Last Monday was a day that was supposed to be full of promise. Heath, my 5-year-old son, was preparing to interview for his first real job. We had spent the weekend practicing for the interview, and he was brimming with confidence. Ever since he turned 5, Heath had been talking about wanting to settle down and start a family. Nothing makes a father more proud, so I agreed to help him get started.
While I was excited for Heath, a part of me was also terrified. I was a child of the 80s and saw firsthand that the fat-cat politicians in Washington, D.C., made it increasingly difficult for children to find jobs. Racism, sexism, and kidism were rampant across the country. Sure, times have changed since then, but there are still far too many job postings requiring applicants to be 18+.
I figured the best place to start would be in an industry known to be progressive on child labor rights, so factory work seemed to be the perfect fit. I grew up seeing news stories about factories worldwide trying to give jobs to needy children, even under a relentless slander campaign by the media. It seemed a factory was the perfect place for Heath to begin his new life. As it turned out, I could not have been more wrong.
“Children are our most valuable resource.”
-Herbert Hoover
On that fateful Monday, my son and I walked into our local factory feeling confident and ready. Sure we had lied on Heath’s resume to get him there, but I’d seen enough movies to know that we could win them over with a heartfelt speech if we just got an interview.
After waiting just a few minutes, we were escorted into the owner’s office for what we thought would be an interview. The moment we walked in, my heart sank. I saw the factory owner look at my son with what some may think was confusion, but I knew it was a look of pure contempt for my poor boy.
If I could engage him in an open and honest dialogue, maybe I could change his mind? Maybe that was silly to think. The kind of hate these kid-phobes traffic in tends to run very deep. Still, I tried and tried until I felt the cold steel of the handcuffs on my wrist. As the police dragged me away screaming, I made eye contact with my son and saw that his little heart was broken—just 5-years-old and already the victim of a hate crime.
After a few days in jail and a lot of lying to the police, I was released and able to help my son start putting his life back together. I promised him that we would never again let kid-hating bigots control our lives. That no matter how long it took or what third-world country we had to go to, I would not rest until he had the pleasure of a soul-crushing career.
I hope that the factory owner reads this, and I hope it scares them. You can take out a restraining order against me, but you can’t take one out against change.
