Lost in Translation: 打工
Recently I had a surprising experience with my friend, T. We were in a rush for some early lunch and tried many cafes and restaurants after not having a lot of sleep. By the time we found one that was open and had an acceptable line, it was a quarter to eleven. We trudged in and perused their offerings. T found nothing he liked on the breakfast menu and asked if he could order off the lunch menu, as it was only five minutes to eleven. He was told no and was a little upset. Granted, we were in dire need of both sleep and food, but I had enough faith in T not to escalate the issue.
What happened next was the interesting bit: After sitting down, T proceeded to complain about the staff at the café. That they were lazy, that they didn’t want to make exceptions, that it ruined the brand of the establishment, and not least of all the enjoyment of the patrons. It was by far the single most entitled and out-of-touch thing I had ever seen him, an empathetic person, do. Granted, we were tired, hungry, and in a rush so I could catch a flight, but he then proceeded to defend his position by arguing that the staff should have some pride in what they do, that if they had a job, they should do it properly, and that if he was the owner of the café he’d be upset.
Of course, the missing piece here is that the employees of the café aren’t passionate, motivated tradespeople. They’re simply hired help, human capital in an expensive coastal city, working in an industry that traditionally demands some level of in-person pleasantries. In Chinese, the term that refers to this sort of labour is 打工 (dǎgōng). 打工 might have been historically used to refer to a brand of manual work conducted by the sort of folk seeking any paid employment, but is now used quite liberally while maintaining the original spirit of the word. Part-time job while in school? 打工. Something to keep busy while in semi-retirement? 打工. A full-time job stacking boxes in a warehouse? 打工. Is someone sheepishly referring to their demanding corporate job? Also 打工.
It’s not considered 打工 when one works for themselves. Entrepreneurs, small-business owners, self-employed tradespeople, and multilevel marketing shills are all considered to be above 打工; no matter how much more they make than a corporate accountant, the accountant works for someone while the others work for themselves. Artists and craftspeople are obviously not 打工. Medical professionals, educational professionals, and politicians are also excluded from 打工, likely because Chinese tradition holds them in high esteem, perceiving them to be intrinsically self-motivating careers.
In proper Chinese, 打工 refers to the jobs that are traditionally considered low-skill and labour-intensive, but it can also be used self-deprecatingly to refer to a job that one isn’t passionate about, a pot-boiler of sorts. The Chinese term 上班 (shàngbān) refers to work that one doesn’t view as denigratingly, the standard term for what is considered an acceptable job, one with prospects and a degree of satisfaction. This is not to put down those who 打工, and have no intention of doing anything else to earn money. Perhaps 打工 brings them enough to live off of that they don’t need to look for a high-stress career. Perhaps they find enough satisfaction in their hobbies that they don’t demand fulfillment out of their employment. Perhaps they don’t buy into the idea that a dream job exists.
I’ve previously written about how I came to terms with enjoying my job after a few years of struggling with the idea that a job could bring me fulfillment. Prior to that realization, if I was speaking Chinese, I would have certainly referred to my job as 打工. It wasn’t something I was passionate about, proud of, or piqued by, but over time I started to have an appreciation for all those elements in my job. As a young professional living in a big city, there is the belief that 打工 is bad. One must have a career, and be motivated and fulfilled by their job. However, it is often a challenge for them to realize that not everyone has the same mentality towards the work that they do. Of course, they can rationally understand, but their knee-jerk reaction is surprise and disappointment.
The closest term English has to 打工 is pot-boiler, which writers and artists use to refer to their day jobs. Another equivalent would be saying “oh, you know, it pays its bills”. There is no single term that perfectly encapsulates a situation of a job, something that doesn’t bring fulfillment but is bearable and profitable. If the term 打工 existed in English, the conflict of my opening anecdote would have been easily resolved. “T,” I would say, “they’re just 打工”. Not only are they simply trying to pay the bills, but the job itself is also a dead end, and there is no need to do any more than pay the bills. If anything, perhaps the owner could have set up a better system, empowered their employees, or instituted a profit share. In the absence of these, the behaviour of the staff is perfectly understandable. Based on this, I believe that the English language is moderately weaker for the lack of a catch-all term to designate a “job that pays the bills but doesn’t bring much fulfillment nor inspire any motivation”.
Although it’s okay to be 打工 at any stage, any point in one's life, one should be aware if they are doing so. In modern Western society, all things work-related consist of upwards of a third of one’s waking hours. Of course, not everyone has the luxury of enjoying their job, but because society expects one to do so, it’s easy to forget that the job is often just 打工: it pays the bills, and takes up time and energy. Similarly, if one is supporting a family, or is a recent immigrant just trying to get by, perhaps all their time has to go into 打工, and they have no opportunities for fulfillment outside of that. But that’s no way to live. Perhaps capitalism is to blame, perhaps human nature is. Just remember that you’re more than your job, especially if you’re 打工.
