One commodity is cherished by all Americans almost above life itself. And no American will ever begrudge another for taking too much of it, or for garnering more than their fair share. That commodity is work, housed within the vessel of a job; or, in its more sought after, and esteemed form, an occupation in life. The need to work is the connective tissue that binds our culture, which stretches and contracts across generations of Americans. It has persisted in the face of those corresponding cyclical strains and contractions in economic conditions, from Franklin to Ford to Zuckerberg, This essay is a tribute to that commodity all true Americans hold dear--more dearly than the Rothschild's held onto their stock-shares or mansions. That commodity is work, in any form or at any acceptable wage, encased within the routine of a job or its higher-status, occupational toil. Our life's labor is both the anthem of our existence and the identity we cull from that existence, meager as it might be. Where we find passion for our work, our toil surges as life blood through our veins. And it is life sustaining even if we should fail to find passion for our labor.
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