Thirtysomething

Construction

Until recently, I've dealt with construction workers on a fairly regular basis. I was introduced to a majority of them, but truth be told, after awhile they became nameless individuals who all looked vaguely similiar. It was always a delicate balance with them. On one hand, I wanted to be level with them, so I did my best to learn their language. And by that, I mean their technical language of circulating pumps, soffits, conduits and the like. I was also known to strap on a pair of sneakers and go schlepping through work sites with them. I made a point of saying hello and making small talk.

On the other hand, the fact remained that I occasionally voiced my displeasure at certain aspects of their work, but sometimes that was called for. I know they called me a bitch behind my back, but I know it was a passing gut reaction for them and didn't let it bother me. I butted heads with them, usually the foremen (and I did know those foremen well, both by name and cell phone number), but overall, we all got along fairly well. I think they appreciate my attempts to learn as much as I could. They were all hard workers, I knew that, even though they didn't work for me directly. I knew slackers were fired in short order. But they didn't necessarily do quality work though. It wasn't for lack of trying. From what I gather, a majority of them didn't formally learn a trade (i.e. carpentry) and so they were doing the best they could with what little they knew. They were cheap labor.

Never before did I really experience the issue of class in a tangible way. When I would walk past, all conversation and work would come to a screeching halt. As I would say hello, they would usually grunt in return, not looking me in the eye. Some went so far as to not shake my hand upon meeting for fear of getting me dirty. I could feel that they viewed me as being on some different, but higher, level than them. That I was a female, and one that wore a suit, automatically put me into a certain catergory for them. Some seemed to treat me with respect, others with distain, but never was I really treated as just another person. Like I said, it was a delicate balance.

John was one of the crew. The first time he ever addressed me by name, I was taken aback that he even knew it, because I didn't recall ever meeting him before. He also said my name in the deep Irish brough it was intended to be said with, and I did a double-take. I knew there were a small group of workers here from Ireland, but he was the first I noticed.

I called him Fergus for nearly a year before I learned my mistake, and never once did he correct me. I knew from the beginning that he had a crush on me, I think he took a liking to me because my name and red hair reminded him of home. He was incredibly polite, always made a point of saying hello, and calling me by name. While the others mainly grunted at me, unless I was actually asking a question, John would engage in actual conversation. The rest of the crew would tease him about this mercilessly. Apparently, they thought I became deaf as soon as I was more than 20 feet away. Once, I sheepishly asked John to hang a couple of things in my office, which wasn't really part of his job, of course, but he had a power drill and I did not. He agreed and when I got back, he was feather-dusting my framed degree. He was clearly embarrassed that I caught him with a feather-duster in hand. I smiled and thanked him. Then there was this moment when I looked and him and he looked at me and he looked back up at my diploma. And then the moment passed. I'm not sure what it was.

The crews are gone now. But I think of them for reasons I can't always explain. They gave me a lot to think about. About how you can work so close to someone and yet not work with them. About how a style of dress, or shoe for that matter, can pre-determine your relationship. About the difference between social, as opposed to economic, classes. About how you can sometimes actually feel the line between one class and another.

posted by DJ Heavy D @ 6:20 AM