Unfinished
- Wade
Late, yes. Today's schedule has been thrown off a bit because of a volunteering gig I did this morning at Anwatin, a middle school in north Minneapolis. A co-worker and I taught (I suppose that's the best verb) a couple of lessons about domestic and global trade, and the ins and outs of imports and exports. The curriculum was canned, provided by Junior Achievement. All in all it went pretty well, I'd say. The subject matter was pretty dry and 6th graders seem to have a short attention span to begin with, but they at least gave the impression that they were interested in what I was saying. Of course, I'm frequently delusional.
Time is short today so I'll post this unfinished gambit I wrote a while back. I've been nervous to publish this in that I feel it makes me seem defensive, and a little hostile towards people who didn't grow up the same way I did. Please understand that that's not the case; it's more of a lament about how I feel in the work environment, and how I'm not sure why I'm so often uncomfortable here. The guess I take below that it's because my experiences were different growing up than peers whose parents had different types of jobs than mine did. So there's no anger or judgment in the below... promise.
Listen: I come from a blue-collar family. I don't say that in hopes of gaining or losing any respect from anyone. It's just a fact. All of my friends grew up like me; I'm guessing that has something to do with why we became friends in the first place. One of our normal entertainment choices in high school was "cruising," driving the streets of Austin while placing particular emphasis on the one-way streets of Oakland and First Avenues, where the lights of my hometown shined the brightest. Frequently we'd spot a gathering of our peers whose parents worked at Hormel's corporate office-- white-collar as Austin gets-- and make derisive comments about them, the cars their parents bought them, the clothes they wore that were obviously not purchased at the local K-Mart or JC Penney. I believe it was wadE who coined the term "yuppie larvae"-- it seemed to stick. Oh, it wasn't class warfare or anything like that. For the most part, we all played nice in the metaphorical sandbox. But in the back of the minds of both groups, there was a slight sneer. A distinct feeling of: you're not like us.
All of us who rode in that car during those endless nights in high school now have college degrees. Well-paying jobs. White-collar jobs. In other words, we're on our way to becoming what we once mocked, didn't trust, didn't understand. To give an example of how I've changed... while home recently, my parents told me about a new technology that the utility company was introducing: it allowed them to read meters remotely versus the current process of having someone come to each house to take readings manually. My natural instinct was to think about how the utility company implement said technology to save money. My parents' reaction: two or three jobs are going to be eliminated. I barely noticed it at the time, but have thought about that difference of opinion quite a bit since then. Have I changed that much?
It sounds strange, but his is all new to me, you know? I'm still adjusting to this skin that I'm in. I put pressure on myself to climb the corporate ladder, but in a lot of ways, I'm just happy to be here. I mean, in the general sense, no one *likes* to work but... I know the environment my Dad works in, so complaints about being in a cube farm ring hollow. I'm extremely grateful for everything that I have, but what does it mean that I see more of myself in the man who's changing the flourescent lightbulbs than the man sitting in the corner office?
Listen: I know life comes with no instruction manual, and that sitting in a comfortable chair while despairing over making more than enough money is pretty stupid, really. Both my Dad and my Mom busted their asses to help me get where I'm at, and I'm not going to stop accepting my paycheck just because I'm not sure what I see myself doing in five years. Or because I'm afraid of what to say when Sophie turns sixteen and asks for a car, and "we can't afford it" likely won't be available as an excuse.
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