I'm proud of my dirty hands. Yes, they are dirty. And they are rough and knobby and calloused. And I'm proud of the dirt and the knobs and the calluses. I didn't get them that way by playingbridge or drinking afternoon tea out of dainty cups,
I got them that way by working with them, and I'm proud of the work and the dirt. Why shouldn't I feel proud of the work they do - these dirty hands of mine?
My hands are the hands of plumbers, of truck drivers and street cleaners; of carpenters; engineers, machinists and workers in steel.
They are not pretty hands, they are dirty and knobby and calloused. But they are strong hands, hands that make so much that the world must have or die.