'i once worked in a factory. '

i once worked in a factory.

All my life I’ve been pampered with middle-class realities. My family never did possess an abundance of material riches, but I’ve never experienced gnawing poverty and the injustice that comes with it.

Halfway through college, pressed with the desire to understand what it means to work, in the plebeian sense of the word, I tried working in a factory.

I experienced becoming spellbound, doing the same menial task from six in the morning to six in the evening, six days a week, until all I could think about was going home, watching the string of soap operas, and going early to bed (feeling my muscles ache all over), even if the cycle had to run all over again.

However, the whole experience retained its phoniness for I always had the option to quit. It did not help that my parents didn't understand what I was up to, and I couldn’t explain it – though they were always gracious and trusting to let me make my own choices. And it did not help that my employer was trying to dissuade me from working there, knowing full well my background – there lies the painful reality actually, that some people are supposed to be fit for that kind of job, and I was not one of them – and giving me the option, not only to come to work at seven o’clock and leave at five (I did take on this offer a few times, to my shame), but also to quit anytime I pleased.

I quit after exactly one month.

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