Labour Day

I can’t even begin to tell you how much I was looking forward to Labour Day. Research states that most of the countries worldwide used the first of May date because in 1884 the American Federation of Organised Trades and Labour Unions demanded an eight-hour workday, to come into effect as of May 1, 1886. This resulted in a general strike and the Haymarket Riot of 1886, but eventually also in the official sanction of the eight-hour workday.

Interestingly, given the origin of the May date, the United States celebrates Labour Day on the first Monday of September. There is some suggestion that the intention for this was to evade a commemoration of the riots that had taken place. Another reason could be that the Americans pride themselves on being different.

Whatsoever is the reasoning, the fact remains that May Day, also called International Worker’s Day, is an annual holiday to celebrate the achievement of workers. And I like that. Though I must admit it took me a long time to recognise myself as a labourer, an unpaid and overworked one too.

As a housewife and a mother, I was married to my job, so to speak. Despite the entire running around that I did to keep the home and hearth in spotless order, nobody took my work seriously, least of all my family. Forget about getting time off, I had to work extra hard over the weekends while the cook and the cleaner rested. There was neither any promotion on offer nor any grand bonuses handed to me at the end of the financial year.

If we ran out of something essential, be it fruits, eggs or towels, all they had to do was inform me. I would replenish it in no time. If anyone was sick or feeling unwell I instinctively nursed them back to health. Within the four walls of my house I was the backup driver, cook, cleaner, compounder, gardener, plumber and carpenter — all rolled into one. At various times of the day or night I had to don different hats and juggle everything to precision. 

I did all of this instinctively but somewhere along the way I felt I was being taken for granted. I did not pay too much heed to the sentiment initially but when I read up about the Labour Day holiday I discovered that I needed a break too. The term menial worker described me perfectly and I was a labourer without a pause. The daily drudgery was getting me down. 

So, without putting in an application, I decided to empathise with the international workers worldwide and take one day off. On the first of May I would neither plan the menu for the meals, nor cook them, do without the essential groceries if we ran short, not drive the family car if the driver was off, not supervise the cleaning, mending or polishing. In short, I would just go with the flow and declare complete non-cooperation for any menial task. 

The day dawned bright and sunny. 

“Do we have tomatoes in the fridge?” my husband asked. 

“Uh huh,” I replied. 

“I feel like having some juice,” he persisted. 

“Sure,” I encouraged. 

“Will you make it?” he queried. 

“No,” I said. 

“The chef is on Labour Day holiday,” he complained.

“Me too,” I declared. 

“Are you unwell?” my spouse inquired. 

“Never felt better,” I assured. 

“How about an overtime payment?” he suggested. 

“Can be worked out,” I agreed.