The Broken Proletariat

Did I ever mention that I go to a music school? What a wonderful place that is. I so totally love that music school, that words would do my feelings no justice. It's my fourth year in it, and I will not be applicable for re-entry after I graduate from high school, so I am highly upset by that right now, but it was good while it lasted. 

For four years, I have been in a DJing program. I've learned how to manipulate music software, mix songs, create them, and later spin them up on the turntables. 

This year, things changed slightly. I was put into an extra program on top of the DJing.

It's a band. 

Since my music school teaches many things, they had the smart idea of putting various students into a single band. You have one kid that's a pianist, you have another that's a guitarist, a bassist, a singer and so on. Now, all of these kids take the classes that qualify them as their respective instrumentalists on top of the band class. Of course, as a DJ, I don't fit into a traditional band. I expressed this after being asked to join, but the registration lady assured me that it wouldn't be a problem. She said that if DJing was not malleable enough to be used in the band, the instructor would just do his best to teach me quick bits on other instruments, so that I could be useful. It was worth a shot, so I did it. The instructors at the school are great, classes are free, and the other students are amazing, so I had nothing to lose except an extra 90 minutes each week.

Here's a little about my DJing class: About two years in, I had mastered most of the software stuff, become good at making songs, and become coordinated enough to use the turntables. So, after those two years, my DJing class had morphed into something that I hadn't originally thought it would be - therapy. Yes, I know. But I have an excuse:

See, the school that I go to is on the cushy west side. Money isn't an object and people are, in general, not the best. The school is toxic because everyone's ambition is sky-high. Kids don't sleep; they are too bogged down with APs and SATs. Very few of them can carry a conversation that goes beyond the realm of the school chemistry curriculum. The way they look at me is strange; as if I have some rare blood-condition that makes me terminal. And to them, I am inflicted with the plague of mental-illness. Many of them think, because of my happy-go-lucky attitude, my "hippie-ness", my lack of homework-completion and my excess of blogging (i.e. doing things that don't count towards my grade), I am sick. Yes, to them, I suffer from optimism. It's difficult.

That is why DJing is therapy. I get together with probably the coolest kids in the city. Kids that don't have unhealthy ambition, kids that enjoy their time skateboarding, and kids that are generally content with being kids. We talk and make music, and it's highly relaxing for me. I don't feel like I suffer from a terrible plague when I'm around them, and it's quite nice. So, I look forward to Tuesdays. 

This is why I accepted band class.

What a good decision it was! I learned a little bit about playing synthesizer because I needed to play that for one rendition we played. I learned about piano for something else, and I am presently practising a part on Vibraphone for the song we just wrote. It's great.

We sit together and pool ideas for melodies and lyrics. We play them and we learn other stuff in the process.

Hold on: My absurdly long introduction is not done yet.

Due to my instructor's constant lateness to class, me and my 5 band-mates have a lot of time at the start of class to chat. From what I recall, at the start of this year, none of us knew each other, but we've gotten to know each other decently since then, mostly because of these chats. 

As is customary however, as the year progressed, we formed into smaller groups.

Two of the girls in our class became very close. I became well-acquainted with the lead guitarist. And, the other two band members are usually late of absent, so their presence is scarce in the chat-sessions.

The first class, I met the lead guitarist and he introduced himself. He played guitar well, so that was an automatic big plus. He seemed like a nice person - that's the vibe that he gave off, at least. I began talking to him gradually. It was good. It became fairly usual for us to sit together for an hour after each class and talk. I liked it, and it served as a chance for me to get to know him better.

Now, I know what you're expecting - a love story. But, no, that's not what this is. I'm just trying to give you a feeling of what he's like.

He's a nice type of guy. Really. He isn't quiet, but most of what he says is intended to be a joke. He is so frequently sarcastic that I have found it difficult at times to distinguish between his serious statements and his sarcastic statements. I most vividly remember the first night that he decided to take the bus in my direction: He made a joke, which I took seriously, so I corrected him in his fallacy. This is laughable. After I began elaborating on the mistake he had made, he looked at the ground in sad silence, and said "I was making a joke. I keep trying and you just keep knocking me down." That I do. I was sad at my stupidity and at his sadness so I laughed nervously and told him I'd do my best to differentiate between his jokes and serious declarations in the future. 

Another time, I recall him joking that his grand father is Obama.

Best of all, I remember one of the first nights we talked, when he very openly showed me that he has diabetes. Diabetes is awful. Apparently diabetics have insulin pumps attached to their, well, asses. And no, I don't mean their pet donkeys, I mean their butts. How do I know that? Because he showed me!

