Ray From Cleveland
Diamond Member
- Aug 16, 2015
- 97,215
- 37,439
I was surprised to realize, in an eye-opening moment, that the discussions here are giving me a better understanding of my reactions to some posts. Especially, why I'm so impatient with certain kinds of posts.
My family was working class. Father was raised on a farm, spent 20 years in the military, then 30 years on his last job. He'd get up at 4 or 5am and walk to work. Got home between 6 and 8 pm. I never heard him complain.
We were expected to work, be responsible for our decisions, and NEVER to touch anything that didn't belong to us.
The worst things we could do were, 1) be a thief. 2) be a liar. 3) be lazy. And feeling sorry for yourself would bring reactions that would make you absolutely cringe.
My sister is about 20 years older than me. She began working when she was 7 years old, and finally "retired" at about 85 years of age.
Where we lived, farmers would drive through with stake bed trucks, yelling for people who wanted to work. They'd fill the trucks with people who were taken out to the farms. They would pick crops, including jalapenos, beans, tomatoes, watermelons, you name it. That's where my sister started working. Early start, late finish, low pay. NO FUCKING WHINING. I never heard her once blame others for her tough times.
She raised 4 fine kids. Bought a couple of homes. And those kids are hard workers, too.
So when I hear our well known whiners wallow in self pity about being so fucking oppressed, and blaming others for their own failures, it makes me want to explode. And, in a verbal sense, I suppose I do sort of explode.
All I have to say to lazy, whining people, is to shove their fucking self pity up their worthless, lazy, asses.
There's my little catharsis. Maybe I'll be more patient in the future.
The Hell I will. Lol...
I think you touched on something that hasn't been discussed here yet, and that is upbringing. How you are brought up has everything to do with what kind of an adult you became.
We moved from Cleveland to the burbs in 1967 thanks to the hard work of my father. I was only seven years old at the time. After my father got home beat and tired from his job, he'd head straight over to the house he was building us after work and weekends.
He'd take us kids with him to give my mother some relief, but we didn't go there just to watch. He gave us meaningless jobs just to help do something as little as it was, and to teach us the value of working. After the house was built and we moved, the teaching didn't stop there. My father once again came home from his full-time job, and went to do side work. I was with him much of the time. He paid me one dollar an hour to mix cement, carry bricks or blocks to the job site, keep the tools clean, and come home full of sand and cement. The only thing I could do at night when we got home was to take a shower and go to bed. This started at the age of 12.
Most kids back then did anything to earn money. The few where the parents just handed their kids money turned out to be failures; always expecting handouts for the rest of their life. They always had an excuse why they quit their job or were fired, and they lived at home for much longer than the rest of us that learned how to use our wings as adults.
I don't think you'd find many that were raised like you, I and Lisa that adopted a victimization stance. The adults that were victims were raised as victims, always being felt sorry for by their families and friends when harder times for them came along. For us, when you got bounced to the ground, you simply had to get up, dust yourself off and go to a new adventure.
It wasn't white privilege, it was a two-parent working family privilege, and it didn't come easy either, but again, thank God I'm from such a family.