Blue collar is defined by dictionary.com as "of or relating to wage-earning workers who wear work clothes or other specialized clothing on the job, as mechanics, longshoremen and miners."
Wikipedia says "a working class person who performs manual labor." The second definition is probably far more accurate for this day and age, and certainly more relevant to me, as I don't think I have ever met any miners and, admittedly, am not quite sure exactly what a longshoreman does.
At about age 8, my then-stepmother began to really push for my sister and I to "pull our weight", as she put it. We only visited her and my father every other weekend, but she apparently believed it was still important to instill a "good work ethic" in her pre-teen stepchildren. She started small, by teaching us how to dust (lots of practice on the hundreds of antique trinkets and surfaces in their three-story Victorian home), and moved on gradually to instructing us in the proper way to scour a bathroom and a kitchen. By the time I was eleven (and living with them every other week), my sister and I spent between 4 and 8 hours, every other Saturday, cleaning the house from top to bottom. My stepmother provided all the plastic gloves, paper towels, small trash bags, cleaners and swiffer sheets we needed, but no physical assistance- cleaning was our "chore".
For many years, my stepmother had fought hard against my tomboyish tendencies. She bought me girls clothes, floral bedspreads, shiny shoes. Her refrain of "no boy is ever going to like you if you dress like them" echoes in my head to this day (but is usually yanked out, thrown against the wall and stomped on by my Independent Nature, which is much bigger, stronger, and more awesome).
When I was old enough to work independently, however, my tomboyish behavior was suddenly a great asset to my stepmother. On summer vacations, there were seven whole days to spend each week at their home, and she came up with other projects. There was basic work in their real estate office (photo copies, stapling, filing, answering phones).
I still remember the first time that she announced that my sister would be helping them in the office that summer, while I would be doing outdoor tasks. "Annie's white collar and you're blue collar!" she announced happily, laughing quite hard at how her little joke was actually working to her advantage. For the rest of the summer, I spent every other week weeding gardens, painting numerous pieces of wicker furniture a fresh coat of oil-based white, planting flowers, and edging sod to build new beds.
I imagine most 12 year old girls would have been miserable at this fate. However, I enjoyed being outside and the opportunity to be allowed to be dirty (and wear boys clothes!). It never occurred to me until later that my stepmother was really trying to cut me down, to remind me that my sister was smarter, more poised, and more deserving of a higher station than me. (In actuality, the woman was so intolerable to be around that spending 6-10 hours a day outside and away from her was like a vacation in itself).
Some of the best days happened when I ran out of paint, or paint thinner, or good brushes. I was allowed to walk to the hardware store, about half a mile from the house, to buy whatever I needed on my father's charge account. Blissful freedom! And I got to go in my painting clothes, which I was sure made me look like the most bad-ass middle schooler in town ("yeah, that's right, I work!"). I always made sure I had change in my pocket to buy single-serve candy at the drugstore I passed on my way, looking up and down the street and dashing in to buy it in under one minute, then eating it as fast as possible on the way to the hardware store and (regrettably) throwing the wrappers on the ground so my stepmother wouldn't find them in my pockets or in the garbage.
The only problem was this: half a mile is a very long way for a 12 year old to travel carrying two (or three) gallons of paint, or a couple jugs of mineral spirits. I would arrive home, the tips of my fingers purple from the metal paint can handles, and the refrain was always the same: "what took you so long?". (The grocery store was the exact same distance, and she often sent my sister and I with a specific list, the two of us hauling two huge armloads of bags each, only to be sent back moments later because our stepmother forgot to tell us one item she needed).
I certainly resent this (now-deceased) woman to this day for the things she tried to do to me. She constantly told me I worked slow, questioned what I was really doing with my time when I was supposed to be cleaning, implied that I was not sharp enough or quick enough for office work, deemed me incapable of following simple directions and announced that I was better suited to manual labor. I will not say she was right, because I know I am quite capable of any number of "white collar" professions, although they have rarely interested me.
She didn't win. Her attempts to cut me down only gave me a chance to learn what I love to do. At twelve years old, I learned the simple pleasure of a job with instant results- personal gratification for a job well done is instantaneous, the progress is visible, the physical soreness is real. Seventeen years later, manual labor is what I do, and it is what I have learned to be very good at.
Yep, I am blue collar. At the risk of sounding immature: In your face.