One of the first classes we talked, I offered him a hard-boiled quail egg. He told me that he hated eggs, but I insisted that quail eggs were completely different and that he should really try one. Kindly enough, he did. He bravely put that whole miniature eggs in his mouth, and then his face cringed. He looked horrible. His cheeks swelled, so as to make ample space in his mouth so that he wouldn't have to swallow the currently chewed-up egg. I was laughing, but eventually managed to push through the giggles to tell him that his is welcome to spit it out. Without hesitation, he turned his back to me and spat out the egg with vigour. I apologized for causing him pain, all while laughing at him. I offered to make it up to him by baking something actually decent for him and the rest of the class. I asked what he likes to eat. He couldn't think of anything, so he said "good ole cookies". Then he told me he had diabetes.

That scared me because I didn't know what diabetes meant. I asked if he could still eat cookies and he said "yeah. I can eat anything". I inquired if that would cause his sugar to skyrocket and thereby cause him to be dead in band class. To that, he very proudly pulled the backside of his pants down a little to expose part of his ass. There, a little plastic tube sticked out. He pulled the little tube, which led him to his pocket where a small cassette-player-like object lived. It was his pump. He told me that he just presses a button after a meal, and the machine does the rest for him. So cookies it was!

Eventually, the often-absent girl in our band asked me about my relationship with this guitarist guy. I told her that we just talk, she expressed regret at that and told me that she "ships" us. I had to go to Urban Dictionary to find out what that means. It means that she endorses a relationship between us. Well.

Then some other random guy in our music school, but not in our band class, asked us if we were dating. The answer was no. The boy has a girlfriend. See? I told you that no romantic love was involved.

As of late, the boy doesn't accompany on the bus anymore; he goes the opposite way, but we still talk a lot before class. 

The boy was nice enough to help me once. We were all learning how to play drums: Being the uncoordinated and pathetic creature that I am, I couldn't manage to play the slightest rhythm on the chair we were hitting with sticks. The time came when the teacher requested that we all give the rhythm a try on the real drum kit. I didn't want to try. The teacher didn't notice, which had meant I had gotten away with being pathetic on a personal level only. Then the boy asked me if I had tried, I told him honestly because I thought that it wouldn't matter to him at all. I was wrong, because then, the boy did something unlike himself and shot his hand up to inform the teacher that I hadn't tried the real drums. The teacher then made me get up and play. In hindsight, I am happy that he did that. I played better on the kit than on the chair anyways. So thanks to the diabetic guy for that!

All this is fine. I've spent ridiculously long creating a great image of the protagonist of my post. Now that we've all agreed that he's a fabulous fellow, let's talk about what he said. His statements on this Tuesday panged at my heart, and some uncontrollable urge forced me to write about them. Perhaps I subconsciously want to return the favour that he did for me by ratting on me to get me to play drums and do something new. Regardless, I feel inclined to tell his story.

Now, the introduction is over and the real story begins, so get ready!

This Tuesday we were talking as per usual. Under the most absolutely average of circumstances, this diabetic boy, who I shall call Sugars herein, mentioned a job. Just plainly, like every other teenager ever, Sugars told me that he has work on the weekend, or sometime soon.

Up until that moment, the two of us had been discussing our futures beyond high school. From very early into the year, Sugars had told me that he had no intention of going to university because school "wasn't for [him]". He had also structured his classes in such a way that entrance into university would be close to impossible. He was only taking 5 out of 8 classes, one of which was Planning 10 (a class that everyone took in grade 10, but that he had somehow managed to evade up until now). The rest of his classes consisted loosely of various courses that his counsellor had assured him would be easy. Sugars, in fact, had so little ambition that he complained about taking Geology 12. According to him, the counsellor had told him that the class would require little to no effort. The counsellor's words, however, seemed to have been proven false, since there was apparently some minimal workload in existence in the class. Other than Geology and the mandatory course of English 12, Sugars was taking classes like Soccer (a real class apparently), PE, and Art, or something like that.

He does like soccer! He considers Luis Suarez, a rotweiler in human form, to be the best player in the world right now. The man bites people quite regularly - am I the only one that sees something wrong with that? Attacking aside, I'm still quite certain that there are better players out there. I'm not qualified enough to put forth other players, or rather, I'm not knowledgable enough to, but I'm sure that some readers out there may have logical reasons for picking some other players over Suarez.

But I digress.

