In Matt Thompson’s short history on the meaning of the American Dream, he prompted readers to share “what the dream represents to you, whether your vision of the dream is dead, dying, or hasn’t yet been born.” Nicole Qualtieri, a reader from Bozeman, Montana, reflects on her struggle to keep the dream alive:
When I think of the American Dream, I think of a happy couple in a white picket fence neighborhood, with 1.7 kids and a golden retriever playing in the yard and two hybrid SUVs in the driveway. I think of financial stability and beach vacations and college funds and private schools. I think of 401ks, health insurance with low deductibles, masters degrees, mommy blogs, and Crossfit/yoga memberships for the whole family.
As the kid of a working-class family growing up in the suburbs of Columbus, Ohio, I was very much so surrounded by a trope of that American Dream, and I was raised on that American Dream to a point. College was the thing that was constantly held over my head, the thing to be aspired to, the mark of upward mobility that would elevate my status and create a sort of social promise—a promise that to me felt to be the crux of the American Dream.
If you go to college, doors will be opened to and for you. Then, work hard. That’s all it takes.
I eventually did get into college—a public, in-state, safety-school type of college. After six years of attempting to do it on my own—through balancing two to three part-time jobs, a full course load, and a club sport—I graduated, with a price tag of $40,000 hanging over my head.
As a first generation student with the highest level of financial need, I had grown up with money as a constant stressor, so I grasped onto loans like a life vest and it kept me afloat.
These days, at 31 years old, I view these loans very differently.