(Click for an audio version of this blog, read by yours truly)
We've all heard the saying - “If you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life.”
But if you dared to repeat this well-recited refrain to my Appa or my father-in-law several decades ago, they would have scoffed.
For both of these men, work was not something to be enjoyed. My father-in-law, whom I call Abuhji, came to the States as a newly married man.
...without his new wife. That's right. He immigrated alone, leaving his wife - my mother-in-law - behind in South Korea. She tended to their home and eventually raised their firstborn baby boy (my now husband) by herself as Ahbuhji toiled to create a new life for them in America.
Ahbuhji was, and still is, a family man. More than anything, he wanted to provide well for his family and he foresaw a hard ceiling if they were to stay in Korea. So, even if it meant many lonely nights, even if it meant corresponding with his wife and now toddler son over only occasional phone calls (because long distance calls were spendy), he bravely ventured overseas to prepare a new life for his family.
When we were still dating, it floored me how casually James would mention recording messages to his father on an old cassette recorder. His mom would set him up in a chair, push the record button, and then mail away the tape of his toddler voice overseas to her husband.
I’m not sure if your eyes are wet yet, but mine always, always mist whenever I think about my Abuhji tearing open a brown envelope to hear his son’s voice from faraway Seoul.
My own parents' story is a little different, but for them, work was also a means to an end. My Umma was a young, Korean immigrant with a few English words and phrases that she could cobble together into roughly comprehensible sentences. When she first discovered she was pregnant with me, my Appa didn’t hesitate.
“No more work for you,” he decided sternly. There were no if, ands, or buts about it. He had spent his childhood years in near impoverishment, often getting pulled from school to help out on their family’s small sweet potato farm. It supplied his meager breakfast and lunch for the day whenever he headed to school - one warm sweet potato from the oven in each pocket. They would barely supply my young father his daily calorie needs for the day, but at least they kept his hands warm in ways his outgrown clothes couldn’t.
The farm - and the work thereof - may have fed my Appa as a child, but it also robbed him of his parents. Both my grandparents passed away young, leaving my orphaned Appa and his siblings to fend for themselves.
So, from a young age, my Appa decided he would never let his own children repeat such a childhood. From the year of my conception until his retirement just this past year, he worked tirelessly to make sure his single paycheck could provide for five lives - my parents, myself, and my two sisters.
You know what they say about #firstworldproblems? In my mind, I often wonder about #firstworldchildren, who have complaints about meager things, like the way their parents check up on their social media or attach limits and curfews to their fun.
It's flabbergasting.
My immigrant parents and in-laws bore impossibly large burdens to make sure their children would never have to go hungry. So as far as I'm concerned, my parents can do whatever they want with my social media accounts. In fact, you might like to know that my Umma often asks to log into my Instagram account so she can keep friendly tabs on all her friends.
For the adults in my life, work wasn't a pursuit of passions. Work was hard. It was painful. It was sleepless, it was lonely, and sometimes demeaning.
So this past year, when my last school pushed me into a dark corner and I finally contemplated giving myself a period of rest, I was shocked when Appa cheered. “That’s the best birthday present you could give me!” he roared over the phone when I timorously announced that I was taking my first sabbatical after seventeen years in the classroom.
He had quietly observed how the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. He has since also become quite the opponent of my bear-it-all, work-hard-toward-perfectionism attitude.
"You work like an immigrant even though you're an American," he once mused.
He wasn't wrong. Maybe it’s because children copy their heroes, or maybe it’s because there were those who still made me feel like an outsider in my own country. Whatever it was, I never really let myself rest well - as a teacher or as a person. And my father wasn’t having it.
He recently told me about his close colleagues, one of whom was a worker bee like myself, and the other who could never be bothered to lift a finger. “Regardless of how they worked, they both collected paychecks, and they both went into retirement,” he remembered with a slow grin. “Work is work. Whether you destroy yourself with hard work, or plod and loaf your way to the end, you’re still going to cross the finish line just like the other.
"So don’t invite unnecessary stress,” he finished, giving me a fatherly clap on the shoulder.
So I have. During the first few months of this sabbatical, I have let myself enjoy all this new work and all these learning opportunities. I've revived beloved dusty, old hobbies and collected quite a few new ones. I soon realized I was working harder than I’d ever worked in my life. At the moment, I’m juggling so many classes - learning French, writing, photography, content editing, and digital illustrations - that I’m often up late at night, clacking away at my keyboard because I’m afraid some seed ideas will dissipate in my dream state.
Still, that sneering voice sometimes whispers in my head. You’re not making any money.
James is often quick to spot and speak into those moments, great husband that he is. He patiently enumerates my contributions and speaks confidence into my soul during my wobbly-kneed moments. Most of all, he reminds me that work comes in all different forms.
“It’s not about the numbers on the paycheck,” he once said. “Work just means effort and growth.”
My therapist, who agreed, even suggested I keep a notebook to detail all the ways I 'worked' each day.
Cleaned the house? Jot it down.
Created new artwork? Add it to the list.
Did another French lesson? Écris le!
Before long, I was filling pages with satisfying lists of all the ways I'd learned, tried new things, helped others, and kept our little home running well.
I've since appended a cheeky label to the cover of this notebook which reads, 'Daily Salary' - not because I'm earning much. But it serves as a regular and helpful reminder to myself that even unpaid work adds value to my world.
So if there be a moral to this story, it’s this. Disregard the numbers on the paycheck, if there is one. Don’t sneer at the stay-at-home moms. Don’t let the question marks appear in your eyes when you find out he’s an unemployed dad. Refrain from the jokes about sugar mamas or daddies. And let's try not to place people’s jobs on a ladder, as though there were some professions that were more meritous than others.
Let's think instead about How does my work bring value to my corner of the world? Who is helped by the work that I do?
And (with hopes you can answer this in more than one way) - What joys do I acquire when I do this work?
So friends, whatever work you're up to this week, wherever it is, and regardless of salaries and paystubs, my hope is that your week of work finds you positive, productive, and purposeful.
