Class Warriors or: Dingleberries R U

Nobody sends email anymore, except for this guy who used the tired “more fortunate” line on me because I have a career, a pile of really cool toys and seemingly because I‘m more than happy in my fast-wrinkling skin.

I hear this well-worn gibberish every single day on talk radio, and repeated by vapid, class-baiting politicians and less than original, easily-led bloggers: “You’re more fortunate than some others.”

Pest Control Technology magazine listed me as a top-four finalist for its 2010 Termite Technician of the Year award. And wait for it…top-four throughout all of North America. And my employer named me as it’s termite tech of the year winner for 2010, an honor that had never been bestowed upon any tech employed by my district.

Now, when you consider the training, retraining, state testing, manufacturer testing, periodic company testing, mandated continuing education, regional conferences, seminars and work-related injuries I’ve had to quietly endure; I will not and can not call myself lucky. And let us not forget the years, the tens of thousands of hours of hands-on experience I have amassed.

My employer, rated as “America’s Finest” by Pest Control Technology magazine put me in a position to succeed. They have invested heavily in my continuing training as well as my continuing education. And succeed I did.

I’m real good at what I do. Some say the best. You don’t pay me for chemicals, you pay me for expertise. I’m not fortuitous, I’m just flat-out good. So, please, spare me the class warfare drivel.

In addition, I’m not some heartless republican boob, as many Democrats like to paint the political opposition as.

During my formative years, I did the welfare and the subsidized housing bit. I’m not saying I liked it much, but it did teach me how to develop a serious work ethic, as well as be as mean as I felt I had to be when anyone looked down on me or mine. I was mean because we did not seek out poverty and the perceived freebies as too many mistakenly assumed, we were dumped into poverty by absentee fathers.

I know what it’s like to grow up on the then-economy brand substandard foodstuffs, government surplus cheese and powdered milk. Despite the rage that simmered inside of me, I had to endure the not-so-hushed comments when my mom produced her food stamp booklets at the check-out aisle. Trust me, I did’t do indignity very well.

We did the bulk of our shopping at Kresge's, McCrory's and at church rummage sales. Until I got hired at Percy Brown's, the great majority of my wardrobe consisted of hand-me-downs. We had no wheels. When we needed to get somewhere, we set out of foot. And that included carrying groceries from the supermarket all the way home.

I was embarrassed by the free lunch coupons in junior high to the point of not redeeming them. That‘s, skipping lunch altogether. (And they wonder why I skipped out for some Kresge’s pizza once Percy A. Brown & Co. put a decent jingle in my formerly empty pockets by age 14.) And I hate what being broke, worried and always figuring out how to get by until the next meager check arrived did to my mom. Basically, it wore her out. And she checked out at 49.

Trust me, I know some people are less fortunate. And having been there and done that, in most cases, I even know why. But don’t ever presume to tell me that I am, or have been “more fortunate” than anyone else. Good or bad, I am what I am because I made myself into what I am.

And I’ll give you a big heads up: The only way to escape poverty’s white-knuckled clutches is by forever chasing a buck. By developing that serious work ethic. By busting your ball bearings, even when you’re tired, even when you don’t have a ride or even when it’s inconvenient beyond all get-out.

And that’s exactly what I don’t see coming from the vast majority of those who would cry poverty today.

As Francis Vincent Zappa once said, “You are what you is.” As in, “less fortunate” for lack of any sustained effort.

Piss me off!!!