Marxist Janitors of the World, Unite!

So, you really think you have what it takes? You really think you could be a janitor, a revolutionary janitor, one prepared to clean everything, to start from the very bottom, from the cracks in the floor tiles, from the mould that has penetrated to the very core of the edifice, armed with mop and bucket, scrapers and scrub-brushes, disinfectants of all kinds?

It doesn’t happen all at once. You don’t just wake up one morning, throw back the covers, sit up in bed and realize that you are now a janitor of the revolutionary kind. It takes time. There are all types of little steps, steps that can’t be skipped, not if you want to stand behind the push-broom of revolutionary transformation.

First, of course, you’ll need a key ring and not just any key ring. Get the biggest one you can find, big enough for the key to every door in the building, every cabinet, every door, and, yes, the hatch to the rooftop and, while we’re at it, the hatch to the crawl space too. There are going to be a lot of keys, and they are going to make a lot of noise when you walk, so make it big, the key ring, and attach it to your belt loop with a carabiner.

Don’t forget the coveralls, preferably beige, in honor of the long line of janitors who came before us. Make sure the fabric is extra thick, extra stiff, but don’t worry because it will loosen up after a few days on the job, after those crucial first shifts, the ones where it will immediately become apparent if you have what it takes to be on the front lines, to get your hands dirty and boots muddy and wade around in the trenches.

The keyrings and coveralls are externalities, of course, appendages, accessories. Unfortunately, becoming a revolutionary janitor is not as easy as purchasing the right gear, striking the right pose, smiling for the photo. No, the true preparation, that is, the transformation, is slow and thorough; it starts early, weeks ahead of time, months if necessary. 

You might need to get off social media. Erase your Instagram account. That would be a good place to start. The reason is simple: your profession will be defined by your capacity for action, and social media tends to incapacitate you. The more images you consume, the more discourses swirling around your head, the more static on the airwaves, the less prepared you will be to act, to wedge the wooden shoe that will bring the gears grinding to a halt, when the times comes.

In some cases, it may also be necessary to stop opening your email and answering text messages. All the ringing and buzzing and chiming not only heightens anxiety and irritability, but it also interferes with reading, that is, with the second sine non qua of the revolutionary janitorial arts. Books are just as much a part of the trade as a squeegee. Cleaning on one side of the coin and reading on the other. The physical demands on the former are completed by the intellectual demands of the latter.

There is no ground more fertile for the germination of revolutionary notions, for the irruption of revolutionary breakthroughs, than the methodic labor of sweeping and mopping, the back-and-forth sway of the torso, the long walks through the hallways behind the push broom, the hourly trips up and down the back stairwell. It is at those moments, during the frenetic scrubbing, the methodic wiping, that the dust of the ideas starts to settle, that the image comes into focus, that the plan starts to take form, a life of its own.

If downtime is to be used for reading and writing and strategizing; if the wee hours are to be used for reading and writing and strategizing; if days off are to be used for reading and writing and strategizing; then your shift is when it all comes together, when you smooth out all the wrinkles, when what was vague and diffuse becomes hearty, full bodied, cheeks red, nostrils flaring, pulse quickened. Throughout the duration of your shift, you are to carry with you, at all times, in the back pocket of your coveralls a notepad and pencil. Here and there, when necessary, when the well is full, when the idea surfaces, in the supply closet, in the stairwell, in the control room, write it down, by all means, please write it all down.

Cigarette breaks by the dumpster are to be used for going over your notes. Eat alone on your lunch break, surrounded by cleaning supplies and chemicals, so that you can go over the blueprints. Bring an eraser, a straightedge, and a compass, so that you can lengthen a line, shorten another, connect two points, put on the finishing touches.

Be prepared to upend your schedule. You will be the first one there in the morning, treeline coughing up the first smudges of light, like an injury, an incendiary one. You will be the last one there at night, a chip of moon up there weathering the nightsky like a little boat that doesn’t stand a chance. You will see all the night critters; you will get to know them, and they will get to know you; both parties will lose the evolutionary fear that they once had towards the other species, the mutual distrust, the habit of perceiving the other as a threat and not an ally in the larger fight. And, seen from the margins, the off hours, the world will start to look different, radically different, as if, all this time, you had been standing too close to know what you were looking at. You will experience a peace that would be hard to experience otherwise. It will start from the bottom and work its way up.

It doesn’t happen from one day to another, but step by step, one foot over the other, and book by book, one page after another. The callouses start to form, your skin starts to thicken, the restlessness evaporates, your little boat steadies, and you begin to comprehend your place in the course of history, tumbling headlong towards the next catastrophe, that is, the next opportunity, and you begin to comprehend your role is society, hell bent on coming apart at the seams, leaving just enough room for what is to come, what is being born, the coming transformation.