Independence (Optional) Day
Around this time a few years ago, I was the assistant manager of a small, Asian restaurant tucked into a very busy corner of a Chicago high-rise. It wasn’t a bad job — the food was good, the pay was fair, and for the most part, I had been given enough opportunities for advancement that I felt sated.
As the assistant manager, I was in charge of training new employees. The turn-over was high there, because the work was hard, so it seemed like every other month we had someone new in. The worst part was that we had adapted to no-call-no-shows better than we should have ever needed to, while the best part was that me and my co-workers could get to know new people regularly. Some of them were even amazing.
There was this one kid though—“Tom.” The truth is, I’ve tried so hard to forget about him, that I can’t remember if his name was Tom at all. It could have been anything, really, but that’s not really why this is important to recollect right now. Frankly, this story is about all the Toms out there or the Steves or Jeffs and so on. It’s July 4th, so we’ll revive this Tom once more.
Tom was talkative and ambitious, but he only feigned effort. On the first day, even after I taught him how to use the equipment in the back, he never pushed a button on the rice cooker or opened the dishwasher unless he absolutely was forced to. I made checklists for him, hoping he would commit to his work independently, and he lost them. When he wasn’t texting on his cell phone, he was making his female co-workers uncomfortable with unyielding advances.
I didn’t have the authority to fire anyone and I was willing to give Tom a chance to really work his shit out. He acted like he really meant to do well, even though his work wasn’t a reflection of it. On his third eight-hour shift, I showed him where the building’s disposal units were. To get there, you had to take an elevator down from the second floor — it was how everyone in this eight-story building either trashed boxes or went to the mezzanine level without being bothered by customers. The mezzanine was where most of the other restaurants were, so the elevators were fairly trafficked.
We stepped into the elevator with a bin of cardboard boxes — within, there was a young man with long, black hair and cashew-colored skin. He had a thick but well-trimmed beard. I couldn’t say what he was for sure, but he was definitely West Asian or North African, and judging by his outfit, my guess was that he worked for the Armani Exchange on one of the higher levels. As anticipated, he left the elevator on the mezzanine, leaving Tom and myself alone.
“I was getting scared for a second. Even without the diaper on his head, I thought he might blow this place up,” Tom said then.
It’s true that this particular building was a cause for greater security. In fact, it’s one of most-trafficked shopping complexes within the city limits. Everyday, thousands of locals and tourists make their way in for the dining or the shopping or the big promotional events staged in front of the Lego store. If an attack on Chicago comparable to the World Trade Center did happen, it could have been at the building I worked in or nearby John Hancock Center. Hell, there was even one time when I reported a bag to a police officer because it was left unattended, but it apparently belonged to a nearby homeless person. It was normal to feel some paranoia about working in a place like that, but that doesn’t make what he said any less shitty.
“Bro, I’m Middle-Eastern, you know,” I responded.
Tom looked at me like he thought I was joking. He changed tactics though, when he said, “Yeah, but you’re different. Besides, I was just kidding.”
“Just keep that shit to yourself,” I said, before explaining to him the safety protocols of using the disposable equipment, secretly wishing I could just push him in and smoosh his body into a tight box shape not unlike the one he lived in in his head.
It didn’t make a difference though — I knew that after I told my manager how Tom was an awful worker and about the lack of filter on his racism, he would be gone when I suggested we fire him and return to the drawing board. He wouldn’t be our problem anymore.
Not quite.
My manager, in what can only be described as an unnecessarily circuitous chain of command, couldn’t fire anyone either. Or maybe it was because my manager was an immigrant. In previous situations, when she fired employees, her district manager had hired them back into different locations, turning their terminations into transfers. It got to the point where she wasn’t allowed to let anyone go without permission.
It didn’t matter that Tom sucked at his job, which my manager had been witness to, or that he had, by extension, called me a “diaper head.” What mattered was that the company’s turn-around meant lower standards for hires — he could have sported a swastika on his forehead and would have been able to pass, so long as he wore a bandaid over it. So despite my manager’s authority and my own contributions, we were second-class to our corporation’s expectations.
When I mentioned taking it to human resources, I was met with a reminder that, “Well, now that you’re going to graduate school, you’re not going to be able to work as much, right?” It wasn’t a threat, per se, but I know that they meant that they didn’t have much use for me if I couldn’t work during the peak hours.
So maybe if you’re brown or Asian, you don’t really have much of a choice but to let the racial slurs, opinions, or attitudes roll off your back. Even if you’re in charge, you’re not really in charge. Despite my position, when I applied elsewhere at the time, I was reminded that because of how difficult white tongues felt pronouncing my name, I wouldn’t have an easy time finding new work. Or maybe they didn’t like the tone of my skin or texture of my hair when I brought in my resume and cover letter. Even Tom would have had an easier time finding a job than me. So I had to stay there and put up with it — at least through the first few months of school, when other opportunities might arise.
At least they transferred Tom, though I don’t believe it was for my benefit. He worked in a different location of the same chain for another couple of months before he was fired. No call, no show, just like I said.
When the 4th of July rolls around, I’m reminded that independence isn’t our God-given right as Americans. Only for some Americans — some of us just have to smile and take a bruise. And this? This story isn’t even that bad. It isn’t even the worst injustice to happen to me in a job or at my restaurant to other employees of color. And so many others have had it so much worse than I have. It’s just one small reason to rename this holiday Independence (Optional) Day — we may have broken free from the British Empire, but so many of us still live under the thumb of white, corporate oppression masked as meritocracy.
God bless America.
