I Wanna Buy My Way Outta Here

There’s a moment in Hostel: Part II where Beth, trapped in the Elite Hunting Club’s torture dungeon, stares down certain death. The head honcho and his guards make it clear: you don’t just pay and walk out. You got dropped into the system, and the only way out is by playing by its rules.

When she’s told she can’t afford it, Beth snaps back: “Don’t tell me what I can’t afford. There’s nothing I can’t afford….just name your fucking price…trust me, I’ve got it.”

That’s me with student loans.

That was my thinking when I signed up for an MBA. Whatever it cost, I’d figure it out later. Two years of classes, a degree, doors flung open — a prosthetic penis to wave around in male-dominated rooms. I always resisted being tracked into “women’s” fields; I wanted the challenge, the money, the access that playing with the big boys, or at least attempting to, offers.

What I didn’t plan for: Wall Street decimating the global economy in Fall 2008. In my second week of classes, liquidity evaporated from the global money market overnight. “Too big to fail” stopped being an abstract phrase and became a policy disaster. While the bailouts were economically necessary, no one of material significance going to jail behind that supreme bs was not. 

No working person in America should ever allow any politician who was in office at the time, on any side of the political spectrum, to talk their way out of taking responsibility for one of the most egregious wealth transfers in our country’s history. 

The job market was still so bleak in the Spring of 2010 that I decided to stay another semester. What was the rush? Many of my classmates who graduated on time were still looking for jobs when I clocked back in for my bonus semester. 

In keeping with the collective organizing spirit of the time, some of my former classmates occupied a group study room in the business school to maintain access to resources like wi-fi and printers until they found jobs. A lot of them were still looking 9 months later in May of 2011, when I finally walked to receive my degree. Or rather, a paper in an embossed diploma folder with a letter saying that once all my outstanding fees were settled (plot twist they weren’t) I would receive the actual diploma. 

I under-earned for years after business school because my program wasn’t “top tier” (Stanford, Harvard, Wharton, etc) and because the job market was dismal. Companies wanted people who had already done the exact job. Cross-functional skills didn’t pay back like the brochures promised.

I’ve been stuck on the predatory student loan carousel for decades: amassing a hundred thousand dollars in accrued interest via various deferments and forbearances. So here I am, still trying to buy my way out. The system’s rules are engineered to keep you stressed and desperately scheming in the torture dungeon we call Capatalism. 

No wonder I’ve developed a bloodlust for corporate America.  My professional fantasy life revolves around harnessing the tunnel-bomb capabilities of private equity, rolling up industries adjacent and critical to a firm like JPMorgan Chase, just to gut them for the pure joy of watching the ledger bleed out. There’s a grim satisfaction in imagining the plutocrats finally feeling a scratch.

Because the truth is simpler and darker: the U.S.’s economic model across my life has been a long, deliberate bleed. The plutocrats give you just enough to keep you alive so they can extract a hundred times more from your labor. The tax for “buying your way” into a broader career and network — degrees, certifications, unpaid internships, relocation, etc— has become a national problem.

So when an attempt to correct student loan repayment policy — one of the most meaningful corrections in years — gets dragged into litigation by a posse of state attorneys general, you stop treating the system as broken and start seeing it as intentional. Those lawsuits weren’t entirely motivated by hypocritical ideology and scoring conservative political points. They were meant as a choke hold.

Beth eventually does buy her way out of the Elite Hunting Club’s torture dungeon. She castrates Stuart and tosses his dick to the dog. The Club tattoos her before she leaves — their reminder that nobody exits clean.

That’s the student loan system in the United States of America. You can pay. You can bleed. You can even “win.” But you’ll always walk out marked.