Lint head.

Lint head.

I nev­er heard the term “lint head” when I was grow­ing up. Nev­er knew any­body far enough removed from the cot­ton mills to learn that dis­parag­ing term. No. Names like “lint head” devel­oped in cities like Atlanta, where there were oth­er indus­tries, oth­er ways of life, and oth­er socio-eco­nom­ic lifestyles. It was a way to demean the coun­try come to town peo­ple who worked in the cot­ton mills. In the rur­al com­mu­ni­ty where I grew up, there was no diver­si­ty. Every­one either worked for the mill, had a fam­i­ly mem­ber who worked for the mill, or worked for a busi­ness that was either con­nect­ed to, or depen­dent on, the local mill. Lint head? For us it was a fact of life. You left the mill and brushed the lint from your hair and clothes, and went home. It was the same for every shift. Clock­ing in and clock­ing out. Clock­ing out and clock­ing in. Meet­ing and beat­ing pro­duc­tion quo­tas regard­less of the impact it had on your body or your health. Work­ing over­time when you could, and mak­ing ends meet when the orders were light.

I imag­ine it was the same way for com­mu­ni­ties that were cen­tered on oth­er sorts of indus­try. I remem­ber two neigh­bor­ing com­mu­ni­ties that were homes to paper mills. We made fun of them because of the nasty smells that emanat­ed from the paper mills. Maybe they called us lint heads. Nev­er thought about that. Fun­ny thing, per­spec­tive.

I don’t peo­ple from tex­tile mill towns or peo­ple from paper mill towns ever had any kind of names for the peo­ple who worked in com­mu­ni­ties where the only busi­ness was a meat pro­cess­ing plant. We just felt sor­ry for them. Tough jobs. Bloody jobs. Ugly jobs. When you left those assem­bly lines, you had to strip off your cov­er­alls and wash off your boots. I vis­it­ed one once. They paid well, but the smell and the blood and guts were things I could nev­er get past.

Lint head. I think now it was not so bad to be one.