My Life - Original Writing

In 2009, by publishing "The Case for Working with Your Hands", Matthew B. Crawford highlighted the importance of an undervalued job: trades. Workers, who require hands on work, confront many challenges that outsiders may not see.

Seven years earlier, I migrated to Hawaii when I was twenty-three. I had flown away from my mother and my life in the Philippines. Like young adults and being rebellious, I wanted to live on my own away from my mother 's roof. I left the city life I grew up with in the Philippines in hope of a better life in another country.

The factory is a deafening cacophony of machinery. The air around you is smothering and dusty. Diligent workers handle the looms—1, 2, even 3 machines, beads of sweat dripping down their concentrated faces. The work is exhausting; however, you manage to survive a 13 hour shift, as the benefits are a decent bundle of cash, far more than you could ever earn anywhere else. On the other hand, some workers are dissatisfied with the conditions they must work in—going as far to sign a petition. In “Lyddie” by Katherine Patterson, Lyddie, a hardworking13 year-old factory worker, contemplates on whether or not she should sign said petition. She is confronted with the challenge of determining which means more to her--her job or the safety of her and

While, harsh as blue-collar life may seem, the author also states his time on the assembly line is just as much a learning experience as his time in school. The struggles of finding work when he loses a job due to closures or downsizing. Observing others whom have spent 30 years working the lines. Also, just the advice of other co-workers to study hard and move

The author gives us an insight into how his "time is spent stamping, cutting, welding, moving or assembling parts" when he is working in the factories. (Braaksma, 2005). He then goes on to explain how he must wake up early and work long hours for a paycheck that seems not to be near enough what was worked for. Braaksma also touches on how some factory jobs may not be a secure place to work because of downsizing or relocating to another country. The fear of not knowing when a factory working might lose his or her job is terrifying.

Every morning since before I could remember, I get up and head to the mill. My machine was the loom in the weaver room. I worked, clocked in and out, said hi to Bonnie, Wayne, and Alice to name a few. There are my mama and papa. They've been breaking their back in this factory since it's been in North Carolina. They don't care about us here.

One of the most important things I've learned while working in this factory is to never forget the little details. Never forget the way the birds looked when they would take off into flight; never forget the bright blue of the sky, and the clouds that cover the sun's modesty; and to never forget how important this job is to my family. Before I had gotten my job working at the Bibb Mill, I imaged I would work in a quiet factory with only the chatter of employees breaking the silence. I wouldn't have imagined the loud spin of the mills deafening both my mother and I. I certainly didn't imagine waking up in the wee hours of the morning, changing into my second pair of overalls, eating whatever I leftover from dinner, and heading to work. I wasn't really assigned to any specific work, but I would help my mother to whatever she couldn’t handle. Often times covering for her during her break to add a few extra cents to her paycheck. Whenever I was unsure of what to do, I would follow the lead of the children I work next to.

It was a pleasant fall Tuesday when Stephanie went to work. Her day normal consisted of writing reports, and filing paperwork for her office. She turned on the television to see if there was anything alluring in the news. “NEWS FLASH: MAN CONVICTED OF MURDER HAS ESCAPED PRISON.” The warning did not phase her, considering the jail was far from her office. She concluded that she was safe. By four o’clock, it was time for her to travel home from a laborious day of work. She arranged her things into her bag, and began her trek. Walking out the door, she was met with warm rays from the sun. It was an astounding way to end a strenuous

The cotton mill was extremely hot today. Westley had been forced to work at this mill at the age of 5 and continues today. Westley was skinny and short with chestnut brown hair that covered his face. He had a short nose and eyes as brown as the River Thames. His boney face was dotted with freckles. He almost couldn’t believe that he had been working here for 10 long years. How had he lasted being the way he is? The conditions were horrible and he was treated like garbage but he could never leave. He would be stuck here in London his entire life. All he ever wanted to do was move to America and become a land owner but that would never happen. Everyday all he did was clean the cotton out of machines. His only hope in life was his friends,

Early rays of sun waking up sleepless eyes, the sound of wooden plows against hard earth, the sweat beads from back breaking work and the reward for work paid in feeding one’s family. Currency was not needed if you could barter for life’s necessities. The only worries that sprang were what one will eat the next day, not the worry of getting one’s arm torn off in a machine. This was the typical life, forty years ago, before the industrial revolution. Before the times of living in cities, before the times of manufacturing, before when life what much more simple. A revolution that truly changed the way we live. It impacted us to throw out every tradition, every life skill, everything we have ever known out the window for this new industrial

The machine rockets back and forth as if it was about to take off like a rocket. You pull the lever again; this lever is covered with filth from years of being unclean. Your hands are covered with blisters and imminent veins from that are present on your hands from the pressure you force on the lever all day. As a matter of fact, your day is a perpetual fate that feels worthless, but it serves that one purpose. That purpose is to provide for you and your family. Bringing them home fresh food, fresh cloth that feels like fresh cotton plucked from the field, and even medicine that helps keep your stick legs from breaking like toothpicks; it’s what holds you chained to the machine management. It may feel forced, but there is no other source of income. It should be

How would you feel about being age ten and working twelve hour shifts with dangerous machery. It's not safe, you're risking your life, and harming yourself. People were tied to those machines. You want to quit, but you know your family needs the money. Even though you boss sometimes didn’t pay you. Factories are what started the Industrial Era, which started in England. The first factories had problems, progress, and promises. They weren’t perfect, but it lead these people closer to the world we know today. Since this was the first time people started using the factory system there were some imperfections.

But beyond making the families dependent on the machine and its masters for food, the machine has also forced the men to rely upon the machine for their sense of purpose. Without the sound of the factory and the schedule of maintaining the train, the men feel a temporary emptiness.

“Even the machine is nodding off ,Sealed workshops store diseased iron ,Wages concealed behind curtains , Like the love that young workers bury at the bottom of their hearts ,With no time for expression, emotion crumbles into dust they have stomachs forged of iron Full of thick acid, sulphuric and nitric Industry captures their tears before they have the chance to fall Time flows by, their heads lost in fog Output weighs down their age, pain works overtime day and night In their lives, dizziness before their time is latent The jig forces the skin to peel And while it 's at it, plates on a layer of aluminum alloy Some still endure, while others are taken by illness I am dozing between them, guarding The last graveyard of our youth.” (Lizhi, 2015)

The rant of familiar voices echo in my head, as I lie back in my bed; I 'm on cloud nine. I couldn 't be any happier. My body and mind are exhausted from a long day of work, yet I have a spurt of energy that keeps me awake at work. As I sit in front of a computer that looks to have been made in the eighties, I glance around the room and see many, as I describe them, bonded labor, staring lifelessly into their computer screens. From seven o’clock in evening to seven in morning, we work in graveyard shift. I am forced to sell Computer or IT support over the phone. This is the form of sales which is cruel to both the unsuspecting customer and the underpaid support personals slogging whole night.