Shut Up and Work: Then Escaping the Workplace

By Don Glynn

Donald Glynn Jr.'s Shut Up and Work is a fierce manifesto and handbook for those who have reached their limit with the typical American corporate grind. If you're dissatisfied with your job, bosses, and/or work environment and are seeking alternatives to the corporate "plantation." Don's unapologetic writing style and relatable anecdotes are sure to delight and inspire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cedric D. Fisher & Company Publishers
• Release date: Apr 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215101414

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

My parents grew up during the Jim Crow Era and the Civil Rights Movement. My parents were married shortly after they met in 1972. I was born in Waco, Texas, during the mid-1970s. I am my father’s oldest child and my mother’s youngest. I have five siblings. My father worked as a maintenance mechanic at an M&M Mars manufacturing plant, and my mom was a licensed vocational nurse employed at the local hospital. Both worked for over thirty years in their occupations.

My father preached to us as kids that hard work and focus were the keys to solving some of Black people’s problems in America. He was a straightforward, strict, and no-nonsense disciplinarian who used to harp on the old southern mantra, You have to work twice as hard as your white counterpart. If there were a book with a picture defining someone who worked hard, my dad would be featured. He was a ride-or-die blue-collar guy. There was nothing white-collar about him.

My father used to say, If it’s not hard and tough, get it out of here. On top of working a full-time job, he spent his spare time repairing car engines and working on projects around the house. But his ultimate love was landscaping the yard. I believe he missed his calling to have his own landscaping business. At times, I felt that he loved the yard more than his kids. Over the years, my father planted his grass, installed his own sprinkler system. He even cut down, and then replanted many trees and bushes. He would repeat this cycle every five years, except for installing the sprinkler system.

My mother had the same work ethic as my dad: strictness, and no time for nonsense. Her personality resembled a chameleon, naturally knowing how to speak and act around certain people and in different places. My mom should have been an actress or a spy; she would tell you a little information to see how you would respond. Then release more information or change her story depending on the response. In public, she would speak to people in a nice, soft, lady-like tone, but when she was around family or her friends, her I’ll slap the shit out of you tone would surface.

My mother loved her job. If someone asked her what she did for a living, she would explain, in gross detail, how the doctor cut open a patient to perform a surgical procedure. She would often tell us about her day right before dinner and then get mad when we lost our appetite.

By the time I turned one, my parents had saved up enough money to purchase their first home. We moved to the suburbs to pursue a better life. We were one of the many Black families who reached the land of the middle class.

To the outside world, looking in, our family seemed happy in those first few years of my life. My older siblings and I can tell you many stories of how my parents served up hot, cold, and frozen ass whoopings regularly. My parents got divorced just after I turned six. It was very devastating when it happened, I was crushed and sad.

To this day, I still don’t know why my mom left my dad. I never saw my dad verbally or physically abuse her. To me, he spent most of his time trying to make her happy. But in the end, it wasn’t enough to hold their marriage together.

As a young boy, all I wanted was to be with my father. I felt my mom took that away from me. For the next ten years, I lived with my mom as part of the custody agreement. I could only see my dad twice a month, which was every other weekend due to the court’s decision. This strained my relationship with my mom. Due to the lack of his involvement with me, I found myself falling into the statistics of many other Black youths growing up without a full-time father in the household.

I started to act out, especially in school. I went to school physically, but mentally I was not there. Anytime I could get in trouble, I did. Whether it was talking, fighting, being disruptive, or anything