Working : people talk about what they do all day and how they feel about what they do

783 Pages·1985·19.41 MB·English

by  Terkel

WORKING
People Talk About What They
Do All Day and How They
Feel About What They Do
Studs Terkel
BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK
Copyright© 1972, 1974byStudsTerkel
AllrightsreservedunderInternational andPan-American Copy
rightConventions. Publishedin theUnitedStatesby Ballantine
Books, adivisionofRandomHouse, Inc., New York, and simul
taneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Tor
onto.
Library ofCongress CatalogCardNumber:73-18037
ISBN0-345-32569-9
ThiseditionpublishedbyarrangementwithPantheonBooks
ManufacturedintheUnitedStatesofAmerica
FirstBallantineBooksEdition:November 1985
NinthPrinting:September1990
Gratefulacknowledgmentismadetothefollowingforpermission
toreprintpreviouslypublishedmaterial.
GrovePress, Inc., andMethuen&Co. Ltd.: Foreightlinesfrom
MotherCourageandHerChildrenby BertoltBrecht(1963).
Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc.: Forfive lines from "A Worker
ReadsHistory," reprinted fromSelectedPoemsofBertoltBrecht,
translatedbyH. R. Hays.
LosAngeles Times:For excerpts from the article "Ram Coach
Lives, Worksby DemandingCode"byBobOates,LosAngeles
Times, July 9, 1970. Copyright © 1973, LosAngeles Times^
MillsMusic,Inc., a Division ofBelwin MillsPublishing Corp.:
For thirteen linesof lyricsof "DownHomein Tennessee" by
WilliamJeromeandWalterDonaldson. Copyright 1915byMills
Music, Inc., copyrightrenewed1943.Usedwithpermission.
TheNewYorkTimes:Forexcerpts fromanarticleon Dr.John R.
Coleman,TheNewYorkTimes,June 10,1973.Copyright© 1973
byThe NewYorkTimes Company.
The Viking Press: For eight lines from "We Are Transmitters,"
reprinted from TheComplete Poems ofD. H. Lawrence, edited
by Vivian de Sola Pintoand F. Warren Roberts. Copyright ©
1964, 1971byAngeloRavagli&C. M.Weekly, Executorsofthe
EstateofFrieda LawrenceRavagli. Allrightsreserved.
WarnerBros. Music:For seven linesof lyricsof "Pretty Baby"
(GusKahn, Tony Jackson, EgbertVan Alsytne). Copyright ©
1916JeromeH. Remick & Co. Copyright renewed. All rights
reserved.
WhitehallLaboratories;Foranexcerptfromthetelevisionadver
tisementfor"Anacin."
ForJudeFawley; forIda, who
shareshis vision;forAnnie,who didn't.
Acknowledgments
As in two previous works, Division Street: America and
Hard Times, my benefactors were friends, acquaintances,
and wayfaring strangers. A suggestion, a casual comment,
a tip, a hunch: a collective thoughtfulness led to the mak
ing of this book.
Among these singularly unselfish scouts were: Marge
Abraham, Joe Agrella, Marvin David, Lucy Fairbank,
Lou Gilbert, De Witt Gilpin, Bill Gleason, Jake Green,
Lois Greenberg, Pete Hamill, Denis Hamill, Noel
Meriam, Sam Moore, Bill Moyers, John Mulhall, Bryce
Nelson, Patricia O'Brien, Jessie Prosten, Al Raby, Kelly
Sanders, Florence Scala, Ida Terkel, Anne Thurson, War
ren Weaver, Steven Yahn, Beverly Younger, Connie
Zonka, and Henry de Zutter.
For the third time, Cathy Zmuda transcribed hundreds
of thousands of spoken words—perhaps millions in this in
stance—onto pages that sprang to life. Her constant good
humor and perceptiveness were as rewarding to me as her
astonishing technique. Nellie Gifford's acute observations
as a volunteer editor, at a time the manuscript was really
gargantuan, helped immeasurably in cutting the lean from
the fat. A perspectivewas offered by both that might oth
erwise have been missing.
My gratitude, too, to Nan Hardin, for her generosity of
time and spirit, as a knowing guide during a memorable
trip through Indiana and eastern Kentucky. My colleagues
at radio station WFMT, notably Ray Nordstrand, Norman
Pellegrini, and Lois Baum, were once again remarkably
understanding and ingenious during my prolonged leaves
of absence. I know I gave them a hard time, but theirs
was truly grace under pressure.
Especially am I grateful to my editor, Andre" Schiffrin,
whose idea this was, as twice before. His insistence and
quiet encouragement, especially during recurring moments
of self-doubt, are evident in all these pages. And to his
nimble associates, Myriam Portnoy and Dian Smith, for
their bright-eyed look at what was becoming burdensome
matter—a salute.
Every man's work shall be made manifest: for the day
shall declare it, because it shall be revealed by fire; and
the fire shalltry every man's work of what sortit is.
—I Corinthians 3:13
You cant eat for eight hours a day nor drink for eight
hours aday nor make love for eight hours aday—all you
can do for eight hours is work. Which is the reason why
man makes himself and everybody else so miserable and
unhappy.
—William Faulkner
The "work ethic" holds that labor is good in itself; that a
man or woman becomes a better person by virtue of the
act of working. America's competitive spirit, the "work
ethic" of this people, is alive and well on Labor Day,
1971.
—Richard M. Nixon
I like my job and am good at it, but it sure grinds me
down sometimes, and the last thing I needto take home is
a headache.
—TV commercial for Anacin
WORKING
INTRODUCTION
This book, being about work, is, by its very nature,
about violence—to the spirit as well as to the body. It is
about ulcers as well as accidents, about shouting matches
as well as fistfights, about nervous breakdowns as well as
kicking the dog around. It is, above all (or beneath all),
about daily humiliations. To survive the day is triumph
enough for the walking wounded among the great many
of us.
The scars,psychic as well as physical, brought home to
the suppertable andtheTV set, mayhave touched, malig
