Yesterday morning I was in a funk. I arrived at work and--for the first time in almost 3 years at my current location--had the dreaded feeling that I was headed into a day of work. My job doesn't usually feel like work. Yes, I get bored and occasionally unmotivated, but for the most part it's interesting, often inspiring...certainly never a grind.
Yesterday morning was different. I climbed out of my car and had the distinct feeling that quitting time--when I could get back to my home and family--was a long, long way away.
It was a combination of factors. I have some sadness about not being able to be more involved at my young son's school. And my favorite two coworkers both moved to other locations within a month of each other.
But the most salient issue, in that moment, was my ongoing seeming inability to get along with another coworker (one of a very small number of people on this earth I am experiencing this with, but the proximity makes it difficult to ignore). It irks me. It gets under my skin and STAYS. It's ever-present.
These things were on my mind when I got to work yesterday morning.
About 30 minutes into my day I got a little bit of perspective.
A woman I recognized as being a server in a nearby restaurant I'd eaten lunch at came in asking for bank statements. She said she realized she hasn't been getting paid minimum wage since it was raised last January and she wanted her transaction history to prove it.
In looking at her account, I saw that between $130-$170 was being deposited every two weeks. This woman told me she works 11-12 hour days. What. The. Fuck.
I mean, I know servers work primarily for tips (I've been a server in Ohio, where it's legal--or at least it was then--to pay servers $2.13/hour. Such was a server's dependence on tips), but here in California, servers also earn minimum wage. How the hell was this woman earning $150 in a two-week period?!
What's more, at the end of our interaction she threw out a humble yet frustrated, "I think they owe me about $200!" She planned to spend her day figuring out exactly how much she'd been cheated.
I was despondent. How could a person work so hard for so little? How could a person even live on those wages in the Bay Area, California?! The restaurant she works at is great, but it's not super busy and the plates are very cheap. I seriously doubt she's raking in thousands of dollars in tips during those two-week periods.
I was immediately grateful for my above-minimum wage earnings, my incentive bonuses, my 401K, my health care coverage, and the fact that I no longer have to work in a restaurant for 12 hours a day for shit wages and come home smelling like food.
Get over your First World Problems, this woman's request screamed at me. Shut your whiny fucking mouth.
But she wasn't even the half of it.
In the afternoon I took some people into my office from the lobby. The man used a walker and spoke with a very gravelly voice; he was somewhat difficult to understand. I came to understand that the woman he was with was his sister. She'd brought him from his care facility (he was only about 45-years old) to get a new debit card.
At one point he apologized for having a hard time punching in the numbers he was choosing for his new PIN. "I can hardly see," he said. "You'll have to forgive me. I was hit in the head with an aluminum baseball bat."
I wondered if I'd heard him right. I'm sure my face flashed all sorts of horror across it.
"Did you say you were hit in the head with a bat?" I asked.
His sister jumped in to hasten the telling of a story I'm sure she's heard enough for many lifetimes, watching people try to make sense of her brother's speech pattern, his confusion, his life state.
"He was attacked," she said. "He was hit on the back of the head with a baseball bat and set on fire."
"Set on FIRE?!" I asked, stupidly.
"Yes," she said.
There were so many questions I wanted to ask, starting with WHY? I wondered if it was a hate crime (He was Black). I thought about the fact that he had a military account (survived armed service but permanently disabled because of something that happened here at home?!).
At a loss for a response and feeling like my real questions were far too personal, I asked how long ago it happened.
He said it'd been 12 years.
I was in tears but trying to keep them at bay as he described to me the shape of the burn on his back. I was suddenly sure that I'd never known a level of humanity like I came to know in looking into the eyes of a man who'd been set on fire. Set on FIRE!
And I was also sure the last thing this man wanted was my pity.
While they were incredibly friendly and kind, I doubted he and his sister wanted to sit in my office and talk about this horrific crime. I doubted they wanted to entertain my curiosity and my sadness. I resolved to simply treat them like any two people who'd walked into my office.
But with their visit, the last of my pathetic woe-is-me attitude wore off, and I was ashamed. Checked.
I hate that it took these customer interactions to shake some sense into me, but I am simultaneously thankful for them. It's good to be reminded that life is so much bigger than the insignificant things I might call problems in my life. It's also good to sit face-to-face with people more steadfast and resilient than I've even been challenged to be in my lifetime.
It's good to be inspired.
With that, I had a fresh take on the day and renewed appreciation for all that is well. And all is...well, that is.
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