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| The End of Books - page 229 (Photo credit: Wikipedia) |
Ten or fifteen years ago, the company I worked for laid me
off after ten years for essentially not being happy enough.
Spoiler: A little over a year later, the owner would call me
to apologize and beg me to come back to work for him, as it took him nearly a
year of doing my job to realize exactly how much of the work I was actually
doing. This has absolutely nothing to do with this story, but sometimes you
need to flaunt your victories.
In an effort to ease the blow (most likely because even at
that point he realized how fucked up his reasons were for firing me), my newly
former employer put in a good word for me at the company of one of his business
owner friends. Apparently, this is what small business owners do, They make
friends with other small business owners, and occasionally meet for breakfast
so they can bitch about labor laws and share cigar bar locations with one
another. Anyway, the business he introduced me to was a company that tested
underground fuel tanks and fuel lines, and they hired me based solely on my
newly former employer’s recommendation. I’m not exactly sure how you recommend
an employee you just fired to somebody else for employment, but I digress.
The job lasted a month, the traditional probationary period,
at the end of which they called me on location and informed me that they would
not be keeping me on as an employee because I did not have “a passion” for
testing gas station pumps for leaks. I wholeheartedly agreed, and that was the
last time I ever worked with gasoline or set foot in the Bronx. But I digress.
This fuel line and tank testing company was based out of
Pennsylvania, but provided its services to a number of states along the East
Coast, so a typical day would include three or four hours on site, but with an
additional four to six hours travel each way. Driving a truck six hours each
way in itself is a monotonous and soul-withering experience, but this was
compounded by a company policy that restricted passenger employees from
sleeping while en route. The official reason for this rule was that a second
pair of eyes on the road was a safety precaution that would help prevent
accidents, but the more obvious reason was that somebody didn’t like the idea
of paying employees for sleeping. That’s what you call “corporate morality.”
But I digress.
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| The End of Books - page 226b (Photo credit: Wikipedia) |
Because of these lengthy daily commutes, and the
restrictions against napping as a passenger during a fourteen-hour work day, I
got into the habit of bringing along books to read when it was my turn to be
the wide awake passenger. To set the record straight, I didn’t bring along any
reading material that might be misconstrued as an attempt to be an intellectual
show-off. In fact, at the time of this little story, I was reading one of the
Wild Cards anthology paperbacks, a collection of short stories about
superheroes, and way before superheroes were mainstream cash cows.
So, anyway, it was during a lunch break one of these trips,
which I spent sitting in the work truck reading this paperback. There were two
other workers on site with me, and one of them approached me as if they
intended to start a casual conversation. This was one of the company foremen; I
had ridden with him several times already, and had no issues with him other
than his tendency to fully enforce the company’s no-sleep policy, yet
repeatedly bypass it himself by wearing sunglasses and pretending to be “deep
in thought” during return trips. I lowered the book as he approached, and when
he reached the truck he placed a hand casually on the open passenger side door,
motioned to the book with his eyes, and said:
“So… You read.”
This is an exact quote. He didn’t ask if I read a lot. He
didn’t ask what I was reading, or what I usually read. It wasn’t even a
question, but more of the cautious statement of an observation. Not quite
knowing where he was taking the conversation, or what “you read” was actually
supposed to mean, I paused before responding with a nod and a
non-confrontational “Yep.”
And with that, he turned and walked away. There was no
follow-up question or springboard into a conversation about a lateral topic. He
didn’t even respond to my acknowledgement of his statement. He just turned
around and walked back to other on-site worker and joined him staring into the
hole we currently couldn’t do anything about.
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| English: All 24 John Griham novels as of June 30, 2010 (Photo credit: Wikipedia) |
If there’s a point to this story, it’s that I don’t believe
there is an actual push-back against literacy in America, as much as there is a
vast divide those who actively read – whether for pleasure or enlightenment –
and those who not only don’t read, but don’t really understand the nature of
reading. And despite bizarre moments like this, I’ve rarely been the victim of
direct hostility over false perceptions of presumed intellectual superiority.
The employer who fired me, got me the wonderful gas-line job, then later hired
me back (FYI – He laid me off again a few years later when the business almost
went bankrupt) was not “a reader,” and not only did he not give me any grief
about it, he often asked me to proof-read his emails, and was very supportive when
my first book was published. Another former employer wasn’t what you would call
well read – his house was decorated with randomly arranged John Grisham
hardcovers – but one of my jobs was to write instruction manuals for the
software he sold, so that was rarely a source of contention.
The closest I ever came to being harassed or singled out for
being literate was when I worked for this evil motherfucker that openly broke
payroll laws and had no problem with verbally or physically attacking
employees. He was a blatant functional illiterate, only used his computer
watching YouTube videos, and the only (obviously unread) book on display in his
office was Trump’s ghost-written Art of the Deal. It was an overwhelmingly
hostile and demeaning work environment, and during my measly half-hour lunch
breaks I would hide out in the company “lounge” (i.e.: extended kitchen) and do
some journal writing. One lunch break I looked up to find him hovering over me
with this stupid smirk on his face.
“What are you doing?” He asked. I responded that I was
writing, even though the pen being dragged over blank pages sort of implied
that.
Then he asked “You write in that often?” Again, my current
spot in the middle of the thick journal was evidence enough, but I responded with “Yes.”
He just smiled at me again, nodded, then walked away. It
wasn’t until five or ten minutes later that I realized he was, in his own way,
making fun of me for writing in a book, and it only occurred to me at all
because of that idiotic grin of his that he always wore when he thought he was
smarter than the person he was talking to. Essentially, the jackass was
standing there laughing at me for writing. He didn’t even know what I was
writing, mind you. It was the act of writing itself that he found humorous.
As jarring as that moment was at the time, it still manages
to support my previous observation that the challenge towards literacy in this
country is just basic understanding, and not some kind of intellectual class
warfare. The abusive idiot mentioned above (years later he would make the
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| English: Soviet propaganda poster by Elizaveta Kruglikova advocating female literacy. The top section reads: "Woman! Learn to read and write!" The bottom (meant to be said by the daughter): "Oh, mommy! If you were literate, you could help me!" (Photo credit: Wikipedia) |
local
news when he was arrested for giving his effeminate son – who he once referred
to at work as a “walking fallopian tube” – a loaded gun and daring him to use
it) wasn’t threatened by my literacy. He wasn’t motivated by feelings of inadequacy
or a belief that I was somehow attempting to appear superior to him. The truth
is, he was not only convinced that he was smarter than me, but he saw my
tendency towards reading and writing as proof that he was better than me. (The
reality, of course, is that I was definitely smarter and better than him, but
that had nothing to do with literacy, and everything to do with him being an
arrogant, racist, abusive, labor law breaking soulless cocksucker slum-lord
idiot).
So we’re in a weird area when it comes to promoting literacy
in country where a predominant portion of the population is mired in a culture
that embraces the idea that books aren’t just stupid, but practically alien.
I’m not a book snob by any stretch of the imagination. I think that film and television
are just as capable of providing worthwhile entertainment and thought-provoking
learning experiences, and I don’t believe that not knowing how to read or being
well read automatically implies ignorance or stupidity. I tend to look at
reading like most people regard physical exercise or eating healthy; it’s a
good thing to do, and everybody should do it, but not doing it doesn’t make you
a bad person. Of course, we also live in a country where the last First Lady’s
desire for children to eat healthier was seen by many as controversial and
“anti-freedom,” so maybe I should get used to being asked stupid questions
during my lunch breaks.
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