Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday 30 July 2025 at 09:07
Image generated by Copilot
Respect Without Résumé
I rarely tell strangers what I did for a job.
It’s not because I’m ashamed of it, or because it doesn’t matter. It’s because it matters too much — at least to the person asking. We live in a world where the first thing people ask, often right after your name, is “What do you do?” or, if you’re older, “What did you used to do?”
It’s a deceptively simple question, but often, it’s a way of locating someone on the social map. A kind of shortcut. Work has become the universal shorthand for gauging status, intelligence, values, even personality. That might be efficient, but it’s rarely fair. And it’s almost never accurate.
When I was a young man, I worked the night shift in a supermarket. Every now and then, one of us would be assigned to crush the cardboard that had piled up after unpacking thousands of boxes. We had an enormous baler in the back, a big metal machine that compressed the flattened cardboard into dense, manageable bales. We gave ourselves a mock title to add a bit of dignity to the task: “Cardboard Compression Engineers.” It was a private joke, but it carried a small truth — that even in the most menial of jobs, there’s work being done, systems being kept afloat, lives being lived.
I’m retired now, and I’m still hesitant when someone asks me what I “was.” Because the answer isn’t simple. And because I want to be known for more than that. I want to be seen for who I am, not what I did.
What I long for is not attention, but recognition, not applause, but acknowledgment. A desire to be known, without narrative or defence. To be seen clearly, without the filters of status or résumé. That kind of knowing is rare. And beautiful.
I once read a book called The Almost Nearly Perfect People, which described Denmark as a classless society. Apparently, the lawyer can be found drinking beside the baker, the gynaecologist chatting with the social worker. It sounds ideal. But I’m not so sure. Don’t we all, consciously or not, seek the company of those who share a similar literacy, not just of words, but of experiences, values, humour, culture?
Still, I believe there’s something to aim for in that image: a society where people meet as humans first, and roles second. Where dignity isn’t something, you earn by your occupation, but something you grant one another by default.
So no, I won’t be boxed in by what I used to do. I have no need for status or titles. I simply want to be recognised as a fellow traveller. An older man who has walked a path, held his ground, borne his burdens, and tried to do some good , with or without a name badge to prove it.
Respect Without Résumé
Image generated by Copilot
Respect Without Résumé
I rarely tell strangers what I did for a job.
It’s not because I’m ashamed of it, or because it doesn’t matter. It’s because it matters too much — at least to the person asking. We live in a world where the first thing people ask, often right after your name, is “What do you do?” or, if you’re older, “What did you used to do?”
It’s a deceptively simple question, but often, it’s a way of locating someone on the social map. A kind of shortcut. Work has become the universal shorthand for gauging status, intelligence, values, even personality. That might be efficient, but it’s rarely fair. And it’s almost never accurate.
When I was a young man, I worked the night shift in a supermarket. Every now and then, one of us would be assigned to crush the cardboard that had piled up after unpacking thousands of boxes. We had an enormous baler in the back, a big metal machine that compressed the flattened cardboard into dense, manageable bales. We gave ourselves a mock title to add a bit of dignity to the task: “Cardboard Compression Engineers.” It was a private joke, but it carried a small truth — that even in the most menial of jobs, there’s work being done, systems being kept afloat, lives being lived.
I’m retired now, and I’m still hesitant when someone asks me what I “was.” Because the answer isn’t simple. And because I want to be known for more than that. I want to be seen for who I am, not what I did.
What I long for is not attention, but recognition, not applause, but acknowledgment. A desire to be known, without narrative or defence. To be seen clearly, without the filters of status or résumé. That kind of knowing is rare. And beautiful.
I once read a book called The Almost Nearly Perfect People, which described Denmark as a classless society. Apparently, the lawyer can be found drinking beside the baker, the gynaecologist chatting with the social worker. It sounds ideal. But I’m not so sure. Don’t we all, consciously or not, seek the company of those who share a similar literacy, not just of words, but of experiences, values, humour, culture?
Still, I believe there’s something to aim for in that image: a society where people meet as humans first, and roles second. Where dignity isn’t something, you earn by your occupation, but something you grant one another by default.
So no, I won’t be boxed in by what I used to do. I have no need for status or titles. I simply want to be recognised as a fellow traveller. An older man who has walked a path, held his ground, borne his burdens, and tried to do some good , with or without a name badge to prove it.