ONE late summer time afternoon whenever I had been 17, we went with my mom to your neighborhood bank, a long-defunct organization whoever title we cannot remember, to try to get 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.
Because of the finish of my sophomore 12 months at a little personal liberal arts university, my mom and I also had applied for a 2nd loan, my father had announced bankruptcy and my moms and dads had divorced. Read more