We Get What We Want.

I'm not special. And that's what keeps me moving forward. When I get sick of the never ending rat race at work or feel as though I'm not maximizing my personal potential, or failing to provide value-added deliverables which can be tracked through quantifiable metrics, I remember how a lot of gold comes from the Democratic Republic of Congo in Africa.

The DR Congo is where children and parents alike line up the on the side of crumbling muddy pits and toss up clumps of dirt to be sieved for tiny bits of gold. That gold moves through several layers of corrupt officials and offshore middlemen, and finally lands, among other places, in the velvet lined cases of America's malls. Those uneducated and barefoot children are lucky if they get anything for their work. The adults are usually paid with a bucketful of mud that may or may not contain any gold. A bucketful of MUD. It makes my qualms about my job seem like the fat little king in the Bugs Bunny cartoon who constantly demands hossenfeffer despite the lavish feast laid before him.

At the grocery store, I like to save money on food. When I see blueberries that cost more than three bucks a pack, I may feel indignant. Blueberries grow on bushes in Michigan. They're not rare. They should be rock bottom cheap. Then I remember the hands that picked them may have belonged to a 10-year old Mexican migrant worker. Not in Mexico. In Michigan. Working all day in the field. Living in squalor, with no sewage or hot water. In Michigan.

On the other side of the coin, it's important for growers to have access to child labor. It's more profitable for them. And that's important. Plus, I'm used to cheap fresh fruit on my table. Or as I like to call it, hossenfeffer.