ONE summer that is late once I had been 17, we went with my mom towards the neighborhood bank, a long-defunct organization whoever name we cannot keep in mind, to utilize for my very first education loan. My mom co-signed. Us, as if I had just won some kind of award rather than signed away my young life when we finished, the banker, a balding man in his late 50s, congratulated.
By the finish of my sophomore 12 months at a tiny private liberal arts university, my mom and I also had applied for a 2nd loan, my dad had announced bankruptcy and my moms and dads had divorced. Continue reading