I was such a young fogy that growing up for me has involved becoming less mature.
I think this is funny. Somewhere in my mid-twenties I outgrew existentialism and discovered fun. I just hope this doesn't make me seem like a rube in D.C. because quite frankly the thing I'm most worried about about moving to D.C. is whether I'll fit in or not.
But then I have to remind myself that life is about an emotional connection to people and things and it doesn't matter where you are on the globe.
I've come to appreciate, to depend on, two dumb little passions--my painting and this blog, which both don't have any point at all. And that for me, is the point. My life is, and will continually be, full of points--deadlines, bills, recycling, emails and phone calls. Every time I finish a painting and put my initials in the lower, right-hand corner or hit the publish button, I find a little bit of happiness.
I'm not going to give my opinion on Barack Obama, but I am going to share Sarah Vowell's opinion on the qualities a president should possess. I totally agree with her.
"I wish that in order to secure his party's nomination, a presidential candidate would be required to point at the sky and name all the stars; have the periodic table of the elements memorized; rattle off the kings and queens of Spain; define the significance of the Gatling gun; joke around in Latin; interpret the symbolism in seventeenth-century Dutch painting; explain photosynthesis to a six-year-old; recite Emily Dickinson; bake a perfect popover; build a shortwave radio out of a coconut; and know all the words to Hoagy Carmichael's 'Two Sleepy People,' Johnny Cash's 'Five Feet High and Rising,' and 'You Got the Silver' by the Rolling Stones. After all, the United States is the greatest country on the earth dealing with the most complicated problems of the world--poverty, pollution, justice, Jerusalem. What we need is a president who is at least twelve kinds of nerd, a nerd messiah to come along every four years, acquire the Secret Service code name Poindexter, install a Revenge of the Nerds screen saver on the Oval Office Computer, and one by one decrypt our woes."
Ok, so maybe Thomas Paine wasn't talking about working at an assembly plant when he said, "These are the times that try men's souls.", but I've recently become aware of the truth of these words. My soul was truly compromised.
A little piece of me died as I filed burrs, drilled holes, and visually inspected those Ford chassis in 30 degree weather. My whole lifestyle changed--I became a true woman of the night. I'm not saying that I was better than the plant (ok, maybe a little), but what really killed me was the amount of corruption and waste that was entailed in my job. I felt like a real Soviet.
Here's the basis of the job: I was hired by a contract company for Magna (the biggest automotive supplier). This company was to represent Magna in quality control. Apparently the frames that I was checking had metal burrs on the end of the bumper brackets that were cutting the union workers hands. There were also holes that weren't drilled at the proper angle, so the intended bolts for these holes did not lay flesh with the chassis. Fair enough. Sike!
What I slowly realized was that the union worker who supposedly cut himself on one of these burrs was actually looking for some whiskey so he falsely claimed that he injured himself. In fact, he never once had to touch the chassis because he has a machine to assist in the lifting and attachment of this part. Basically, I was wasting my time for some good ole' corruption. How this works is like this: he claims to have hurt himself and report the problem to quality at Ford, who then calls Magna to tell them this mistake is going to cost them, so Magna hires me to check the frames so they don't loose money in any more accidents. However, the guy won't go to quality if he gets some whiskey. Same tune, different verse for all the other issues.
My last week I was in charge of inspecting for extra slag on the welding because some woman snagged her $100 Detroit Tiger's jersey. Dude...you fucking make cars! Don't wear that kind of shit to a factory job, I'm sorry. So yeah, I made good money, but it was all such a waste of resources, time, and money. So much bureaucracy and abuse of power by the UAW it made me sick.
On top of all this, my boss's car got keyed by union workers for driving a foreign car. My car was fortunately (or unfortunately) got bypassed. It did get towed, which was a whole other debacle. Then my boss stopped showing up, instead opting for the bar/strip club and coming back and ganging up on me with other "men". I've never been so demeaned in my whole life. Not cool. I could go on and on. I won't.
I just had to keep reminding myself that it was a means to an end and an opportunity to learn about a very Detroit culture.
I find it ironic that Paine's words come from a pamphlet entitled "The American Crisis" that was written while the Revolution was floundering, especially considering where we stand as a nation today. His words inspired soldiers and civilians alike to buck up and endure war so that someday "not a place upon earth might be so happy as America." And now we use consumerism as patriotism. Buy American! Built Ford Tough!
