Sweet Delivery

Today, Siri Hustvedt’s The Summer Without Men came in the mail. I’ve been waiting for it for weeks–the price of a $1 book with dirt cheap shipping from the UK.

Since I remembered the existence of Abe Books, I’ve been buying a few books a month from the UK and parts of the US, and which ship from anywhere within 5 days to 3 weeks. It’s basic psychology, but the waiting amplifies the pleasure of reading. I waited two weeks for Masha Gessen’s Blood Matters after tearing through the latter half of her most recent book and her section of The New Yorker archives. I read it in two days, and then I pestered the post office near my office for several days in a row in anticipation of receiving Zizek’s In Defense of Lost Causes because I didn’t think to leave a contact number for when it arrived.

Of course, there is the library, and in Suginami ward it is well stocked. But half the joy of reading these days is the arrival of the books–the waiting, the checking the mail, the carrying of the books from the post office when they are too big to fit in the mail slot.

It reminds me of being a kid and waiting for Netflix DVDs. Particularly if it were a serialized drama or a director I really loved, waiting for the next installment was agonizing, particularly when I had three discs out already.

I had a routine–I would wait for the post, which arrived at 10 am during the week. Whatever I had ordered, I would watch immediately. For a while, it was the British historical drama Foyle’s War and everything by Jean-Pierre Jeunet. Then, by 1pm, when the post was collected from the drop box down the street, I would walk to said drop box to ensure the fastest possible turnaround of films. If I missed the pick-up time, I would walk further down the street to the more centrally located box, which had a second pick-up time at 5pm.

Of course the point was the watch the films, just as the point now is to read the books. But creating a ritual around them elevates them to something more special, more sacred. Because it’s not part of our ubiquitous air of instant gratification, it is frustrating and rewarding–the longer the wait, the great the excitement on arrival.

I am longing to tear into this new Hustvedt. I am, however, midway through Mrs. Dalloway, and I reserved yet another Auster at the library because I thought I would occupy myself with her husband’s writing until her book arrived. So I will impose longer waiting conditions, with the hope that, once begun, the joy of this book will shine all the more brightly.

What are you working for?

Why do we spend so much time working? Why do we spend so much time worrying about work?

I’m asking you: why the hell do you spend so much time working? What are you working for?

I’m going to guess your answer, assuming that you’re an average, reasonable person: you work to make rent, to have enough food, to support the people you love, to afford to travel, to finance your hobbies. Some of you may also say because you believe in what you do, or because it’s fun, which is very nice for you. I want to focus on the economic reasons, though.

If we distill all of these into a single idea: we work because we need money.

We also get status from our jobs, and a sense of community. If you have a job, it indicates that you are a functional, productive member of society. That you are serious about your life. Even if you’re just working checkout, at least you’re making an effort. And for me, some of my dearest people in this life are coworkers.

Here’s my biggest question though: why is so much of who we are and what we are allowed to be tied up in jobs?

Why do we feel ashamed to be unemployed when, in the UK at least, there are 1.6 jobs for every one person? Why are people in Japan literally dying for their jobs? Why do we need to work 12 hours a day to make a living? Let’s go further: why do we say make a living? Why aren’t we permitted just to live?

As soon as you talk about refusing work, you get into that funny old argument that if people didn’t have jobs they would lounge around all day and get fat and live on welfare and society would collapse. But think about yourself: if you didn’t have to work, what would you do? I for one wouldn’t sit around. I would hike more, and probably read more books. I would see my friends more often, and I would take longer walks and actually bother developing my film. I 100% would clean more often, and I am not just saying that.

Most people would be driven to do something. That something, though, would not look like the tasks we fill our daytime lives with in many cases. Probably teachers would still teach, if they like it. Dancers would still dance. But maybe the people assembling iPads in Shenzhen would become musicians, or would renovate their parents’ houses, or would go to the movies more often. Maybe the people who work as nannies in New York City would take their own kids to the park, or to the Met, or would read the news more and become involved in local politics?

Are these things less worthy of our time than jobs? Is it morally better to become a dental hygienist than someone who takes apart computers for fun? Is it a sign of a more upright character to tutor ESL students three days a week, walk dogs, be your professor’s research assistant, and ghost write someone’s Instagram account while getting your graduate degree than it is to volunteer at the library and grow eggplants on your roof? Even if you like your job, don’t you want a little more time to yourself?

I’m not here to present a coherent, step-by-step post-work plan for society. I’m here to challenge the idea that we need to work the way we do. In an age of increasing automation, why not let the computers have all the menial little jobs? I mean, do you want to put together an iPad in a company where people jump off of the roof because of working conditions? No? Then why are you asking someone else to do that for you?

If you want to know how to support yourself in a post-work world, read up on the idea of a Universal Basic Income, which is something I recently learned about and am very keen on.

For a more intense, research-driven look at what it means to refuse work as a society, I cannot recommend highly enough the book The Refusal of Work: The Theory and Practice of Resistance to Work by David Frayne. If you want it, I will personally lend you my copy.

Right now, my students are writing essays about “A Society I Want to Be Realized”. For me, I would start with a society where the left has a bigger imagination. I’m tired of hearing arguments for higher wages, longer maternity leave, etc. etc. These arguments still take as given that our jobs are the most important things about us.

So on Labor Day, I’m thinking about my society that I want realized. I want to see a society where you work to fulfill yourself, not to make a living. A society where people are free to enrich themselves and their communities the way they see fit, and not take as many jobs as they can just to pay rent and eat regularly. A society where no one does dangerous or menial tasks anymore in inhumane conditions.

I want to see a society where we don’t ask each other “what do you do?” as a standard getting-to-know-you move, and where we don’t ask kids “what do you want to be when you grow up?”

I don’t have a particular profession I want to be a part of, and I am actively resisting the idea of making a career. Instead, I am thinking I want to be like Simone Veil, who never stopped fighting for the well-being of women and for a hopeful political future. I want to be like Agnes Varda who brings joy and wonder to serious topics and creates films that inspire people to live good lives. I want to be like my mom, who asked her English teacher if they couldn’t read something more relevant to their lives than classics that were, quite frankly, boring and dry. Who pays my wages and what I put on my resume is the last thing I’m concerned about.

On Labor Day, I want to question why we labor so hard, so long, and for such little purpose, and I want to encourage all of us to grow some bigger imaginations and start thinking about a future beyond what we are permitted to hope for in our current capitalism system.

My final question: if capitalism isn’t working for us, why should we work for it?