The Allegory of the Two Canteens.

It was one of those days when I had mixed feelings after returning to work after a month-long holiday. There I stood by my machine, a large precision metal-grinding lathe. As the front axle for a yet-to-be-built aeroplane was rotating on its spindle, my job was to transform the dull chrome coating of the exterior to a beautifully-polished mirror-like finish, yet keeping with the precise measurements specified in the drawing printed on the sheet dangling over the tool locker located next to the powerful machine.

The machine I worked on looked similar to this

It felt strange being back in such familiar surroundings once again. I looked up towards the ceiling, just to straighten my back a little. The roar of a crane passing overhead, running on railway lines fixed close to the inside of the roof, all the way from one end of the huge building to the other. The driver in the crane's cab stops his vehicle directly above a neighbouring machine and lowers the hook to be attached to a huge section of an aircraft to be lifted away from the milling machine, that particular stage of its construction completed.

Presently, two other workers, young men about my age, were passing through the workshop to go somewhere. One of them paused to take a good look at me as if thoroughly examining who I was. Then both approached, and asked,

Did you walk the streets of New Orleans French Quarter a few weeks ago?

I was stunned by their question and answered in the affirmative.

The two then explained that they too had taken a trip to the States at the same time as I did, and they too had travelled across the North American continent on the Greyhound bus in the same way as I did, using the same Go-As-You-Please Ameripass ticket, which was in those days in the form of a book of vouchers, each one valid for each stage of the journey. 

With some astonishment, the same one asked if I went all the way there on my own, which I answered that yes, I went on my own which was, for me, the normal manner of travel, whether near or far.

By heck, you're brave!

Brave? A rather unusual compliment, no doubt, but I felt exhilarated by their praise, nevertheless. But having already backpacked Italy, Israel, and lately, North America a year earlier in 1977, this second transatlantic trip completed in 1978 shouldn't, in my view, be classed as brave. Rather, I was just being myself.

Then again, perhaps to some, there may be a degree of bravery needed whilst stopping at New Orleans. After alighting from the Greyhound Bus at the end of a journey from San Antonio in Texas, I found a room at the YMCA in the new town area, a short walk from the French Quarter. At the communal showers, whilst freshening up after a long journey, an older man sat at a nearby bench, gazing lecherously at my groin. This sort of thing can be quite frequent during my 1970s travels, nevertheless, I still wouldn't classify such an experience as bravery, even if I felt uncomfortable in his presence.

But going back to the job at hand. There is something so satisfying in my role on the lathe. Especially on a part of an aeroplane, in this case, the front wheel axle. Such was a way to earn a living at British Aircraft Corporation, later changed to British Aerospace, due to its coupling up with the missile division of the same company, located in other areas of the UK. This was not long before I had to move on.

There was something about the shop-floor environment in which the unusual could happen. Like the time when a fellow worker, Martin by name, was transferred from the Apprentice Department, where small parts such as door handles and toilet seat hinges were made, to the adjoining milling department where much larger parts were worked on. He had a dislike for me, thinking that I might be gay. And he didn't keep quiet about that either. Therefore, a rumour about me was well known across the shop floor.

One afternoon, Martin had a huge, solid steel girder set up on his machine. Suddenly, the girder swung, flying off his machine and pinning him to the floor. The accompanying noise caught my attention. As I turned, I saw him gazing helplessly at me as he went down under the weight of the girder.

Others who watched the incident all burst out laughing. Nobody came to his assistance. Instead, they all kept on laughing at this lad's misfortune, perhaps seeing this as an entertaining distraction from the monotony of the day. But immediately, I went over and lifted one end of the long girder, allowing him to crawl out from underneath. Together, standing at each end, we lifted it back into place while he instructed me to hold it in place while he secured it. The laughter stopped. Martin restarted his rotary milling cutting blade while I returned to my own machine.

Whether it was the look of shock I had when I saw him go down or not, however, a new friendship was created. It was Martin who invited me into the firm's clubhouse and there he bought me a drink - in front of all his mates who held a bad reputation against me. They were all quiet, gazing at me as if feeling ashamed. This Biblical exhortation to "pour hot coals on the enemy's head" seems to have taken effect.

I saw Martin again sometime later. After several months, I could see the result of his prolonged unfulfillment in his life. His once-superb physique had ballooned out to a beer belly at still a young age.

