The Curse of "What Do You Do?"

Hi.

Had an interesting conversation today that put a couple of things in perspective. I left it feeling glad I that I moved away from Pittsburgh and got a good job. I don't think most folks thought I had it in me, frankly. They see my forwardness about my own faults as an admission of weakness. Me identifying my own quirks, however entertaining they might be, sometimes works against me. Jessie translated it for me thusly at one point: "People think you're a joke because you act like you are one."

Of course you already know that, having read nearly 97 posts where I wrestle, hopefully humorously, with my faults and foibles (holy crap, we are having a party at 100). I try to find the things that are funny about me and around me and I take pleasure in identifying them. But what I realize now is that it came to a point where the people around me - faced with that penultimate annoying question of "What does Martin do exactly?" - cried out for a hero to save them from their seemingly baseless fandom.

Said hero is, namely, me. Employed.

I confess a bit of glee about having a job title that nobody understands. My description of what I do explodes out in a tornado of important-soundingness, a swollen tempest against the squalls of feigned interest that constitute most human interactions. I am an information architect. whoosh-BAMF! You are in a cloud of unknowing. My job title is so confusing it MUST make me more important than you. You're sorry you asked, aren't you? Now I'm not only useful, I must be more useful than YOU.

I have decided that this Americans pissing contest occurs because the vast majority of us are miserable and want to know that others are as miserable as we are. Haven't you ever noticed that little sag people get in their faces when you love what you do? That little jealous silence that follows where they either try to find something about that job that must be frustrating ("Oh, I'd never have the patience to do that...") or they just murmur something half-approving and change the subject?

I hate that in America, it doesn't matter what you do with your day so long as it involves working for somebody else. As long as you're employed somewhere, people can put you in their little "useful" box and interact with you. I could be writing the next "Rhapsody in Blue," but if I'm not pulling down a paycheck every two weeks I might as well be an old couch. People can't categorize you if you're not working. The most they can do is associate you with taxes and food drives, even if you're wearing Versace glasses and drive a nicer car than they do. I remember working for Apple 15 hours a week, making enough money to basically afford to park my car near the Apple Store, but because I had an answer to "What do you do?" that was concise and cool-sounding, people left me alone. Hell, they even respected me a little.

When you're independently wealthy, though, people don't care what you do. You could just go around peeing on children all day and if you had money no one would second-guess why you always have a Nalgene full of Crystal Light.

I notice the same need to categorize when I'm with Jess. Everyone, friend and stranger alike, wants to know when we're getting married. It's all they see when they look at us: People who are getting married. They don't see a teacher or an artist. They see unmarried people. And it's not just them "being nice." They want to know when we will get married so they can know how long they have to wait before they can put us in the little "Things I've Figured Out" compartment they have in their head. An engagement at least has a little drama associated with it, a chance things might not work out, go south, crash and burn. That makes people interested, but only in resolving that anxiety. I am convinced that, as humans, we like to think that the world can be categorized, can be predicted and controlled. The things we learn carve channels in our mind, and instead of making new channels we try and force all the water to flow through the old, i.e. "But I already dug this hole in the ground to bury you in!"

It makes me want to do random things. Scary things. Disappear for three days with no indication as to where I've gone. Wear a different wig for seven days and chart people's reaction. I have this fantasy, at parties, that I will make up a different answer to the question "What do you do?" for each person who asks.

Guest 1: "I didn't realize Martin was a marine biologist. He went to Cornell and everything."

Guest 2: "Marine biologist? I thought he was a nature photographer."

Guest 3: "Hey, did you guys hear? Martin is next in line to go to the International Space Station!"

Fuckers. What do you care anyway? If I tell you what I do, will that make you feel better? Try this question. It is so much better than "what do you do," and it starts a much more attractive conversation. Ask: "What are you excited about nowadays?" Go ahead. Try it. I promise the conversation will be rewarding. More rewarding than asking, "How can I categorize you today? Worthless, or worthwhile?"

Anyways, yes. I am doing this. I'm showing up on time to work. I'm doing a good job. I'm holding down a big-boy opportunity with aplomb. Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised at the surprise and doubt of others. I certainly shared it. I'm still amazed I was able to transition this easily. And I feel like a bad, bad boy for posting something at 2 AM. WAY past my bedtime. Bad Martin. Bad.

Let's cut this crap that I need defended to anyone. I can take care of myself.

-m