I remember my dad telling me once that there is no shame in an honest day's work for an honest day's pay, only pride. At the time I was working as a laborer at a large plant nursery for 8 hours a day in the blazing heat of summer with a father and son from Mexico, Esteban (father) and Jose (son). We watered plants, cut them back, made small repairs around the greenhouses, moved plants from one place to another, transplanted established plants to bigger pots, and every once in a while propagated plants, taking cuttings from healthy plants that would then grow into new baby plants. It was exhausting, hard labor. I'd drink 2 gallons of water a day and come home at 5pm only to take a shower, eat a sandwich and collapse into bed, exhausted. I did this 5 days a week for 8 hours a day in the summer. Jose and Esteban did it 6 days a week for years on end.
One evening I talked to my dad about how hard they worked, how they could work circles around me. Some days, the only way I made it through the day with its sweat and dirt and sun, always the sun, was to remind myself that I was going to college, that one day this wouldn't have to be my life if I didn't choose it. But for Jose and Esteban, this was as good as it could get. No retirement, no health insurance, just back breaking labor until they couldn't work any longer. And yet, they came to work every day happy to be there, working hard everyday and clearly taking a lot of pride in what they did. Pride in one's work, no matter what it is, was an important lesson that I am grateful to have learned early on.
Last Friday I encountered two delightful souls on the morning ferry ride. One was an older gentleman who clearly had spent most of his life in the sun. He stood beside me on the rail, taking pictures of the city with a small digital camera. I don't think he noticed himself doing it, but when he took a picture of something he (apparently) liked, he gave a little grunt of happiness. What I loved most about this man was his outfit. He wore a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of cut-off jeans. The jeans were wrangler-type work jeans, and they still bore the evidence from years of starch and ironing in a crease in the front. Perfectly starched and creased cut-off shorts. I imagined this man a recent retiree enjoying his freedom after decades of hard work. I pictured him heading home after his last day on the job, walking into the kitchen to get a cold beer, then rummaging through the junk drawer to find a pair of scissors. With the blades in hand he walks to his closet and systematically removes all of the legs from his pants and the sleeves from his shirts. FREEDOM!
The other man was on his way to work. We remarked politely about the beautiful weather. (Here is where I have to tell you that I don't actually use people's real named on this blog, for obvious reasons. This man gave me what I am sure is a nickname, but it is so apt to him that clearly I can't use it, either. So I regret to inform you that I will have to use a different animal than the one he told me).
This man had a thick thatch of chest hair, a somewhat long head of hair (and chops) and eyes that were very alive. He looked just like a panther, I thought. Then he stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Panther. It was my turn to grunt in happiness! Panther asked me what I did for a living, I told him and then reciprocated. He told me, shamefacedly, that he worked in construction, that he was in "limbo". My heart twisted for him because he was so clearly embarrassed that he didn't say, I don't know, "doctor" or "lawyer". Immediately I felt myself wanting to tell him that there is no shame in making a living, only pride. But I stayed silent and we both went on to make our way in the world on a warm spring morning.
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