Due to a gross miscalculation about the time it takes to write a dissertation, my son was born before either of us had finished. So, we lived in a seedy fourth floor walkup in Washington Heights with waterbugs the size of your fist flying into the baby’s bassinet. We were on welfare. My parents slipped us money at family gatherings and dropped off bags of groceries. Suspicious paint flaked up at the window sill.

One day, I walked into the court yard of my building and braced myself for the long haul with kid and stroller up the stairs. As I paused, I realized that the drug dealers had taken their pit bulls off their leash, and the dogs with studded collars were bounding for my kid. “Get your dogs off my kid!” I yelled at the guys in their black puffy coats, hoping that they would leave me alone, because their grandmothers loved me.

We were not only “elaborately educated” but positively festooned with degrees and here we were, living in poverty. After one year, degrees were finished, resumes submitted, but the jobs were too rare. We could either live in separate cities and far from family support or we would have to start over.

We started over. Husband ran out and got the first temp job he could find, an assistant job at an investment bank. We had tried fulfilling work, but it didn’t work out. His new job was demanding and inflexible and not interesting. At first it only paid enough to get by. If I worked, we would go into further debt. So, we assumed a traditional family structure, an imperfect situation for both of us, but the most important thing was to keep the pitbulls off our kids.

The temp job turned into an important job, Finally, after five years, we were able to take the two kids away from the pitbulls and waterbugs and drug dealers, and bring them to a place with a tiny backyard and a good school system.

We’re doing okay now. We still have to work our way through the student loans. And with all those years in grad school, we have no retirement money. We had to buy at the top of the market for the house, so we’ll always have to be very careful. I still buy the kids shoes at Payless and my meat on sale. But we’re okay.

That experience changed me. Made me a utilitarian. The number one purpose of work is to keep the pitbulls off your kids. Everything else is gravy. A fulfilling job. Gravy. A nice social life. Gravy. A job that benefits humanity. Gravy. A job that helps to overthrow the patriarchy. Gravy.

I think that these utilitarian notions of work are more common with my generation than with older generations. We don’t believe that we’ll have social security to rely upon. There are fewer jobs in key fields. Academic jobs were a dime a dozen back in the seventies. We’re saddled with student loans and the knowledge that our kids’ college tuition may exceed a year’s salary. Housing costs are insane. Mobility is much more difficult. There is little room for either gender to experiment with career changes or alternative plans. Whatever is working, you stick with, be it two incomes or one, fulfilling or drab.