nantly, the soul of our society. More or less. ("More or
less," that most ambiguous of phrases, pervades many of
the conversations that comprise this book, reflecting, per
haps, an ambiguity of attitude toward The Job. Something
more than Orwellian acceptance, something less than
Luddite sabotage. Often the two impulses are fused in the
same person.)
It js^about a search, too, for_dafly meaning as well as
daily bread, for recognitionaswell as cash,'for astonish
ment rather than torpor; in short, for a sort of life rather
than a Monday through Friday sort of dying. Perhaps im
mortality, too, is part ofthe quest. To be remembered was
the wish, spoken and unspoken, oftheheroes and heroines
of this book.
There are, ofcourse, the happy few who find a savorin
their daily job: the Indiana stonemason, who looks upon
his work and sees that it is good; the Chicago piano
tuner, who seeks and finds the sound that delights; the
xiii
Xiv INTRODUCTION
bookbinder, who saves a piece of history; the Brooklyn
fireman, who saves a piece of life ... But don't these satis
factions, like Jude's hunger for knowledge, tell us more
about the person than about his task? Perhaps. Nonethe
less, there is a common attribute here: a meaning to their
work well over and beyond the reward of the paycheck.
For the many, there is a hardly concealed discontent.
The blue-collar blues is no more bitterly sung than the
white-collar moan. 'Tm a machine," says the spot-welder.
'Tm caged," says the bank teller, and echoes the hotel
clerk, "rm a mule," says the steelworker. "A monkey can
do what I do," says the receptionist. 'Tm less than a farm
implement," says the migrant worker. 'Tm an object,"
says the high-fashion model. Blue collar and white call
upon the identical phrase: 'Tm a robot." "There is noth
ing to talk about," the young accountant despairingly
enunciates. It was some time ago that John Henry sang,
"A man ain't nothin* but a man." The hard, unromantic
fact is: he died with his hammer in his hand, while the
machine pumped on. Nonetheless, he found immortality.
He is remembered.
As the automated pace of our daily jobs wipes out
name and face—and, in many instances, feeling—there is
a sacrilegeous question being asked these days. To earn
one's bread by the sweat of one's brow has always been
the lot of mankind. At least, ever since Eden's slothful
couple was served with an eviction notice. The scriptural
precept was never doubted, not out loud. No matter how
demeaning the task, no matter how it dulls the senses and
breaks the spirit, one must work. Or else.
Lately there has been a questioning of this "work
ethic," especially by the young. Strangely enough, it has
touched off profound grievances in others, hitherto devout,
silent, and anonymous. Unexpected precincts are being
heard from in a show of discontent Communique's from
the assembly line are frequent and alarming: absenteeism.
On the evening bus, the tense, pinched faces of young file
clerks and elderly secretaries tell us more than we care to
know. On the expressways,middle management men pose
without grace behind their wheelsasthey fleecity and job.
There are other means of showing it, too. Inchoately,
sullenly, it appears in slovenly work, in the put-down of
craftsmanship. A farm equipment worker in Moline com
plains that the careless worker who turns out more that is
Introduction xv
badvis better regarded than the careful craftsman who
turns outlessthat is good.The firstis an ally ofthe Gross
National Product The other is a threat to it, a kook—and
the sooner he is penalized the better. Why, in these cir
cumstances, should a man work with care? Pride does in
deed precede the fall.
Others, more articulate—at times, visionary—murmur
ofahunger for"beauty," "a meaning" "a senseof pride."
A veterancarhikersings out,"I could drive anycarlike a
baby,like awoman changesherbaby'sdiaper.Lotsofcus
tomers say, *Howyou do this?* I*d say, 'Just the way you
bake a cake, miss.' When I was younger, I could swing
with that car. They called me Lovin' Al the Wizard."
Dolores Dante graphically describesthe trials of await
ress in a fashionable restaurant. They are compounded by
her refusal to be demeaned. Yet pride in her skills helps
her make it through the night "When I put the plate
down, you don't hear a sound. When I pick up a glass, I
want it to be just right. When someone says, *How come
you're hist awaitress?* I say, "Don't you think you deserve
being served by me?***
Peggy Terry has her own sense of grace and beauty.
Her jobs have varied with geography, climate, and the
ever-felt pinch of circumstance. "What I hated worst was
being a waitress. The way you're treated. One guy said,
*You don't have to smile; I'm gonna give you a tip any
way.' I said, TCeepit. I wasn't smiling for a tip.' Tipping
should be done awaywith. It'slike throwing adog a bone.
It makes you feel small."
In all instances, there is felt more than a slight ache. In
all instances, there dangles the impertinent question:
Ought not there be an increment, earned though not yet
received, from one's daily work—an acknowledgement of
man's being?
An American President is fortunate—or, perhaps, un
fortunate—that, offering his Labor Day homily, he didn't
encounter Maggie Holmes, the domestic, or Phil Stallings,
the spot-welder, or Louis Hayward, the washroom attend
ant Or especially, Grace Clements, the felter at the lug
gage factory, whose daily chore reveals to us in a terrible
light that Charles Dickens's London isnot so far away nor
long ago.
Obtuseness in •respectable*' quarters is not a new
phenomenon. In 1850 Henry Mayhew, diggingdeep into