In about a month, I'll be done with graduate school. And I'll have to find a job. I'm scared it will be a boring job. I'm scared I'll be a cog in the machine, doing something simply to survive. I'm scared I'll regret it. But mostly, I'm scared I'll complain.
I've done all that before.
The other day, I interviewed a few electricians and I asked them what they would say if a million people were listening. And one of them — with a heartbreaking look of dispair on his face — said, "Work hard at your education really early in life, so you're not stuck in a job that... could end up...at dead ends."
He and his friends complained constantly about their jobs; it almost defined them. At its core, they came to work; they moved their bodies as they were commanded to do; and they were rewarded with money to live. It's what we all do, and only the luckiest of us are in a place where we never feel like complaining. We scold those who allow environments like Foxconn to exist, but most of the world does the same to some extent. I'm guessing they complain, too.
I'm starting to think that, in a world that often forces us to be cogs in a machine, complaining is our way of reminding ourselves we are human — and that, if we really want, we can move our bodies and our tongues however we wish.