I knew why I came to college; I wanted a better job, one that I could enjoy. Maybe I was too vain; I wanted to make a living writing poetry and telling stories. Writing news and writing poetry, though, slowly became inseparable. The value of “good work” too is becoming measured only by the size and color of the collar around it.
My very first paid manual labor job was working as a busboy in a restaurant that catered to upper middle class families. It had three full bars and could comfortably seat 500 people.
I had one specific task assigned to me, to keep the bars stocked with glasses and the serving stations with silverware and cloth napkins.
On busy nights like Fridays, this meant tiptoeing through crowds of tipsy teachers and chortling clerks flirting with each other, a rack of hot pint glasses still dripping from the hot water washer’s conveyor belt raised high above my head and pocketfuls of knives and forks dragging down my pressed uniform pockets.
As I got older though, I started noticing different patterns as I moved from job to job. I noticed that my boss at Subway only hired immigrants who didn’t speak English fluently. He’d have the supervisor round down our hours if we got to work early or if we had to stay late.
I still remember my co-worker Richard from Myanmar; he worked at the Centreville High School cafeteria in the morning, Subway in the afternoon and at 7-11 overnight. Richard worked 100-hour weeks and would nap in the freezer at 7-11 next to the egg crates and cardboard. Both of his kids worked at fast food drive-thru’s and went to community college.
“Blue Collar” work seems to be looked down upon. Even Richard and his wife believe that their two sons will have better chances after earning their associates degrees. No more 100-hour workweeks. No more cat naps next to bags of red and blue Freezee mixes.
Yet, I can’t shake that our cultural attitude goes deeper than the limits of our living standards, be it as immigrants or as minimum wage, by- the-hour workers.
Somehow, our occupation in food service, especially in an assembly line, makes us subservient. Service is not, and should not be subservient. I still remember the first time a customer called me “a sandwich artist.” The pride I felt at having another human being recognize my effort at making an enjoyable sandwich. Condiments should go right on top of the lettuce before the tomatoes so they stay intact, the meats should be spaced out and proportioned with the fewer slices of triangular cheese, pickles and peppers should go on last so they can stay wedged between the bigger toppings and vegetables should never be toasted with the meat and cheese.
Equally, I still remember the shame of my boss pulling out a digital scale to show me the exact 3.0 ounces of shredded lettuce that should go on each foot-long sub.
When I realized corporate forms of efficient profit margins took precedence over the content of genuine connections with customers and pride in one’s work, I could not help but question the value of real substantive work and our cultural value therein, if we even have any that is or could support such values.
Now that I’ve “made it,” being a senior about to graduate from college, every day is riddled with the same anxiety that I felt before making it. What is real work and will I get there after walking across Wheeler Lawn one last time as a student in May?
