Sliding Scale

Evolving my relationship to price and value

Artwork by Alix Jo Ryan made with photos by Shawn Linehan

I was having lunch with my friend Connie, who is a few decades older than me, Japanese American, and the coolest cat—always with a skeptical brow until she unexpectedly bursts into a smile. She was telling me about her grandfather, a Japanese immigrant in Oregon. He was in a club with 10 to 12 other men—these clubs were common in the Japanese American community, she told me. They would meet once a month to spend time together (let’s assume with much drinking and toasting), and each man would bring $50 to $100, which represented a lot of money at that time. They would pool their money and decide who among them needed it that month. Racism made banking largely inaccessible to them, so here was a way to get an infusion of cash when you needed it. If a man came empty-handed, he probably needed that money. He might need it several months in a row, and that was okay because it helped him get back on his feet. These were not loans. This was cash, given. The group was built on a foundation of trust that if you took money, at some point in the future you would contribute again. There was honor in giving and responsibility in taking, but not shame. This was mutual aid, in a semi-formal, repetitive structure that I find moving. It’s an example of what I call group living.

I recently learned the name of this practice: Tanomoshi. Immigrants brought the tradition from Japan. There are parallel lending circle systems in Korea, known as key (pronounced geh), and across the world, with slight variations. (This Vice article does a nice job describing the idea and variations.)

Somehow, despite being incredibly moved by this historic practice, which makes all kinds of sense to me, I didn’t feel prepared to start my own tanomoshi. I wondered why I was hesitant. One reason, I discovered, is because I haven’t created a comfortable culture with my friends around money. We rarely talk about it openly. I feel some emotional baggage around taking money from friends, although I feel more comfortable about giving it (and there are definitely times when I have money to share and others when I could use a helping hand). Admittedly, this is a different era than in the past, but I sense that in the months and years ahead we are going to have to profoundly evolve our relationship with money. Coming together around mutual aid within our communities will be more and more important. We need all the tools we can grasp.

Thinking about tanomoshi reminded me of a change I have made in my personal economic framework in the last two years. At the beginning of the COVID pandemic in March 2020, Patrick Barrett, who runs Umi’s farmers market program, suggested we transition to a sliding scale model. What if we let people choose the price of our products at market? We would let them know what we historically charged for our noodles and sauces, but they could pay what felt reasonable given their own budget. We were trusting our customers to care about both themselves and us. We each know our financial situation best, and we did our very best not to express judgement either way. This was one more way to make our products affordable, which is a huge goal for us that exists hand in hand with our commitments to paying fair wages and using farm-direct organic grains. Sometimes these priorities are in conflict—how can you make something less expensive when you refuse to squeeze the people who provide your ingredients and make the product?

Almost immediately, I was shocked at how seamlessly the sliding scale system worked. People who had less paid less, and some didn’t pay at all and simply asked for product. Others added a few dollars more, and sometimes significantly more. We were neither pocketing more nor less per product on average than before we instituted sliding scale, but a wider range of people were accessing our noodles. Over and over, we had to explain what sliding scale was, but I was surprised how immediately, once they grasped the system, their gut sense of what felt right for them clicked in. We have continued with sliding scale pricing at the farmers market ever since.

I started to think about our whole business as existing within a sliding scale system. We cannot tell grocery stores to offer our products on a sliding scale basis. (I wish!) When we sign a contract with a distributor, we guarantee a certain price, and they decide what price goes to each store they serve. That said, we can make our products available in other venues than traditional grocery stores. We can use parts of our business to subsidize others. We can put energy into projects that may not pay us back as much money but are equally important to us—they pay us back in other ways. This idea is still nascent in me as it relates to Umi, but it feels foundational and transgressive given the food system we operate within. Equity is not charging everyone the same price nor seeking only the highest paying customers.

Since then, I have been bringing sliding scale into my personal life. When I order food with a group of friends, I ask them to hit me back based on sliding scale. When I rented a gym to play basketball and needed upfront cash, I asked people to contribute on a sliding scale basis. I am bringing this into future Umi events. I want to see payment apps make this option available online. I think there are more expansive and creative ways I can keep playing this out.

Shortly after we started offering sliding scale, our friends Nick and Alex of nearby farmers market booth Rangoon Bistro (with the best Burmese food!) followed suit in their own way. I was moved. Patrick’s suggestion was reaching other people, and they were making it their own.

I am excited to talk about sliding scale with other small businesses and friends. I’m interested in how you use sliding scale in your life, or if you can see applications you hadn’t thought of before. I hope to be part of making this more commonplace within my spheres of influence. Join me!