By Omar Monsivais, Chase Community Manager in Oak Cliff

“Mom, we can’t pay this.” I was 10 years old, sitting at our kitchen table in Oak Cliff. But it wasn’t the “final notices” I remember most. 

It was watching my parents pay part of the light bill. Part of the water bill. Part of the gas bill. Then driving to the grocery store, not just for food, but to pay bills at the customer service counter. Pay just enough so the lights stayed on and we had enough cash left for the week. 

That was the kind of math I grew up on. It was survival math.

We always had cash. My dad worked in construction his entire life. Every Friday, he would cash his check at the corner store, lose part of it to a 6% check-cashing fee and put the rest in his shirt pocket.

That shirt pocket was my dad’s bank.

We weren’t “bad with money.” We just weren’t taught money. My dad didn’t have a budget. Which ultimately led to him asking me, at 10 years old, to translate for him over the phone to the guy who sold my parents their house. 

“Tell him we can’t pay.” I was crying while I did it. The landlord comforted me and said, “We’ll work something out.”

By 22, I had my own place and my own bills—and the same habits. Payday came and I felt untouchable. Then Monday hit, and I was back to splitting bills, maxing credit cards, and eventually taking out online payday loans because I needed cash fast. 

Here’s the irony: I was working at a bank, helping other people open accounts, while I was dodging debt I didn’t understand. I wasn’t broke because I didn’t work hard. I was broke because I still didn’t know. 

Frustrated, I confided in a financial advisor at my branch. He was calm, confident. He told his money what to do. His money didn’t tell him what he COULD do.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he said. He made me write it down: Income minus expenses. $25 left.  

“Cool. Set up a an automatic transfer and put $25 in a savings account every payday. Then hide the account from yourself.” 

I laughed. “That’s not enough.”  

“Just do it.”

A year and a half later, I’m digging through my checking account. “Where’s my money gone? Why is $25 coming out every two weeks?” Then I remembered the savings account. 

The balance shocked me – more than $1,000.

Not long after, a woman walked in who’d borrowed $200 from a payday lender, paid for a year, and still owed $200. I asked for her papers and saw it: 600% interest. She’d been paying interest only—no principal. That’s when it hit me: this wasn’t just my story. It was my neighborhood’s story. 

I understood that I needed to help people find a better way.

In my career, I’ve worked with customers in lower-income neighborhoods and in in more affluent areas. Today, I am the Chase Community Manager in Oak Cliff. I work with everyday people, showing them how to avoid the mistakes and traps I knew all too well.

Our conversations are often rooted in survival. At the more affluent branches, those conversations were more rooted in strategy. That gap isn’t about intelligence. It’s about exposure. 

When you haven’t been exposed to financial education, it’s easy to spend all your money chasing status. So here’s what you do instead: Build a relationship with somebody at the bank. Call them. Email them. Walk into the branch and talk to them. That’s what they’re there for. To give you advice. To help you reach your financial goals. That’s their job. Don’t chase trends. Chase relationships.

Today I am a father of four, and I think about “wealth” differently. For me, generational wealth isn’t millions—it’s peace: peace that the mortgage is paid, peace that an emergency won’t break you, peace that your kids don’t grow up watching bills get paid in pieces. My faith matters to me, but the daily practice looks like this: Saving. Planning. Discipline.

This can be your journey, too. And when you get your $1,000 moment, become that bridge for the next person looking to move past survival mode to strategic consistency.