Most white collars believe, even today, that they will never become the victims of the downsizing that comes with globalization. That is how I thought: that it would never happen to me. I was secure, confident and even a little smug in my position as a marketing executive with a corporate bank. I had reached the level of vice president. To me, blue-collar workers were the ones who had to face job loss. What did they have to do with me, comfortable and confident in my fancy office with my fat paychecks and the cushion of my MBA?
That was five years ago. In the time since I have learned a valuable lesson and I have realized my own foolishness. We are in this together, and we must remember that.
One day, I received the news that millions of Americans receive. My job had been moved to another country, and I was now unemployed. I was fifty-two years old. There had been rumors for several months, but it did not occur to me that I would be one of those on the receiving end.
I did not expect to have trouble finding another job. I was wrong. For months I followed every lead and made every contact. Several times I was among the finalists, but at the end I was not the choice. The stress and frustration put a terrible pressure on my marriage, and after four months my wife divorced me; I don't have any bitterness about that. We were both at fault. The list of debts was already large when I was fired; they continued to grow.
(Posted by Anonymous)
Finally, after one more unsuccessful interview at an investment bank, I stopped on the way home to have the oil changed in my car. At that time, I still drove a Porsche; I suppose old habits die hard.
I had gone to that mechanic's garage every week for twelve years, and they knew me as a corporate executive. That day as I was waiting for the car, I saw a sign on the wall saying "Wanted: Assistant Mechanic. Will Train." Within a few seconds I decided to apply for the job, and asked the head mechanic for an application.
He assumed I was joking and didn't even respond. It took a full hour of explaining everything that had happened to convince him that I not only wanted the job, but that I was desperate for work. He finally believed me, and told me the job was mine if I was willing to start immediately as he had other applicants.
He looked over my $1500 pinstriped suit, the silk tie, the starched white shirt, the cufflinks, the hundred dollar haircut, the mirror-shined Ferragamo wingtips and all the trappings of the successful executive I had been. He shook his head and found a pair of overalls, sneakers and sweat socks. His assistant, Tony, joined him. Tony whistled when he was told I was hired. Like the manager, he couldn't believe that I was now one of them, after so many years as the well-dressed executive who visited their shop.
This gave me a glimpse, in a much deeper and personal way, of the divide between the upper and the lower classes within the American economy.
Tony welcomed me into the blue-collar world with some humor.
"Fired, huh?" he snapped. "I bet you never thought it would happen to you! Still got the Porsche and the pinstripes! All dressed up and no place to go!"
He slapped me on the back, grabbed my carefully tied necktie, pulled the matching pocket square out of my suit and gave me a sarcastic bow. "Well, SIR, I will do my best to turn Mister Pinstriped SUIT and TIE into a grease monkey!" With that he "accidentally" ran his dirty work boot over my gleaming shoes. "Sorry, SIR! Looks like you just had 'em shined! But you won't be wearin' those classy kicks for much longer so you don't have to worry!"
Within a few minutes I had taken off my business clothes for the last time and stepped into overalls and work boots. That was the beginning of my life as a mechanic, or "grease monkey" as Tony called me.
I understood what was happening with Tony. To him, I was a member of the elite who had fallen far from the top of the ladder, and he wanted to take out his frustration and anger at someone who he now could tell what to do. For me, it was the end of my life as an executive. I was now one of them, and had to dress and look like the workman I was becoming, and Tony knew that. Clothes were no longer just clothes. They were symbols, and powerful symbols, of my own transformation from a world of status and privilege to a smaller world of labor.
I was that day as I stood in the changing room of the garage that I realized how powerful those symbols are. I pulled off my Brooks Brothers black dress socks, correct for the office, but not for the garage, and stuffed them in my now discarded (and superfluous) Italian shoes. What use were polished leather shoes for a mechanic? I unfastened my monogrammed cufflinks, stripped off my hand-tailored business suit and hung it up with my starched shirt and my necktie, and then pulled on overalls. No mechanic wears cufflinks. No "grease monkey" wears a pinstriped suit. They were symbols of a world that globalization took away.
Did I ever think it would happen to me? Never. I was immune and invincible. But I wasn't. If it can happen to me, it can happen to anyone. Five years later I am now a blue collar man and no one would ever think I had been anything else. My hands are calloused and covered with oil. I sold the Porsche and traded my yuppie haircut for a ponytail. I even grew a beard. Tony is my boss, and those fancy, high-class Italian shoes are just a memory.
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