When the topic came back on this day, I asked what he planned on doing past high school if not university. He wanted to work. I wanted to know where. He expressed a desire to begin working with his mother or his father, so that he could get paid beyond minimum wage. He was hopeful that he could climb aboard his dad's ship as a set-designer. This would pay about 20$/hour. This was better than minimum wage. This all sounded very nice. Though unclear, it was the skeleton of a plan. It was whimsical and optimistic, of course, but I wouldn't expect any less from Sugars.

Here's another side-note: A little while ago, I was talking to a friend, who coincidentally happened to "Prompose" a week ago, I proposed the idea of not going to university to him. He took this as blasphemy. Then, after I nudged him slightly, he appeared to become more accepting of the idea, even though I think that he was faking his acceptance to please me. He claimed that anyone who didn't have an absolutely perfect plan for the future had to go to post-secondary education. Not doing so would qualify you as an idiot. This was my promposal-provider's theory. I didn't, and still don't, agree with it. Sugars only served to further reassure my convictions. I'm sure he'll be OK, even with his not-so-foolproof plan. Where's the fun in certainty anyways?

That's the end of my side-note.

After Sugars told me his plan, he asked what I was going to study in university. When I said "Arts", and he gave me a sort of thumbs up. It was a welcome change from what everyone else had been telling me. I know what you're thinking - "Nat! Please let me know what everyone else had been telling you! I can't figure it out myself!" Oh, well, OK, I guess I could do that for you. How benevolent I am.

So, let me sum that up for you in the form of one joke that my dear friend told me about Arts: "What's the difference between an Arts degree and a bench?"

Think.

"A bench can support a family."

Laugh. It's OK, I did.

Sugars didn't have that sentiment, and it was, to me, therapeutic to be finally in an environment where people were relaxed enough to not hassle me about my program decision. But Sugars did inquire if there was anything I would rather be doing, and I told him the truth. The dream is to open a café, which has a ceramics workshop in the back. I make all of the cups and plates that the coffee I make gets served on.

He smiled and actually supported my idea. Again, what a welcome alternative to the laughs that I generally get when I mention my dream. Sugars said that I should do that because it wouldn't even require too much money, and because he would come in for coffee every day, which would pay off the loans. It was wonderfully relieving. But then I turned the attention back to him. I asked him what his current minimum wage job was.

Guess. It should be your first guess regardless of where in the world you're reading this from.

McDonald's. The Golden Arches employed Sugars.

As soon as he said this, he started to tell me a story, but very quickly, he stopped himself and, with slight giggling said, "nah, never mind, you don't want to hear it anyways." But I insisted and so he continued.

He then proceeded to tell about his adventures, the first of which was to clean vomit from the sink in the bathroom. As I would soon find out, the majority of problems in McDonald's do regard the washroom. This, I guess, is perfectly logical. I would like to point out, however, that a large part of this is likely thanks to the clientele which frequent McDonald's. Let's all be real here: rich people from my part of town go to McDonald's rarely - they're rather preoccupied with finding new ways to incorporate kale into their diets. People looking for cheap and quick, those are the people that go to McDonald's. Likewise, they are likely the people that make the clean up in McDonald's bathrooms so unpleasant. I recognize that what I just said was completely hoity-toity, rich, west-side girl-speak. I recognize that I just put down the lower class, but I am still a decent person because I have dedicated this massive post, in its entirety to speaking up for them.

Back to barf:

Cleaning puke? More like inducing it. That's the only thought that could possibly simmer in my brain while he told me about that.

I, personally, have never had to clean puke, and I don't think that I have ever even seen puke in a public place. I would imagine that every time I came close to dealing with some sort of bodily fluid, I avoided it at all costs. Even when I was to blame for the mess, I never had to deal with it. Once, I spat out an enormous amount of juice onto my hardwood floor. I didn't flinch because I knew that it wasn't my place to deal with it. My mother and grandmother very quickly began mopping up my mess, while I just sat back. In fact, the only request they put forth was for me lift my feet, so that they could get under them. So, can I sympathize with Sugars? No, but I can only theorize that the experience must have been putrid.

Have you ever heard the expression "It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it"? Of course you have. But I would advocate that an extension be added onto that idiom, which would make it read "It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it, and that's exactly why they should be paid a lot." I know that it doesn't have the same ring to it, but I do believe that it sounds a fair bit more rational and coherent.

Once Sugars had completed his vomit story, he started a new one - one about feces. Now, I'd like to explain to you that the manner in which Sugars told these stories made them sound as if they were perfectly common and acceptable in nature, which they obviously weren't in my socio-economic situation. He simply listed them off as if they were ingredients on a shopping list. He would say "One time, I had to..., and then another time, I had to..." I found it mesmerizing.

