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One of my favorite bosses once told me that he hated having to explain the
why
of everything to me, but I considered it my job to be able to explain the why to the people who reported to me. If hours were getting cut or pay frozen, I damn well was going to give them a reason that made sense. If we were going to lay off a quarter of the staff, I’d better be able to explain it.
    I know a lot of people think that I’m supposed to be a good little worker bee and do my part to help move the wheels of capitalism. I just don’t see what’s in it for me anymore beyond my little paycheck. Think about it this way: At my earning peak, I made approximately nineteen cents a minute before taxes.
    So when I go out of my way to work hard, I’m not doing it for my bosses, I’m doing it for my co-workers. There’s definitely a mutual covering of asses going on in the lower classes. (Hey, why should the upper classes do all the ass covering?) I’ve even tracked down babysitters for employees who’d lost their child care and couldn’t afford to lose their shift as well. Instead of letting an employee call off work and winding up shorthanded to boot, I called around until I found a cashier who was morethan happy to babysit for a few hours for some extra cash. I loaned the cook the money to pay the cashier, and everyone got something they needed. We do shit like that a lot.
    We’d never survive otherwise.
    —
    Once I’m home from my shift, I try not to be short-tempered with my husband, whose fault my bad mood decidedly isn’t. In turn, he tries not to be short-tempered with me. Working at a low-wage job means getting off work and having just enough mental energy to realize what you could be doing with your life . . . if only you could work up the will to physically move.
    And honestly, I wouldn’t even mind the degradations of my work life so much if the privileged and powerful were honest about it. If they just admitted that this is simply impossible. Instead, we’re told to work harder and be grateful we have jobs, food, and a roof over our heads. And for fuck’s sake, we are. But in exchange for all that work we’re doing, and all our miserable work conditions, we’re not allowed to demand anything in return. No sense of accomplishment, or respect from above, or job security. We are expected not to feel entitled to these things. Being poor while working hard is fucking crushing. It’s living in a nightmare where the walls just never stop closing in on you.
    I resent the fuck out of it every time my schedule’s been cut and then I’ve been called in for tons of extra hours, as though my time weren’t worth anything, just so that my boss can besure not to pay me for a minute that I’m not absolutely necessary. I resent signing away my ability to get a second job and being told that I can’t work more than twenty-eight hours a week either.
    The result of all of this? I just give up
caring
about work. I lose the energy, the bounce, the willingness. I’ll perform as directed, but no more than that. I’ve rarely had a boss who gave me any indication that he valued me more highly than my uniform—we were that interchangeable—so I don’t go out of my way for my bosses either. The problem I have isn’t just being undervalued—it’s that it feels as though people go out of their way to make sure you know how useless you are.
    I’d been working for one company for over a year when I injured myself at work in November and had to go on leave for two months because I couldn’t stand for long. So I wasn’t invited to the company Christmas party. I went as a co-worker’s date and watched as everyone got their Christmas bonuses. I didn’t get one; I was technically not in the managerial position and thus didn’t qualify. The fact that I’d worked the rest of the year didn’t count.
    What really got me, though, was when the owner of the company thanked the woman who was filling in for me for working so hard all year.