Dawn’s Early

Early to bed, early to rise, and people’ll think you’re weird. At least in my experience. Making an island into the place where hundreds of thousands have to commute to get to work may not’ve involved a great deal of foresight. My bus leaves early, and I don’t argue. On the days when I work from home I still rise early—I’m old enough that constantly shifting schedules is more effort than it’s worth, so I like to greet the sun with coffee in hand and say to it, “what took you so long?” This time of year I like to jog at first light when I don’t have to commute. As I do so, I notice where the lights are on. You get an idea who sleeps in and who doesn’t.

With all the political nonsense about lazy immigrants, I wonder what time congressional leaders get out of bed. I sometimes go jogging before 5 a.m. The lights I see on at that time of day are often those of the apartment complexes where immigrants tend to live. The affluent houses of the white are generally dark. If you have the luxury of driving to work in one of your cars, you can afford a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest. Immigrants often take the bus. In fact, the majority of early morning commuters, it seems, are not the privileged classes. It may have been Benjamin Franklin who said “Early to work, early to rise,” but it was the foreigners who saw the wisdom of his words.

It’s a sad nation that denigrates its hard workers. I realize I’m looking in the mirror as I write this, but sitting at a desk all day is not hard work. My first job, starting at 14, was physical labor. Most of the time it was light enough—such things as painting curbs, bus shelters, or fences. At other times it involved sledge hammers under the hot sun. The kinds of jobs few people enjoy, but which are necessary. Jobs that don’t pay well, but will keep you alive. Now I sit behind a desk and have to jog just to stay healthy. I see the monied in Midtown walking slowly to their expensive health clubs where they can sweat and let other people see. And I know that there are many out there—immigrants mostly—who are sweating from doing the jobs that likely pay less than the membership fee for this swank gym. And I wonder which is healthy and wise. The wealthy part is fairly obvious, even this early in the morning.

Always with You

DeerHuntingIf you read only one book this year, let it be this one. I picked up Joe Bageant’s Deer Hunting with Jesus at a used book sale because of the title alone. The blurbs on the back suggested it would be hilarious, and even the subtitle, Dispatches from America’s Class War, didn’t sink in until I began reading. Written during the dark ages of the Bush administration, the contents are a bit dated, yet timeless. Although there’s humor here, I, like Bageant, was born and raised in a working class environment. My father was a house painter (before it became chic) and my stepfather was a blue-collar Joe who did the kinds of jobs nobody else wanted to do. Life was coarse and rough at times, but the people I knew were fiercely patriotic and staunchly Republican. Most adults I knew had never read a book since they’d managed to escape from high school. Deer hunting was nearly as religious as church, and anything you heard in either venue was to be taken absolutely literally. And yet government programs to help them get along were merely shams that politicians knew they couldn’t see.

Like Bageant, I feel at home among the working class. I am one of them. My job may be in Manhattan, but the sensibilities that got me this far are from the backwoods of Pennsylvania. Those who know me outside the office still occasionally call me a redneck. Perhaps it’s an affectation, but it is an affectation born of deep appreciation of the honesty of the worker. They’re no saints, the working class. They will get away with what they can (what bobble-head wagging above a white collar can honestly claim that it doesn’t as well?), they will laugh at the crudest jokes, and they will be mean and turn on each other if provoked. They are, however, good people caught in a system that won’t let them improve. The only possibility is education, the one service governments slash at every opportunity. The system, as Bageant shows, was built just to do that. Like Moses, throughout the book, he calls them “my people.” I know exactly what he means.

When I visit my hometown, it’s like a Bruce Springsteen song. Windows are boarded up and the streets seem even meaner than they were when I was a kid. These are people in ill health with a government that would rather not spend the money on them—we’re used to it, and Uncle Sam knows that—so it assures that the only businesses that thrive are fast food and liquor stores. You can also find a television and rifles, but not much else. The liberals, as Bageant states, don’t know how to relate to the common man. In my own experience, the redneck who earns a doctorate won’t have a chance of getting a job. The university liberals have their own agendas, too busy trying to save the planet to worry about the real people who make their lifestyle possible. I picked up Deer Hunting with Jesus as a joke, but found it the most important book that I’ve read in many years. Please read it and try to understand.