So yes, let me tell you about how someone smeared their poop all over a stall in the McDonald's bathroom, and left it to Sugars to clean. Wait, no, let me not tell you because it really is a graphic tale. Instead, let me tell you this: The rich corporate bureaucrats of McDonald's are surely uninterested and unenthusiastic at the prospect of cleaning shit, so why not pay more? Being the smarty I am, I'll answer the question I just posed: Because the proletariat is uneducated and doesn't bother creating uproar at the tasks they are being asked to complete. The worker, in this case sweet Sugars, speaks about his job as something completely reasonable to be doing for minimum wage. That's just how his circumstances have raised him. Ridiculous.

OK, so at one point, he does coyly and blushingly acknowledge that he performs these menial tasks for minimum wage, but it doesn't faze him. Alright, perhaps it does faze him, but he's learned to swallow his pride, and every other negative feeling that I imagine would be insinuated by cleaning vomit - and that is exactly what the big guys want.

If I was asked to clean turd off a wall, I would utilize my noodle-arms to knock a person out. I wouldn't take it. Imagine me as a McDonald's employee: what a failure that would be. Now imagine all the employees of McDonald's being like me: Well, that's the end of the golden arches.

But now turn your attention to the men with small penises in the big velvet chairs: ask them what the price for their manicured hands to be adequately submerged into their customers' bodily fluids is. I can guarantee you that if the answer isn't "priceless", it's a number pretty close to there. How strange is that?

Sugars gleams at the notion of making 20$/hour working as a manual labourer for the VSB, and I feel immense sadness and pity for him because I already make more than that as an English/debate/political tutor to the children of the elite. But what can I do? Nothing, my words fall on deaf ears, and bring no change. Because people don't like change.

See, if the status quo isn't seeing Sugars starving, then Sugars doesn't see a reason to rebel. In fact, I'd argue that, even if Sugars began to trudge through difficulties, he'd keep quiet, or coyly and blushingly speak. And that is meaningless. It's happened all throughout history - nobody rebels until they're on the brink.

But, it's different here: What has really happened is that the whole invisible system has made Sugars a-okay with hardship. For him, it's just a part of normal existence. Some willingness to rage against the machine has, inexplicably, been broken inside. Maybe it's due to the lack of education, maybe it's because of his allowances growing up, and maybe it's just because he doesn't feel bothered enough to revolt. I can't speak to that, but neither can he because he isn't sure himself.

His revolts are limited to smoking weed in some parks and going out late at night to do stupid things. For him, those stupid things are small doses of opium that make him feel as if he's made his voice heard - the graffiti, the weed, and everything in between. And they're all pointless. But that's the niche that society has asked Sugars to fulfill and he, as the predominantly obedient citizen he is, has performed his task. And maybe he has done so because society has punished him for the trivialities like his marijuana and graffiti and told him that, because he was naughty, he should pay by cleaning shit. And there's the painful double standard because when however few wolves of Wall Street destroyed the lives of however many regular people, they were rewarded with a bailout.

Something makes it hopeless here in Vancouver and I don't know what it is. You would think that, because we have so many hipsters, because we're right on the west coast, and because we're stereo-typed as "so progressive", we'd be immune to the class divide, but we aren't. In fact we're so far from it that, when I take the bus home from my music class, and exit the uneasy East and enter the cushy West, I pass a large neon sign that reads "Let's heal the divide". That horrid divide that makes some completely comfortable with cleaning shit, and others incapable of imagining shit. I don't think that the citizens of any other country in the world would tolerate having the poorest postal code in their country be bordered by the richest, as is the case here. Yet somehow, in some highly potent way, the wretchedly poor do not exit their postal code to disturb the rich, and they don't feel the need to say anything against the situation because they're accustomed to it.

It seems to me that, in the West (and this time I mean the developed nations of the world, not just the West-side of Vancouver), minimum wage jobs are the equivalents of mandatory military service. And, of course, only the lower class needs to serve in this system of living. I know, from stories, that, when my father was serving his military service in his country, he did have to do vomit-inducing jobs, like cleaning poo. But the difference lies in one subtlety: Sugars is cleaning poo for the benefit of the rich, my father was cleaning poo for the benefit of the entire nation - all classes included.

In summation, Sugars is a great kid, who I praised excessively because he deserved it. My music school is wonderful on so many levels. And most importantly, the proletariat in the West has become so heavily broken and burdened by the opulent beasts of capitalism that drastic measures are in line.

When and if I live to see the revolution, I'd like to use this post as proof of my loyalty. Thanks.