The Check That Changed Everything
It was the late 90’s and there I was, pen in hand, perched over my kitchen counter, writing a check for $27,000 to the IRS. The ink flowed too easily, each stroke dragging a pang of resentment with it. My eyes wandered around my new house—my sanctuary—where $27,000 could have done wonders. Maybe a kitchen remodel to fix those outdated cabinets? Perhaps turning the dull beige living room into something vibrant and inviting? Or even splurging on a deck where I could sip my coffee in peace? But instead, my money was destined for…well, that’s where my mind drifted back.
Back to Washington, D.C. Back to that day at the Department of Education.
A Tale of Two Temptations
It was the mid-90s, and I was making a sales call for a startup software company. The product was so buggy it should’ve come with a can of Raid, but hey, I was in sales, not quality assurance. My meeting was with the head of an IT group—a woman whose anger could rival a Texas summer. She wasn’t just angry; she was inept, too, wielding her government budget like a sledgehammer rather than a scalpel.
It was December, the season of joy and goodwill—unless you’re a government bureaucrat staring down the “use it or lose it” barrel of your annual budget. She had money to burn, and my buggy software was her fuel. A $400,000 deal was on the table, promising me a fat commission check. It wasn’t a grand slam, but it was a solid triple, and I could practically feel the heft of the deposit in my bank account.
But there was a catch—my conscience.
Here was this woman, spending taxpayer dollars not because she needed to but because she could. And she didn’t care one bit that the software didn’t work. It wasn’t about need or utility; it was about next year’s budget. If she didn’t spend it, she wouldn’t get it. A part of me wanted to celebrate her reckless spending—after all, I stood to gain from it. But another part of me, the part that still believed in common sense, cringed. Was this really how government worked?
The Epiphany
Fast forward to my new house, my new life, and my $27,000 check to the IRS. That money had come from selling stock I’d earned at a startup that had gone public. It was a moment to be proud of—until I realized where the proceeds were going.
As I wrote the check, I envisioned all the ways that money could have made my house more of a home. A new deck would mean more hours spent outdoors. An updated kitchen could turn meal prep into something less like a chore and more like an experience. Even sprucing up the landscaping could have added some charm to the curb appeal. Each project would have supported a chain of people—local contractors, manufacturers, salespeople—all of whom would see the benefit of that money. And as they benefited, they’d pay taxes, buy things, and keep the economic engine humming along.
But no, that $27,000 wasn’t going to improve my house. It wasn’t going to fuel the local economy. It was going to Washington, D.C., to that angry bureaucrat with her bloated budget and my buggy software. I imagined her, years later, still spending other people’s money on things nobody needed or used, just to keep the gravy train rolling.
A Conservative Is Born
And that was it—the moment the conservative light bulb went off. I’d always understood the need for societal safety nets. I wouldn’t be where I am without them. But this? This wasn’t a safety net; it was a bottomless pit, a cycle of waste fueled by unaccountable spending. I became convinced that an open market, with the right accountability, could do more good for more people than a bloated government ever could.
That check for $27,000 didn’t just pay my taxes. It bought me a new perspective, one I carry to this day. And if I ever get the chance, I’d love to send a thank-you card to that angry IT manager at the Department of Education. After all, she inadvertently taught me the value of a dollar—and the importance of where it goes.