When I was 16 years old, I walked into the office at my family’s church and began working for the first time.

I had, of course, babysat prior to that, with some success. But this was the first work-work I had ever done. The real deal.

I felt very grown up.

Twenty-four years later, I feel a sense of pride when I look back on it. Granted, I only worked two or three days a week and somewhere around $6 an hour (hey, it was the ’90s), but the fact that I got a real paycheck felt exotic at the time.

I got a paper check. They took out for taxes and Social Security. I had to go to a bank to cash it. It was a real rite of passage.

Did my teenage self appreciate the significance of all that? Absolutely not.

The notion of the “first job” roused even more nostalgia when my daughter, at age 17, started working for the first time last year.

I don’t doubt I was more excited than even she was. Not to worry: mom played it cool.

After graduating high school, I went on to college where I worked all four years in various jobs at the cafeteria, a short-order restaurant on campus and the library — at some points all three in the same semester.

Would I have rather been sitting with my friends during meals instead of washing their dishes? Sure. Was it a little embarrassing when I’d have to walk home after my shift soaking wet and smelling of that evening’s discarded entree? Absolutely.

But having not come from a family with money, I didn’t take one second of that time for granted. I worked hard and sometimes long hours so that I had money to buy the books I needed or food that wasn’t mass-produced in the college’s kitchen or new shoes or the dozen mice I “rescued” from the pet store so they wouldn’t be some snake’s breakfast. You know, important stuff.

After college, I worked various jobs including as a substitute teacher, an associate at T.J.Maxx and as a front desk clerk at a hotel.

I was 23 when I began my career in journalism, and I haven’t looked back. I’ve been a reporter, a photographer, a designer, a web producer and, my personal favorite — an editor.

It’s been a long, hard road getting to where I am now. I have labored under all different circumstances. I have paid my dues working the crap shifts and the crap jobs to get where I am — sitting nice and cozy at my desk in an air-conditioned office.

I have worked as a union member and not. I have worked on the clock and salaried. I have been the low woman on the totem pole and a boss. I have been a mentor and a mentee. I have soaked in an immense amount of knowledge and been privileged enough to impart some wisdom to others.

I have been extremely privileged no matter how you look at it.

This Labor Day, I hope you all look back on your work lives and can truly appreciate how far you’ve come and/or how far you still have to go. Whatever you do for work, whatever you contribute to our society, do it with pride and some reflection on those who came before you and paved the way.

As for me, I feel a swell of gratitude for all the women who fought their way up the ladder of business and broke countless glass ceilings that have allowed me to come as far as I have in my career.

I am obliged to my parents who taught me that I have to work hard if I want to get ahead in this world.

I am grateful for the men and women who fought, and still fight, for adequate working conditions and fair pay.

I am indebted to the more than 350 journalists worldwide who are, as we speak, imprisoned for seeking the truth.

From your first job to your last, be an example for the next generation of how hard work is the gift that keeps on giving.

Marla Hoffman is the managing editor/nights for the Sun Journal and can be reached at mhoffman@sunjournal.com. 

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