Labor Day

September 2, 2019

Greetings from where we labor,

He was pushing a dozen shopping carts in front of him, a task made harder by the snow that collected around the wheels.  Same guy I’d seen in three other seasons.  I waited for him to catch up to me and park the train of carts in front of the store, wanting to ask him a question.  He wore an orange vest over his parka, and a knit cap pulled down so low it covered the top of his glasses.  I’d said hello to him a few times before it registered and when he looked at me, I saw this: a boy trapped in a young man’s body, struggling to keep the pieces together long enough to get these carts where they belong.  Somebody’s son, somebody’s little brother.  Working.

I forgot what I meant to ask, and just said “Thank you.”

Last summer I ran past a county road maintenance truck, bright orange with coordinating dark rust spots.  There was a guy in coveralls shoveling up roadkill, putting most of it in a bin in the bed of the truck, the rest flung into the tall grass in the ditch.  I could smell the decay and was lucky enough to run from it.  He was not.  I looked back and watched him lean on the truck.  Somebody’s Dad, somebody’s golf buddy.  Working.

I ran along the streets of New Orleans and I saw a dishwasher and a waiter at Café du Monde sitting outside the back of the restaurant, smoking. They were exhausted, I could feel the ache from them, see the fatigue in their faces.  Behind them the noise and steam of the kitchen rumbled, already demanding they get back to serving.  They are somebody’s neighbor, somebody’s friend.  Working.

Cab drivers in any city you name.  Barely able to navigate the language, first job off the boat from wherever they fled.  Maybe they can’t make small talk, maybe they don’t smell the same as you, maybe their last name has too many syllables.  But they are somebody’s boyfriend, somebody’s cousin.  Working.

I was in a grocery store and I walked around a brightly colored cardboard display and saw a small, somewhat confused looking woman pouring shot glasses of liquor, offering free samples to shoppers.  Instantly I tried to imagine the interview that took place where the people making hiring decisions chose this four-foot-seven septuagenarian to sell tequila.  Which she kept calling ‘whiskey’.  Maybe it was her first day, maybe she just didn’t get the concept. She might be at home canning beets or putting together jigsaw puzzle but instead she was hawking tequila at the end of the frozen-foods aisle.  Somebody’s grandmother.  Working.

This nurse on the twelve-hour shift, taking care of your Mom.  This hotel clerk who is smiling and trying to find the right ‘Smith’ in the computer.  This guy in the parking lot at the funeral home. There is someone feeding the peacocks.  Raking the sand.  Inspecting the oak barrels. Emptying the portajohn. Teaching your children. Serving your breakfast.  They are somebody’s sister, somebody’s pen pal, somebody’s babysitter.  They matter to somebody.  We need to remember that when we decide how we are going to treat them.  We need to remember when we dole out whatever measure of respect we have to give. 

Before you get the wrong impression, I have been known to lose my patience with people who are failing to do the work given to them, perhaps at my inconvenience.  I am a demanding consumer, and I’ve had some practice.  But I am also learning that despite my typical reaction, that isn’t who I want to be.  I am a far better person, somewhere deep inside this spoiled exterior.

I will admit some impatience with the TSA process in airports.  Planes strain to leave for their destination, barely considering that I am the reason for their existence, and between me and successfully completing our destiny, is the comedy of airport security.

I was in my socks, pants sagging beltless, pockets empty, simmering with indignation.  Self-righteous phrases flit through my mind, connecting my importance and the money paid for the ticket with the value of the service I am seeing and what I would do differently if I was running things.  Not a proud moment, and unfortunately, not uncommon.

And here was a TSA agent dancing next to the X-ray machine.  A young woman, just making her way from one station to the next, broke into a Robot Dance.  We locked eyes halfway through it and she said: “Oh sorry, you’re not supposed to see that.” Laughing.  And then I danced with her the rest of the way.  Somebody’s daughter.  Somebody’s dance partner.  Working.

Thankfully something cracked in my Self Important Consumer role, the one that has all the answers and all the judgment and all the muttering about the world today.  And I saw another human being, somebody’s niece, just doing her job, working. 

It’s Labor Day, but I’m asking you to set aside a little baggage.  Forget unions, politics, pay equity, social issues around workplace.  I wonder if today, maybe just this week even, we could acknowledge the labor of others without any agenda except one: respect.

These people you meet at the deli counter and the car wash are somebody’s everything.  They are somebody’s dream, somebody’s helper, somebody’s best part of the day.  They are working, not just to serve you, but as part of a life that exists beyond your momentary exchange.  Somehow they trade what they can do for what they can be paid in the hopes that it will matter enough.  Not every job is satisfying or inspirational.  Not every career that exists is populated with people for whom the work is a good match.  Not everyone loves what they do, or is good at it, and, oh by the way, sometimes that’s true for us.  We can see ourselves, our loved ones, in the people working.  We can give them what we would hope others would give our son.  We can show respect, kindness, empathy.  We can at the very minimum treat the barista who got your name wrong like our niece,

 instead of a terrorist.

It’s Labor Day.  Find one place where you can thank someone for the work they do, give them what the paycheck and the dirty dishes and the rotting carcasses and the short tempered travelers may not.  The satisfaction and pride in being acknowledged for the piece of life they traded to do the work.

Hope this finds you dancing along,

David

Copyright © 2019 David Smith