What do you know?
Do you listen-in on conversations? Do you hear the same things I do? Do you hear yourself talk? If, like me, you answered “yes” to these three questions, do you ever continue down the rabbit role and analyze the conversations?
42 words and a few minutes ago I intended to write, essentially, a sermon about how all that each of us do is talk ourselves up, a sermon about how all we really say is, “I know better than (fill in the blank).” That seems silly now. Instead, I’d like to simply share.
By now, most of you have guessed correctly that I am an American thirty-two year old white male. A constant criticism I have received most of my life is that I am a know it all. While I was a hot-shot special operations Air Force pilot, I happily let my profession answer the accusation.
I’ve been without my proof-is-in-the-pudding profession for a year and a half.
How do I answer the criticism now? Yesterday I took the “integrity test” at a Labor Ready storefront in hopes of being able to work for pay soon. The fella next to me asked the receptionist if he could use his “dee-ooh-see card” as his second form of identification. Unfamiliar with whatever he just said, I looked towards him. He was presenting his wallet for her to see. In his wallet behind the protective plastic, he had a Department of Corrections ID card. The picture was of him in the orange jumpsuit that America loves to see on TV.
Until yesterday I would laugh really hard each time a friend wittily observed that too many people are “educated beyond their intelligence.”
Yesterday, beginning with the alternating tobacco/marijuana smell that infused the air as I waited with others for the receptionist to return from a break and ending with the sight of the orange jumpsuit, I confirmed what I’ve secretly suspected all along: I don’t know shit.
I do like to write though.
Free market capitalism can be raw and harsh and is not necessarily driven by intelligence or education.
You said it.
We don’t even hire from that type of place anymore. It makes me so sad to think you were there.
As I told George, please don’t overlook that I was the one there–taking in all of the sights, sounds and smells that this post hopefully conveys. (Implication being that you should be proud that I’m not willing to take a handout…)
Hi Pete…welcome to the club.
You know…I feel good being here. Everyone’s been so nice.