[T]here is no job beneath the dignity of someone who wants to work. --
Tacklelady
I have zero tolerance for people who think work is beneath them. --
Odysseus
I agree that there is no work that is beneath the dignity of someone who wants to have a job. I disagree with the idea that any employment is suitable. Let me tell you about the worst job I ever had.
Fair warning, I am a bit of a rambler... (quick but important update: I appreciate the comments of both tacklelady and Odysseus as they got my mind going on the question, and this diary is in no way a call-out or attempt to stir up anything against them. :) )
In the summer, at the beginning of the last decade of the previous millenium, I bailed out of my life. My first marriage, a short and tawdry affair, had totally imploded (in part due to a short and tawdry affair), I was lost, confused, broke, and badly needed to reevaluate my life. The day before I left, I had met an astounding woman who scared the bejeepers out of me. (Nearly 20 years later, she kissed me as she went out the door on her way to work this morning.)
But that's not what this diary is about. It's about employment and dignity.
While I was on my wanderjahr, I ended up in rural Central Arkansas, and, once there, went looking for some way to support myself. I had a place to sleep so I just needed a minimum of cash for food and smokes. I was around 20, in good health, with strong legs, weak arms, and I had not yet damaged my back, so when my uncle turned me on to a job haying I took it.
That day was, hands down, the worst employment of my life. I have worked in fast food restaurants, in human services, in factories, in offices, as a security guard, as a finish carpenter, as a tilesetter, building and grounds maintenance, lumber truck driver, you name it. Some of these are jobs I worked before that day, some after. I find as I age I need to have a job that doesn't involve a lot of heavy lifting. That's not dignity, that's physical ability and a different kettle of fish.
The day started early. The boss, I'll call him Brad, pulled up in a large truck with half a dozen teens in the back. I was the oldest on the crew by at least four years. Once we got to the farm, I was handed a pair of battered leather gloves and told what to do -- follow the truck and throw bales of hay up onto the flatbed where they could be stacked, driven to the barn, and stored for winter.
The fresh hay smelled wonderful, as only hay can. The breeze, already warm, felt good on my face and arms. I could hear machinery and horses. It was a freaking pastoral idyll, baby. Did I mention the breeze was warm?
It got hot. Really hot. I was not used to the humidity, coming from the Central Valley. I sweat a lot, especially when it's humid. Can't help it, it's my body trying to keep cool.
About an hour and a half into this, Brad brought out a water cooler and gave each of us a cup of water. Actually closer to half a cup. It is not hyperbole to say if I had taken off my shirt and wrung it out I would have gotten more water out of it than he offered. I said, hey, man, I need more water than that. He looked at me like I was stupid.
Nope. It's ice water, you'll get water cramps.
Same thing at lunch. No, you're not getting more water, I don't need you throwing up.
Last break I was slowing down and getting woozy. It was not the first time in my life I ever had heat exaustion. I was barely sweating by this point.
When he dropped me off at the place I was staying I painfully peeled off my gloves and drank deep from the well in front of the house. Water had never tasted so good. I must have drank half a gallon of sweet, icy water before coming up for air. No cramps. My hands were red and swollen and the insides of my knuckles were cut by the strings of the bales. When he came back to pick me up the next morning I handed him my gloves and said, "No thanks." The cuts in my hands were leaking pus. It took a few days before I could use my hands again.
This man nearly killed me because he assumed I was too ignorant to know what my body needed.
This man risked my life for his profit.
The hay certainly needed to be moved into the barn before the rains came. It was work that needed to be done. But there was no reason to treat me like an idiot and not provide sufficient water on a hot summer's day.
As far as jobs being beneath me? Am I too good to work? No. Are there conditions of employment I won't accept? You betcha. (And no, that's not a Palin reference, she stole it from Minnesota.)
Will I allow an employer to assume I am stupid? No. Listen, if you think I am going to show up at work drunk or stoned or hung over based on my interview, don't hire me, or fire me when and if I do.
Will I allow an employer to assume I am a thief? No. My credit rating has nothing to do with how I will handle your money. I once lost a promotion because of a credit check. If I was going to steal the night deposit, don't you think I already would have? It's not like as Assistant Manager of a convenience store I would ever have had access to enough money to flee to a non-extraditing country, change my name, and drink pina coladas on the beach.
Will I allow an employer to pay me significantly less than what I am worth simply because that's all I can get? No. All that does is drive wages down for everyone! It's an employer's market right now. Anyone taking a job that should pay, let's pluck a number out of my rump, $12.63/hr and letting the employer give them, another butt figure, $8.75/hr, is not only hurting themselves, they are hurting all of us and throwing away the sacrifices made in the last Depression.
I'm not too proud to work.
But I am too proud to work 2X as hard for 1/2 the pay, unless...
Unless there's something else there. The satisfaction of doing something difficult. The warmth of doing something that makes the world a better place. The ability to call the shots and make the choices.
There is no necessary work that is below human dignity. There are plenty of jobs out there where management, through carelessness, callousness, or calculated planning, tries to break their worker's spirits.
Don't tell me about having to bring your own water, Wall Street. Been there, done that.