppressor than oppressed;
While refugees die and the oceans rise,
It is my lot to live on the safe, high ground.
When I log into my bank account
And see those digits in my name,
Can you tell me to whom that money belongs?
If it is mine to give away or to keep?
Whether the prudent can coexist with the just?
Or what good it would do my son
To inherit a fortune, if not a future?
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