On being a greenie gay girl in a man’s mining camp, or, Don’t judge others for what they must do to survive: Part one
by Taylor
We know what it is to be willing to do, quite literally, anything to make something work, to make it through another month, week or day. First of a series. See Part Two.
[/caption]
It’s a hop, skip, and a short trip in a puddle-jumper from civilization to the Small South here in The Greatland. I am surrounded by people that I ordinarily would not socialize with, even in the outer constellations in the outer revolutions of the small sky that makes up my circles of friends.
Not that I am “snobby,” or looking down my nose; there is only so far that a mutual love of (or lust for) women will go, and the camp is predominantly male roughnecks. There are a total of nine women in camp, on a good week, and even the younger men have a certain amount of chauvinism about them — one of the young men here recently told me I could be “really beautiful” if I just grew out my hair, and proceeded to proposition me with money to do so. Thankfully, I have a good sense of humor, and laughed…and then told him I stopped doing things to please others a long while ago, and am a better person for it.
The world I occupy for much of my summer is so different from my usual comfort zone, and I find myself spending my days listening to Ani and other revolutionary folk singers to hang onto myself when I find that I am slipping from myself. Compartmentalization comes easily, and I develop an outer shell not unlike the one that got me through high school, my gay growing pains, and coming out to my dad’s side of the family: Tough, hard, weathered titanium, with very few chinks or gaps in the plating.
I become someone else, begin to will myself to not care too much, to remind myself of why I am here — to patch people up when they get injured, and to make money. “Mercenary” is the word one of my volunteer Fire/EMS colleagues used once to describe me, and I’ve decided it fits painfully well. I have sold my ethics, sold my soul — if ever I had one to begin with, sold my sense of self-worth, of feminism, of right, of wrong….sold what makes me, me, and my politics, mine. I have sold all, if only for these last two years, because of one horrible thing: It pays well enough to allow me to survive.
The economy has taken such a dip, that a multi-certified, CDL-papered, degree-carrying, enterprising individual such as myself could apply to thirty different jobs in a two-month period (yes, I counted), and hear back from no one. And then I was offered this position. I am a medic, in a camp of about sixty people, in the middle of nowhere, in Alaska. The catch? It’s a camp for mineral exploration. It represents everything that I’ve resisted in resisting Capitalism’s takeover, and many, if not a vast majority, of my fellow campmates hold worldviews that directly oppose my own.
I hear racial slurs I thought long dead in anything resembling civilized society on a daily basis. I see the few women that are here, pushed to the breaking point. I am told that I am a “masculine female,” and thereby “one of the boys,” and “okay to hang with.” Ironic, how my dykedom, my DIFFERENCE, one of my many facets of divisiveness, is what binds me to these men, in their eyes. I am told I am valuable; I am told that I am a good worker; I am praised for my skills, my drive, my prodigious work ethic.
I do not tell them that I work so hard, impress so much, so that I can earn a raise…and get out. I have continued to apply for work in my time with this company, to no avail. So, I have determined that I will bust my fictitious balls in order to pay off what remains of my student debt, and thereby free myself, if only financially. I actually have difficulty sleeping, some nights, knowing what I do, and who I work for. The latter, of course, is the problem. I love my work…if only this country were willing to pay taxes to insure that the entirety of its Fire/EMS personnel were paid (the statistical average for paid emergency personnel hovers somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five percent…the rest are volunteer, or part-time, at best).
There are far worse ways to do this, but my point in this tidbit of opinion, on my admission of being one of those hardened realists that will do what they have to, if it means feeding their households, is that we should recognize it in others. As a community, we know what it is to be willing to do, quite literally, anything to make something work, to make it through another month, week or day. Not everyone can find a job — that will actually feed them — in activism or at the local co-op. Not all of us have politically correct positions, or even co-workers. Some of us have been reduced to existing in some hellish hybrid of the 1940s and the current era in order to make it through another year.
[caption id="attachment_4096" align="alignleft" width="640" caption="Kennecott Copper Mine, McCarthy, Alaska. Photo by Henry Chen ; used in accordance with Creative Commons licensing."]
[/caption]
Tags: economy, environment, feminism, work
