The Working Class: Capitalism
Visiting my parents in Marco Island, I took my dog for a walk. As she galloped down the street, joyful, I could almost hear her singing “I’m Free” a la The Who; due to her allergies, I rarely let her outside, and every time she gets to go out off her leash, I am reminded: I frequently forget what freedom looks like.
Far be it from anyone to think that because I have a small dog, and my parents have a house on Marco Island, that we are affluent. Small dog and vacation Monday on Marco Island, these are facts that could draw this conclusion, but it would be hasty. My parents and I are very much part of the proletariat, a fact my friend Shane reminded me of the other day.
I recently changed careers from education to cinematic production after making a short film that did well in festivals. It even won an award. Currently, I’m spending my time editing my second film and I am grateful to be able to use my parents’ small house on Marco Island to work on it when I can between paid gigs, so that when I can take a break I’m able to go down to the beach. Because, I’m a poor independent filmmaker and don’t have money for much else when it comes time for a well-needed respite after sitting in front of the computer for hours other than the “sun in the morning and the moon in the evening” (thank you, Annie).
My father has a part time seasonal job on Marco Island that necessitates him having a residence both here and on the east coast of South Florida where he resides off-season, and during the week in season. Weekly, he makes the two hour drive from one side of Florida to the other, works a few days, and returns home. It’s a great chance to listen to music, catch up on current comedian recordings, but it definitely establishes that my father – in his somewhat retirement – is not the normal Marco Island citizen: he is not ridiculously affluent and living in a mansion off the water. He’s not poor, either, though. He’s a working dignitaries in a small, sleepy community.
Sometimes, when I attend events with him I find myself cringing, now that I am not a teacher. When I was a classroom educator and was introduced to people, the conversation went as follows:
Them: What do you do?
Me: I’m a high school English teacher.
Them: You’re so brave.
Me: Ha.
They then either spoke about their fond or distressing memories from high school English, or their own work. Now, when I meet new people, the conversation is different:
Them: What do you do?
Me: I’m am emerging filmmaker.
Them: Have I seen anything you’ve made?
Me: Probably not.
(Pause with awkward silence)
Me: My first film won in award in New York, and I’m working on a second film now.
There seems to be judgment in the awkward silence that follows, since I’m not doing what normal adults do or can relate to, and I have taken to venting to my artist friends, the people I went to school with who may have taught but have been actively pursuing their art and craft since graduation. Shane is one of them.
Shane observes these dialogues establish both parties as being part of the proletariat. He points out that very affluent people, no one questions what they do, as it’s obvious they have made enough money that it would be almost rude to ask how it was obtained. A person who looks poor is not asked what he does, for fear of insulting or being perceived as looking down on them. I consider this. I am a bit humbled: I appreciate the lack of assumption. Although, I do wish people would ask questions that better allow me to reflect who I am as a person. Children when they meet ask each other if they like to color, or play with blocks. I wish someone would ask upon meeting, “what’s your favorite movie? “, or “if you had the opportunity would you teleport? “
The house whose driveway sports this rhetorical message is not large, it is not a mansion. Are the tenants trying to state they are proud to be part of the working class? They are proud to be neither poor nor rich? My tradition teaches work is holy, Sabbath a gift. Is this message a prayer of thanks without pious language that would be desecrated if driven over? Or an ironic criticism and f--- you to the wealthy neighbors across the way? I think now of the houses made of tin pieces leaning against each other in Bangkok, cool in the shadows towering over them across the street. That contrast was startling. Here, well - it’s just smaller nice houses compared to larger nice houses. Do these folks feel the are the same as the Thai, even though they have windows that keep out the mosquitoes?
Officially, I don’t mind work when I am employed for an entity I respect, and I support people who are kind in their professionalism. However, I don’t think I would graffiti my driveway with enthusiasm over it to say so. What made these people mark up their driveway? Perhaps I will bake some neighborly muffins, go over, ask them if they like to color on paper, too, and see if I can figure it out without asking what they do for their bread.
