A Memoir (in Miniature) of My Limited Experience Working with Men.
First, at the risk of losing the reader’s interest, I must issue this disclaimer: While the fact that I have worked amongst and even with men is indisputable, I cannot boast Membership in The Men’s Club. Not even as an Honorary Member. Its mysterious inner workings remain, to me, mysterious. This essay simply skirts the masculine puzzle from my feminine point of view. I am not, nor could I ever be, a man.
I learned to love Work with my Grandpa Wilson and his son, my Dad. Notice the difference between Work and work. My mother, aunts, grandmas, and favorite school teachers taught me the rich and varied (and sometimes sticky) tapestry of work, in endless dimension (through and beyond tedium and delight). This work, uncapitalized, adaptable, sometimes even svelte, squeezes into snippets and corners and syllables, weaves between shelves and under doors and through the hair of toddlers and catches the masses entirely by surprise with its global strength and beauty. It can go anywhere, and it does, both because it wants to, and because it has to. But Work! Ah. There is burl and brawn and muscle and bluster in it. And sweat and open air and a clear-eyed, quiet knowing.
(Author’s Note: Still working on this essay! I have notes in Word, but I got stumped after the farm in Providence. Why am I stumped? I don’t know. But I’ll finish, and the rest will show up in the next week or so….)
