What do you do?

The party’s in full swing. The dance area is full of gyrating bodies, swaying to the latest dance hall music. Here and there, at quieter locations – the sitting room, the verandah – small groups of three or four are in earnest conversation, holding tightly to their partially-filled glasses, engrossed in the various topics under discussion.
A newcomer approaches a group, having recognized one of the participants. He is new on the scene, recently arrived in the country from a neighbouring island, to take up employment here.
“Hi, how’re you doing?” he greets his acquaintance.
“Oh, hello. Guys, meet Patrick Knowles. He’s from Antigua.”
A series of hellos, hi’s, right ons, etc, follow as the newcomer’s presence is acknowledged. And almost inevitably, the very first question which follows his acceptance into the group, nine times out of ten, turns out to be: “so, what do you do?”
Whether he knows it or not, his answer to that query is going to decide Patrick’s status in St. Lucian society for the duration of his stay in this country.
It is going to decide whether he gets the most comfortable seat next time that the guys get together at someone’s house on a Saturday afternoon to watch the football game on T.V.
His reply will determine how early he gets handed his plate at the next Sunday barbeque that he attends, and whether he gets a perfectly-done T-bone steak, or a couple of dried out chicken wings, because “we didn’t expect so many people to turn up-almost twice as many as we invited; so we ran out of steak and chicken legs, but don’t worry, the wings are really the best tasting item that we’ve got. Actually we saved the best for last, so here you are. Enjoy.”
His reply will decide whether at future gatherings, some pretty young thing, the most sought-after, popular lady at the party, will be constantly hovering at his elbow (especially if he’s still unmarried), taking care of his every need: running to replenish his glass as soon as it begins to empty, or to top it up with ice if it looks as though the chill is wearing off; making sure that he has a constant supply of nuts, chips and other party snacks at hand; liaising with the deejay to make sure that his favourite music is being played. Or whether he’ll be left to stand in line, or jostle with the crowd at the bar, to be served scotch and coke three times in a row (“I can’t understand it. I keep telling him `scotch and SODA’. Isn’t he even listening to what I’m saying?”); and be the guy who ends up with the bowl when all it contains are two soggy, sorry-looking pretzels, that nobody wants, at the bottom.
His reply will either make him into that supposedly gifted orator who commands everyone’s attention whenever any subject is being discussed; on whose every word everyone hangs, waiting for pearls of wisdom to drop from his lips. Or turn him into a hanger-on, on the outskirts of every discussion group, trying to get a word in edgewise, and being constantly rebuffed with “Shut up, Patrick. You never know what you’re talking about. Listen to the man and try to learn something useful for a change.”
Because, in most societies, who you are is no longer as important as what you are. Meaning, what you do as a profession. People are recognized by their professions, their occupations, more than by their humane qualities, their sincerity, the nobility of their character.
To give an example: The Financial Controller or Vice President who is being fawned on or fussed over this week, was completely ignored last week. The difference? He acquired his new position at the beginning of this week.
The identification of people by their occupations continues even after their deaths.
The regular format for our death announcements on the radio goes something like,” We regret to…of Joe Smith, accountant at J.Q.’s Supermarket. Left to mourn are, his wife, Edna Smith, waitress at the Royal St. Lucia Hotel…” etc.
Even at birth, the doctor slaps you on the rear end, and as you let out a lusty yell, your proud father exclaims, “Hear that voice? We’ve got an opera singer here for sure!” Or a few months later, as you play on the ground, making mud patties, your mother fondly coos, “See, my baby’s going to be a world-class chef. Good girl!” You’re already being given occupation-identity.
In the few moments after the so-what-do-you-do question was thrust out at Patrick, he looks at all the anticipatory pairs of eyes looking at him and waiting for his answer.
His future is in the balance here. He holds his social destiny in his hands, even his future happiness, perhaps.
And if the truth will not do the trick, he must come up with something that will earn him the utmost respect … but that will be impossible to verify.
He looks squarely at the one who had asked the question; and with honesty and candour exuding from every pore, in a level voice, without the hint of a tremor, Patrick Knowles replies.
“I’m the personal, confidential secretary and first assistant to the Queen of England.”
He’s in.