In addition to being a press operator at a plastics factory, I’m also a stripper. I’ve heard time and again that my job is a cop-out. I think one of the reasons most people don’t view dancing as legitimate employment is because – at least from my perspective – this job is fun as all hell, and a lot of us are oppressed by the idea that your job isn’t supposed to be fun. You’re supposed to go to work to make money, and go have fun during your time off. Most jobs don’t allow you to drink on the job or simply walk away from a troublesome customer (for obvious reasons). You’re supposed to grin and bear it (sober), and silently count the seconds until you can clock the fuck out.

Set schedules, strict policies, forced behavior, quotas… normal jobs suck. When I work at the club, the only real requirements are that I’m on the floor at least 4 hours, and I make enough money to pay my $15 tip out. I can usually make that much from talking to someone for 10 minutes, whether or not I play the pity card. That’s where this job gets a little more involved than just being a hot piece of ass. We have to talk to people – both men and women, yes, both, into paying money to watch us dance on a pole, or grind on their lap.

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I have two types of friends – Those who know how to drop and rebuild a transmission, and those who have no idea their hubcaps come off their tires. I’m not part of the latter group. Those who had a hand in raising me, grew up in a time when calling a repairman was a last-ditch effort. It was natural for both sides of my family to do their own repairs.

I can’t recall the number of times I’ve seen my dad or my great grandfather working on something; from cars to electrical to plumbing. My great grandma used to make clothes for me or mended clothing I’d torn. I’m incredibly fortunate I inherited several generation’s worth of versatility, and for that, I’m thankful. I was born into a family that didn’t have a lot of money. My family knew what it meant to survive with very little. My parents and grandparents knew they’d be up shit’s creek if they couldn’t figure out how to solve problems on their own.

As the proverb goes, It takes a village to raise a child, and I’m living proof. I was sewing hems, bleeding brake lines, and cooking meals by the time I’d entered middle school. That was just the way life was for me, and I never thought anything of it.

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I work in plastics. Well, not actually in them, just with them. I’m a press operator, and I’m responsible for inspecting and packing parts, configuring pallets, and babysitting half of my crew members. I work for a company that cares more about tiny bits of polyethylene than the well being of its employees. The head honcho is more concerned about the fact I’m not at my machine, rather than the reason why. That reason being, I had just properly sliced my finger wide open on a sorry excuse for a box cutter, that they themselves had provided me. Instead of being concerned with my safety and well-being, their issue lies with my blood on their product, and how much of a pathogen threat I am. They were quick to shut my line down and decontaminate the area, while I stood idly by, blood-soaked rag getting bloodier by the moment. This is the place where you’ll sooner get, “Jesus, you’re not going to need stitches, are you?” rather than, “Oh my god, are you okay? Here, let’s get you bandaged up.”

I understand that many people believe that this job is better than no job at all, but there are times I beg to differ. Yes, I’m making a steady paycheck. Yes, I can (barely) pay my bills; but at what true cost? No respectable human being should sacrifice their sanity and self-worth for a measly $9.35 an hour.

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