We live in an age where “meritocracy” is an accepted coin of the realm. Many of us believe that the just desserts of life – success, money, prosperity – rightly go to those who are seen to have deserved their rewards through education and hard work.
Unlike medieval times, when social roles are assigned to us at birth, and social mobility is limited to a lucky few, or only in rare times of unexpected social upheaval, we take it almost for granted that our rise and fall are something that we deserve to get out of our own efforts.
It is only in the past decade or so, in the aftermath of the global financial crisis and the travails of younger members of society, struggling to afford their own homes or earn a decent salary, that we begin to see that the modern regime of meritocracy can be a facade that disguises the many ways in which privilege can still decide the outcomes of many lives in our society.
We no longer live in an age where a moneyed class can inherit all their wealth, and enjoy lives of dissipated leisure. But it is still true that wealth can afford the best education, afford backdoor access into the best universities through benefactions and alumni networks, afford hard-fought slots in corporate internships that lead to high-flying jobs, and afford the rising costs of healthcare and old age living. It is still true that poverty can keep too many of us in chains which are very hard to break, dragging the unfortunate ones down in poorly-funded schools, in ravaged neighhbourhoods, in crime and in constant lack of economic security.
For those few who are lucky enough to have risen through the gates of meritocracy – succeeding in public school examinations, matriculating into the best universities, making it into high-paying elite jobs – it is easy to come to identify oneself primarily with one’s signal achievements in school and at work.
For many years, it mattered to me what the words on my business card would say, the validation of being in a high-powered role or in a well-respected company. I would even use my business cards as bookmarks, occasionally brandishing them as I am reading, silently glorying in this little piece of existential affirmation, like Gollum and his “precious”.
It took me a while to realise that work is but one facet of a life well lived. Yes, one needs to earn a living, but there is infinitely more to life than a paycheque, or the baubles and possessions that we surround ourselves with through the fruits of our daily work. As Kat would say, you gotta find your own organic interests.
I am also reminded of this quote, from a story told by author Toni Morrison. When she complained to her father about her work, cleaning other people’s homes, her father replied,
“Listen. You don’t live there. You live here. With your people. Go to work. Get your money. And come on home.”
This year, as I am hitting 45, I realise that for many of my peers, this time is the primetime for our economically-earning lives. Some of my friends, people who I used to know in university or in my early years as a fresh graduate, are now Ministers and CEOs, high-flying corporate lawyers and well-respected consultants and bankers. I am not doing too badly myself, but I will freely admit that I had greater expectations for how 45 was going to greet me.
But, like Pip in that Dickensian tale of love and ambition and dashed hopes, I know now that work is but one part of who I am, and I also know now that my mission in these years remaining is to make the most of who I am and what I can be, before I am ready to come on home.