What I think about hard work
Hard work is the secret to success, or so they say. This mantra oozes out of every crack and crevice, so much that people can barely walk without slipping on its promises of milk and honey.
In my case, 18 years of hearing the same line over and over again from peers, loved ones, teachers — and even strangers — has by default turned me into a member of the Opus Durum (Latin for “hard work”) denomination, whose god goes by the name of “The Good Life.” Its creed is simple: He who works his ass off will reap the rewards in leaps and bounds… or something to that effect.
For much of my childhood, I was a steadfast devotee of this belief. Whatever effort I put into studying usually showed in the outcome of my grades, and so there was never any reason to doubt the logic of hard work. Elementary school was a breeze then, since I always had a fail-safe plan in the face of low marks — and that was to study harder.
Nevertheless, the advent of high school changed all that. I remember traumatizing myself with several almost all-nighters in a desperate attempt to get geometry to open up to me… while still failing all my long tests and the finals anyway. I did manage to pass the subject (just barely) due to oratorical prowess rather than any hidden math skills on my part. The bottom line, however, remains. What was the point of it all?
I can already see the shaking heads and wagging fingers. Well, duh, that’s life — things don’t always work out as planned. People don’t get all they work for in the world. Sh*t happens. It’s not the end. So you busted your chops for nothing, big deal. At least you gained something from the experience. Maybe your best wasn’t good enough. There’s always a next time, anyway.
And all that jazz.
Granted, “hard work” and “success” are relative terms. What constitutes an achievement may vary for every individual, as does the measure of the tears, sweat, and blood given up to realize this. On the other hand, “failure” continues to be shunned as the universally evil entity that it is, generally considered unacceptable by people the world over. That’s why the concept of “hard work” exists — to protect us from the cold sting of defeat. And on that note, the poor sods who get frostbitten are automatically written off as lazy, incompetent, and just plain stupid.
For residents of the upper echelons of society, the notion of not getting anywhere after hours and hours of backbreaking, mind-numbing labor is simply absurd. Working hard is treated as the end-all of everything, the reason for every ounce of success in life.
Has it ever occurred to us that there are those who work harder than anyone else — working until their limbs shake from exhaustion, until their knees give out, or until their sweat mingles with blood — but still manage to drown in poverty and hardship?
For those straddling the border between street living and any semblance of normalcy, this is the reality of their everyday lives. It’s easy to generalize and stick labels here and there when one is financially secure, socially connected, and comfortably settled in a corner. But then… try taking a walk in the shoes of someone with no time to call his own, someone who has a family of five to feed, and whose survival is contingent on every ticking of the clock that marks his hourly wages. Piece of cake, isn’t it?
Don’t get me wrong — I have nothing against hard work. I realize that there are people from the lower-working class who’ve succeeded in carving out a better life for themselves, all through diligence, ingenuity, and of course, luck. I see shining examples of this in the faces of our country’s top business tycoons, and, on a more personal level, in the face of my own father. All I’m saying is that we should dispel the myth of “everything on individual merit and skill alone,” because more often than not, this comes last after a line of several other factors, namely: circumstances of birth, connections, economic capital and luck.
Another thing on my mind: I guess it can’t be helped that some of the influential look down on cleaning ladies, shop girls, kargadors, waiters, factory workers, janitors and what not — after all, the powerful do hold all the aces. My only question is, why? Why step on people who probably work even harder than you, and whom you depend on to keep your perfect little lives running smoothly? Is it because they’re paid for it anyway?
Oh, please.
Niccolo Machiavelli once said, “It is not titles that honor men, but men that honor titles.” If you’ve nothing better to do than yell at the manong carrying your bags the wrong way, or the cleaning lady who missed a spot on the floor — then I suggest you get a life, stat, or do it yourself.
