Workin’ for the Hombre

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I was sitting in the teachers’ room yesterday, pouting because I didn’t want to be at work when the sun had finally come out, when the school receptionist, Raul, walked in.  He flopped on the couch and asked me:  “Who invented work?”  He smiled as he said it, but he looked weary.

I went to UC Santa Cruz, I know from Marx, but I was in too crappy of a mood to begin a conversation about the commodification of labor.  Instead, I said, with my trademark sparkling wit, “I dunno.  Someone bad.”

But I keep thinking about it.  The truth is, at age 27, this is the first “real” job I’ve ever had—“real” meaning I’m not employed by a friend or family member or a friendly hippie boss who will cover my shift herself if I even mention the word “burnout.”  It is also the lowest-paying job I’ve ever had—I made more money serving pizzas when I was 15.  (I know, I know, I didn’t move to Mexico because I expected to strike it rich.  I’m just sayin.)    

And it’s not that I don’t like the work, per se.  Many of my students are a joy to teach, and some of them make me laugh so hard I can’t teach.  I think half the problem is the knowledge that this is a company, and students’ learning only matters up to the point that it results in re-registration and good word of mouth and thus, more profits.  And the other half is the knowledge that I don’t matter: ‘If you don’t want to be in the goddamned mall from 7 am to 9 pm, well, we’ll take that into account, but if we need you, sorry, suck it up.  You’ve been married for less than two months and you’d like to occasionally see you husband while you’re both awake?  That’s sweet, but this is work.’

My boss, I know, has it worse: his family lives in another state, but when the company sent him to Pachuca, he had to come.  He sees them every other weekend.  This is not an unusual arrangement in Mexico: I know multiple families who are only together on the weekends.  One of my students told me yesterday that he works from Monday to Friday, goes to school all weekend, and occasionally sees his girlfriend for a little while at 10 or 11 at night.  I was sad for him, but he just shrugged.

            “How do you say ‘ni modo’ in English?” he asked me.  I groped for a translation.    

           “Whatreyagonnado,” I told him finally.    

            “Um…how do you spell?” 

And of course, even he has it good, compared to those who work in the U.S. for years at a time without seeing their families.  I sat in the Migration office yesterday and was mesmerized by the posters warning, “Your family needs you alive—don’t risk your life” under photos of deep, contaminated rivers and people trudging through the desert.  Heading to the promise of work. 

I’m not lazy.  I just want my life to belong to me, not to some company, or even to some mellow and accommodating hippie boss.  I want that for my someday-family: I tell Gil, ‘You are NOT going to go live in another state, ever, period.  I want something better for us.’  I want that for everyone.  I’m starting to see the way out, at least for myself and my family.  But I look around me, at my students who wake up early to study English, work all day at accounting firms and factories, go home to watch TV, and then start over, with attitudes fifty thousand times better than mine.  They feel fortunate that they have good jobs, and can support their families. 

I look at them with a mix of sadness and admiration, and I think, “Well…whatreyagonnado.”

Seriously.  What’re ya gonna do?