Will
you be applying for graduate financial aid?
Um. No? Never again.
Indicate
yes if you wish to be considered for scholarships, fellowships, student
employment or any other form of university sponsored financial assistance.
Ok. Yes.
My financial services ostrich pulls its head out of
the sand for a moment. Ostrich suggests I get in touch with the Department of
Education and check the status of my student loans before my bad decisions of
2007 take a bite out of my rear end, seeing as how it’s aimed at the sky
anyway.
The new Federal Direct Loan website is meant to look
cheerful. Friendly. Accessible. It asks me to name the person I first kissed to
access my forgotten password. The combination of baby blue and teal sans serif
font and memories of the first romantically exciting moment of my adolescence
mollify me for a moment. Who knew Direct Loan people were so soppy? I silently
salute the underpaid, fresh out of college web designer who created the new
forms. Well done, comrade. Were you in debt too? Did you think this would help?
Loading, loading, loading.
My failure to make payments over the unpaid summer, provide additional paperwork about my income and various other stupid decisions have put me, I think,
in a pretty bad place. My ostrich desperately contemplates the head-in-ground
position again, but distant hopes of further education prevent it from acting
on the impulse. I take down the phone number on the website and dial, trying
not to think about my phone bill for international calls.
A recorded message asks me to enter my account
details. It plays and replays a sentence about how anything I say can and will
be used against me in the collection of my debt. I feel like a criminal. My
palms get clammy as I imagine begging and pleading, desperately explaining my
work at nonprofit, effort to educate the underprivileged, troubles with the
exchange rate and so on, when someone finally answers the phone and puts me out
of my misery. He doesn’t care about my story. I answer ten minutes of
questions. I don’t own a car. I do not own a home. My husband does not earn in
dollars. He asks if I would like to pay all my student loans in full to be out
of default status. I panic. I thought I had ten years to pay the full amount!
He gives a reassuring laugh. I like his voice.
No,
Ma’am, I understand that. It’s just that it’s illegal for me not to give you
this option.
Damn this obsession with the law. Sometimes it’s so
counterproductive.
I’m connected to another representative, who informs
me I am eligible for a reasonable monthly payment plan. I almost laugh with
relief. Thank you so much, I say. The woman on the other end is surprised by my
gratitude. No problem, she says. You have to hand it to Americans for being polite. Two minutes later, my happiness
evaporates when I am informed that my debit card isn’t working because the bank
in Pakistan won’t authorize it. I apologize, hoping against hope they don’t
think I’m one of those sad people who simply have no money in their bank
account and don’t even know it, simultaneously wondering why I care about their
opinion. I call the local bank, determined to give them a piece of my mind.
The irritable representative from my own city doesn’t
win any points for good manners, but he is-like all Pakistanis-determined to
give me “good advices” about how I should go about my private business.
Phone
banking very risky. Better you not do it, ma’am. Anyway, not my business how
your card doesn’t work. Un ki apni business hai jin ka system cheques allow
nahin karta. Un say jaa kar behess karain.
Five minutes of fruitless shouting about wasted international
call minutes, demands to leave the Stone Age behind and other exhortations
later, I give up.
Larry or Harry or someone from somewhere in the midwestern United
States calls me back, asking for an update on my situation. I spend
approximately one hundred rupees on phone minutes, setting up alternate payment
arrangements. I pray for the god of student loans-William D. Ford, namesake of
the Direct Loan system, I’m thinking of you-to grant me extra points for making
this month’s payment without ripping anyone’s head off. Until next month,
Department of Education, my ostrich awaits.