A fter the dust settled on the collapse of the economy, on my family’s lives, we found ourselves in an impossible situation: we owed more each month than we could collectively pay. And so we wrote letters to Citibank’s mysterious PO box address in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, begging for help, letters that I doubt ever met a human being. The letters began to comprise a diary for my father in particular, a way to communicate a private anguish that he mostly bottled up, as if he was storing it for later. In one letter, addressed Dear Citi, he pleaded for a longer-term plan with lower monthly payments. Continue reading “We grew to accept Citibank as a detestable Moloch that we feared and hated, but were made to worship”