Ahsen Jillani
One of the defining moments of my life was when my mother, during my rare visit home, declared in front of senior family members and friends that I was a “typist” in America. I had been living away from family for long enough at that point that I ignored the comment and just smiled. The reaction from the high-level members of the “career police,” however, was less than comforting.
My eldest uncle took me aside later and offered sage advice about returning to Pakistan and using my dad’s influence to land a decent job. I felt that others in the house that evening just looked at me with the usual distrust and disappointment that would be expected if you weren’t on the Big Three (Doctor/Lawyer/Engineer) track. I hinted to people over after-dinner tea that I was a typesetter and a graphic artist, but that only raised eyebrows in the wrong direction.
My father said nothing about it that night. The next day, I was remote-connected to work sitting on a sofa on one side of his bedroom and he softly said, “These people are idiots. Work with your hands. Create something tangible. That’s the only kind of work.” His comment was especially shocking coming from a man who never even carried his briefcase to his car. He seemed to everyone a born executive who would look down upon people who did the tangible work. But the retired economist in him had made a few discoveries over 50-some years looking at Asia’s struggling economies and the even more disturbing economic disparities.
This past New Year’s Eve I decided to launch an ill-timed attack on the unsuspecting family members who were posting their usual photos of eating exorbitant meals that cost more than their servants would earn in 6 months. For months, I was looking at Facebook posts and getting Skype messages from exotic locales like Rome, Geneva, London, and vacation spots like Fiji and Phuket, Thailand. I had been feeling like these people were attending those managerial business meetings (and reaping the rewards) that differentiate the cream from the rotten crop. My mother was still talking to me from the afterlife. At 55, I should be ordering lesser people to do things. I should have my necktie and suit handled by a servant. I should have my car door opened by a saluting guard at the office. After all, my father had all that at age 30.
At 55, I still live like I did at 25. I’m still a typist (130wpm now); I run big copying machines, folding machines, cutting machines; I box and tape jobs for FedEx, and I haul boxes of printing back and forth between multiple offices. This is hardly managerial behavior, but I like to produce things that are tangible, and I like to look at my printed designs and shake hands with happy clients when I deliver projects to them. My employment philosophy is very simple: I work with people who want to work. If they don’t, they can find another job they enjoy. I remain puzzled about why managers constantly have to chase employees to meet goals. I feel like managers should be fired if they hired disinterested or lax employees.
So on New Year’s Eve, I thought it would be great to plug the value of manufacturing for any successful economy. After all, a thousand managers can’t put together a Walmart desk without someone who is knowledgeable in desk assembly. To me it seemed logical. It’s like Wall Street money, the lottery, stock investments, and internet startups in basements. They have nothing to show but paper, or a promise; they have no skills other than how to make cash from manipulating a manufacturing team somewhere in this world. The reaction from the managers in my family was swift and brutal.
First, there were the excuses. If we didn’t manage, the factories wouldn’t run. Then, it was time for prejudiced speculation and general stereotyping. Punjabis can only delegate and not work. Middle easterners can only eat lamb. Americans are too obese to manufacture anything. French take 4 hour lunches. Mexicans have stolen all the manufacturing jobs. Syrian immigrants just want to live on welfare and molest women. Then, people got even more defensive. “Why should I have to repair my own car?” a cousin exclaimed. “I mean, I can learn, but I have better things to do with my time.”
Better things to do. The service sector in each community has to stay local. No matter how many jobs Fortune 500 companies move back and forth to the cheapest labor sources to maximize profits for shareholders, you can never get a head gasket put on your car by a Chinese sweat shop worker across the world. Your plumber, electrician, yard guy, the waiter, and grocery clerk, they are all part of the local economy. They make or repair local things. True, you can google, “Replacing roof” but it will probably be disastrous when you attempt the work. If you tried it enough, you could get very good at it, but then you would become a “roofer,” something a manager doesn’t want to be known as.
Most of us are motivated by competition, real or imagined, to succeed by example or through a need to prove our worth to family, friends, colleagues, classmates, or even enemies. I now realize that I left home so early that my brother’s law degree, or my cousin’s medical degree had no effect on me. Enough days of being called a typist, and maybe things might be different today. I was influenced by the example of people who run America—small business people. Over the years, I saw my bosses at different printing companies crawling under nasty printing presses to make rush repairs. I saw them loading boxes into their Cadillacs and getting their Brooks Brothers shirts torn or stained. These people were already millionaires, but they grew up climbing from various menial jobs into business ownership. They still got their hands dirty, because there should be no pride when you have to provide for the family; when many employees and their families depend on you as well. Perhaps, Third World economies are improving because the new managers once worked with their hands. Perhaps, working class people will be the new managers, and know the truth about what it takes to manufacture a product…an object you can touch, an object you can take pride in, take true ownership of.
Posted: Friday, February 5, 2016