New Orleans French Quarter. Visited 1978.

British Aerospace Works, at the Surrey town of Weybridge, was extensive during its heyday, with several buildings on the one site, which was a former motor racing track. That means, there were many office staff among us, housed in on-site office buildings. We all, in our department, had a locker assigned to each one of us, each containing a blue protective overall we had to wear during the working hours, hence the term, blue-collar workers. By contrast, the office staff came in dressed in a suit, shirt, and many (but not all) wearing a tie. As I have seen in the past, it was not difficult to tell those who excelled at school from those who didn't. 

What I had observed was that those at their desks were generally slimmer, more fitter and of athletic build than those who wore the blue overall. One office staff member, Trevor Thomas, was a Tug O' War champion whose image appeared in the 1979 edition of The Guinness Book of Records for winning three medals for England in the European Open Championships. When Thomas and I sat at the same dinner table one lunch hour, he asked me whether I recognised him from the famous book. When I answered that I didn't, his face dropped. Then, after pulling himself together, he explained to me the ins and outs of Tug O' War, and he also invited me to partake in the family tug to be held nearby, a few weeks later.

I didn't take part in the tug. By then, I already knew that from our chat at the dinner table, Thomas wanted the satisfaction to defeat me. A little unfair to say the least! A champion versus a first-time novice? However, on the day, his White-C team did win against our Blue-C team. Quite easily. From that day on, he seemed to have had a huff against me for not participating. 

By contrast, Martin was the symbolic representation of many who earned their keep on the shop floor. Here, there were several fatties around, especially from middle-age upwards. Moreover, Mr Thomas was ten years my senior. In turn, Martin was four or five years my junior. But the level of fitness between the two couldn't be more contrasting.

During its earlier days, there were two canteens, each exclusive from the other. One of them housed a series of vending machines and tables for the blue-collar to bring their own packed lunches. The other was for the office staff. It had a fully-equipped kitchen from where its staff dished out hot meals. There was a time when no blue-collar was allowed to enter white-collar territory!

Thanks to the trade unions, that had already changed shortly before my arrival. The result of this casual mixing was that I made friends with a few of the office staff members, with some easily intrigued by my sharing of the Gospel. I also picked up a hint that one or two of them became jealous of my venture across the Atlantic - and even showed hostility.

It was this class division - so symbolised by two separate canteens in one building - that I made every effort to cross and then bridge the social chasm. But then, if I rightly remember, I was the only employee of the entire company who had made an effort to bridge the two classes. None of my work colleagues did, and neither any from the other side made any conscious efforts either.

My strong conviction that the Bible is true stems from verses such a Galatians 3:28:

There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for you are one in Christ Jesus.

It's in this same letter where Paul writes about the sharp rebuke he had delivered to Peter, recorded in Galatians 2:11-14. Here, Peter - from a Jewish background - along with Barnabas, was eating with some Greek believers. Soon a group of Jewish Christians arrived. When Peter saw them coming, he and Barnabas immediately withdrew from the Greek company. It was then when Paul rebuked him in front of them all.

How much this reality is still needed in churches to this day! According to one newspaper article,* those without an adequate level of education tend to suffer greater distress and from greater uncertainty of the future. Alongside this, such favouritism given to those with higher education and higher social status, according to the article, not only makes those who failed at school feel inferior and maybe useless as well, leading to higher anxiety levels and subject to greater illnesses - but also does not demonstrate the power of God.

How I looked in 1978.

Most of my church life, all of 47 years of it, consist of middle-class culture. Unlike Peter, no Christian I have ever known had deliberately separated from me whenever I walked in. Rather, it's liable to occur in the subconscious - that classic lack of a greeting whenever I walk in, but with no hostility. And now, with the latest technology, there are some middle-class Christians of my generation who refuse to connect with me on Facebook. Also, on that same social website, if one grad posts a photo of himself or with his wife and family, he could collect as many as a hundred "Likes." But if I, a not-so-good-looking or insignificant person were to post a similar photo, we'll be lucky to reach into a double-figure number.

I guess here in the UK, the blue-collar and the white-collar canteens may both reside in the same building, but the wall separating them will never have a door in it.

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*The Guardian Online, 05/03/2021.