mrs-roboto's Diaryland Diary

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In Between the Blue and the White

When I last wrote, I was about to talk all about how I saw this great film at the Seattle International Film Festival and how it made me all nostalgic for a time that really didn't even exist for me. The film captured Seattle's working class roots and examined how the fishing industry has recently been pushed out through gentrification of the various ports in the area. It explored the changing economic landscape of the place I call home.

I moved to Seattle in 1997/98. It was already a Dot town but I was not a part of that movement in any way. Well, that's not entirely true. I worked service jobs which were supported by Dot money.

I come from white collar parents who were derived from my blue collar grandparents. In fact, if you look at this link and page down to the bottom, you'll see a picture of my mom holding a picket sign. The man behind her is my grandfather.

I grew up with two very diverse views of the workforce. While my parents donned business suits every day, took the subway to City (aka Manhattan), and sipped martinis at the noon hour, my grandfather carried a tool kit to a factory. My grandmother packed his lunch in a paper sack; a couple of tuna sandwiches and an apple.

As a small child, I remember asking my mom and dad to explain to me what they did all day at work. My mom said she was "in finance." I looked at her quizzically. "I work with money," she clarified. I knew what money was, I even had a full jar of pennies I liked to count. I pictured my mom sitting at a big table calling out each cent as she moved it from one pile to another. "Twenty three, twenty four, twenty five ...... that's a quarter!" My father told me he was the "Vice President of XXX Company." I couldn't even imagine what this would entail outside of carrying a leather briefcase. What was in that thing anyway?

I also asked my grandfather what it was he did. He worked with sheet metal. He made flat sheets of metal that were used in every day products like cars or sometimes appliances such as the furnace in the basement or it might be shaped into pipes used for plumbing. "Wow," I was impressed. My grandfathers job seemed very important. It was so tangible. I could see the difference his work made by simply looking around.

In my own home, discussion frequently turned to career mobility. Should my father relocate to the San Francisco office in order to have his fingers on the pulse of operations? Should my mother agree to a three week business trip in Argentina to show her supervisor how gung-ho she is for that promotion? I never heard my grandfather consider any sort of change in his day-to-day employment. There were no late nights at the office, no after-hours entertaining of clients, no smoozing at all. Just sheets of metal. Each day, he left for work at 8:00 AM and returned at 4:30 PM. My grandmother had supper waiting on the table. If you'd asked me who had the better deal, I'd have answered, "Grandpa, of course."

Mom and dad were happy too though. They loved the hustle and bustle of their lives. They commented on how lucky I was to go to private school, to travel, to dine in fine restaurants with them. "You're probably the only three year old I've ever known with a penchant for escargot," my father would say with a smile. He encouraged me to select the most expensive item on the menu. He had come from poverty and had often gone hungry. Cornflakes were served for almost every meal. He was proud to be able to offer me something better.

Occasionally, my parents might ask me what I was planning to be when I grew up. "A ballerina," I'd say. "No honey," my mothered respond. "You're far too short." "Oh, well maybe a machinist then. Get in the union or something. Grandma can make me supper when I get home each night." My parents exchanged glances that said "over my dead body" but they didn't come right out and tell me how they felt. It wasn't that they were opposed to manual labor but they definitely understood that it wasn't an easy path. I think they might have also wondered what rewards this type of job could offer. I mean, my grandfather had few choices. He had only a high school diploma and was one of ten children. His family had counted on him to contribute to their upkeep. He took the first job that was offered to him. A job that would support his brother and sisters and later his own wife and three children. "You'll go to college and then decide," my father declared.

As you know, I didn't become a machinist. I also didn't become a high powered attorney or an accountant or a power broker. I fell somewhere in the middle. I have a desk job. It's more along the lines of social service. I have my occasional late nights but most of the time I work a normal forty hour (or less) week. I carry neither a lunch pail nor a suitcase. I don't wear overalls but I also don't wear a suit. Some days as I am typing out a story on a new affordable housing project, I'll look down at my hands. I'll turn them over, back and forth and imagine the kind of work they are capable of. They could sow seeds, they could carve stone, or they could assemble widgets on an assembly line. They could do something 'real,' create a good or product. Or they could do what they are doing right now. They can allow me to transfer my thoughts to words on a screen which I'll reread with a smile, appreciating the way different influences have impacted the person I am.

10:32 a.m. - 2005-06-07

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