A Heartfelt Apology from Wells Fargo

WHEN I RECEIVED an email from the president of Wells Fargo bank—expressing remorse for years of financial malfeasance—I looked forward to reading words crafted by highly paid public relations professionals. Given the depth of the bank’s abhorrent irregularities—such as altering depositors’ records and pressuring employees to open bogus accounts—Wells Fargo needed to set just the right tone when apologizing to a potential nationwide jury pool (and feeling the squeeze from several boycotts).

But I set the email aside. At that moment, I was preoccupied with helping my granddaughter negotiate the new challenges of first grade. Unfortunately, this critical time in a child’s life is not helped by the institutional bias of public schools against adult family members sitting in the classroom. (I even offered to bring my own chair.) From that vantage point I could have guided my granddaughter’s tentative first steps in establishing enduring social relationships. (“Don’t sit next to that girl. Powerpuff Girls lunch boxes are SO last century.”) But this was not allowed.

As a consolation, I was told, I’d be welcome at something called “Family Day,” a dubious-sounding event of unspecified significance scheduled for the distant future. I had assumed that, given the frequency of parent-teacher conferences, there would also be grandparent-teacher conferences on the school calendar. But no.

I admit I’ve been labeled a Helicopter Grandparent. But I scoff, and point out that helicopters occasionally leave the ground. Me, I never get that far away. I’m more like a Wetsuit Grandfather or, if you prefer, a Remora Grandfather, named after a creature that attaches itself to the sides of large fish, feasting off parasites. This can be of benefit to the host, particularly during recess when the remora could make sure the granddaughter gets a turn on the swings. (When you’ve got a remora attached to you, people tend to get out of the way.)

Obviously, I care a great deal about this child and have contributed much to her future, including money for her college. This money, however, will not be deposited in a Wells Fargo bank.

RETURNING TO THE email from Wells Fargo’s president, Tim Sloan, I noticed it also included a video, which I opened immediately because you never know when there’ll be a cute puppy. Videos are particularly useful for executives when conveying contrition, because they display facial expressions so critical when atoning for egregious misconduct, not to mention support of the Dakota Pipeline and private prisons. (And he got through the whole thing without winking.)

On the screen was a handsome, middle-aged man with piercing eyes and a full head of graying hair. (Why do bankers get to have hair and not art directors of religious magazines?! Talking to You, Yahweh.)

Sloan’s message seemed heartfelt, or as heartfelt as one can be after the dozen run-throughs his consultants probably insisted on before the final edit. Fortunately, his weariness from the exercise was eased by an annual compensation package of more than $13 million. (Hey, I get it. When you’re rich, you’ve got expenses.)

Despite the apology, the revelations of criminal conduct should have prompted me to withdraw my funds in protest and deposit them in a small community bank. (Did I say “funds”? If that implies multiples of dollars, then I should have said “fund.”) But in my defense, many years ago it was a small, community bank, before it was absorbed by increasingly larger banks over time. My account number hasn’t changed, only the names of successive banks whose growing size correlated with their accelerating—and unpunished— breaches of the public trust.

But Wells Fargo has a stagecoach on its logo. I like stagecoaches.

SO I ASSUAGE my guilt by savoring a meeting I had recently with a Wells Fargo investment adviser. After receiving a statement on the interest earned from my savings account, I made an appointment to determine the best way to invest this windfall: stocks, bonds, or perhaps a balanced portfolio of various financial products. I was welcomed into his office, offered coffee, and then complimented on my fiscal prudence. “Just how much money are we talking about?” he inquired, smiling, and offering me a complimentary Wells Fargo pen.

I smiled back and handed him the printout showing that, in the last quarter, I had earned .07 cents in interest. Then I giggled. Because this was funny, right?

Not really, he replied, abruptly ending our meeting.

But I kept that new pen. It has a stagecoach on it.