THE SOLITARY PANDA

The Ways We Are: Sean

Sean and I first got in touch through the Oregon bloggers group on 20sb. He is a talented writer and is working on writing his first book, which his blog, The Anarchist Project, is inspired by. I have no doubts that he can make this happen! Before I left for Asia, I had the pleasure of meeting up with Sean in Old Town. Good conversation, good exchange of ideas, and an all around sweet guy! I’m glad to present to you Sean’s story:

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Somewhere along the line I realized that I was finished with college. I hadn’t quite graduated, I hadn’t been kicked out, but I decided enough was enough. Or rather, I’d had enough, and it was time to move on. So move on I did, off to the factory, off the work force, off to blue collar and the overnight shift and The Union. Maybe it’s the Irish in me, but I’ve always admired the blue collar worker. The men in the factories, the boys on the docks, the workers in the mill. Worker’s Songs, and Solidarity, and Labor Day picnics in Detroit. I always thought there was something noble, though perhaps somewhat desperate about the whole thing.

So when a job opened up at the labs in the factory where I spent my summers loading trucks, I jumped on it. Finally a real blue collar job, and on the overnight no less. I’d learn a new perspective on life through misery, through struggle, honest pay for honest work; in retrospect, I was way too happy about it.

I found out that life on the overnight shift is not glamorous. It takes a certain twisted sort of mind to truly enjoy it. Outsiders, loners, those who-do-not-play-well-with-others are at home here. Which makes interaction with coworkers often strained if not outright hostile. It’s tough to sleep during the day, tough to stay awake at night, tough to interact with others as a normal human being. There are a lot of drugs floating around. It’s also tough to explain or understand except to those who’ve experienced it for themselves. There is a certain camaraderie amongst those who’s shared the overnight shift. A common understanding based on shared suffering. The shared bags under our eyes, the pale complexion, and the short tempers attributed to a horrible sleep schedule.

In the back of my head, I knew this wasn’t for me either. On breaks and free time, my coworkers slept or watched television or gambled, while I read and studied and wrote. They called me college boy, but looked out for me as well. And as much as I tried, I knew I didn’t fit in.

One night, two of the older, and more universally respected workers sat me down to talk. These were hard men, both with thirty years on the overnights as well as often working day jobs, old school; they didn’t seem to need sleep. They’d both raised families and bought houses, they’d used the overnight to get by, just as the overnight had used them up.

“What’s your plan kid?” They’d asked, “You’ve been on nights for three years now, its time for you to move on.”

I protested that I was one of them, but they’d have none of it. They’d taken the overnight shift in the factory out of desperation. Bills to pay with babies on the way, they needed the money and the benefits to support their families. They were not after misguided romantic gestures. The Union was dead, they told me. It’s no kind of life for a young kid these days, no matter how hard he works. It was time for me to move on.

And they were right. I had no wife. I had no kids. I had no major payments or debts. The only thing I was getting from the overnight in the factory was a chip on my shoulder and a growing disillusionment with life. The money was nice, but the life was not even remotely fulfilling. I was growing old in that factory, middle aged at 25.

So I split. Jumped on a westbound train at midnight to start a new life. To start over as a writer, in a new city, a new life. So far, it’s been a huge fantastic struggle. I live in a sketchy neighborhood complete with shady characters, and dreamers, and junkies. I’m much poorer than I’ve ever been before. I still don’t sleep much, though this time it’s because I’m writing, and working, and hustling. The factory showed me the value of hard work and perseverance, loyalty and respect. It also helped me to realize that while we can be anything we want, there are some better suited for different things. And I’m way too young to be that old. The fear of going back to that factory drives me.

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This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.