I work at Valentine Dining Services, the second home for many of us. We file in like hungry sheep and wait, grumbling and stomachs screaming, for the food to be slopped on our plates. Or sometimes, if the server is a little more gracious, we can actually choose that delectable piece of chicken that calls our name, a little fuller than the other skinny, malnourished strips.
Lunchtime is a barely-contained chaos, a seething herd of starving students who don't want to wait 20 minutes to make an egg salad sandwich. Everyone is frustrated, grinding their teeth and hissing, "Why are these lines so damn long?" That's what I used to think. Actually I was probably the one who complained the loudest, hoping that my nasal whines would somehow hustle the line along. There's a simple answer: there are only a few of us working, and so, so many of you.
An article in last week's newspaper stated, "One of the major causes of worker shortage is the stereotype that students working for Dining Services are second-class citizens." I will admit that working at Valentine was not my first choice, nor was it even initially on my list of potential places to work. I, too, surrendered to the "unfortunate stigma" that working at Valentine is for "someone else." Who exactly did I categorize as "someone else"? I wasn't too eager to analyze that question, automatically assuming that Valentine was not an appropriate place for Amherst students.
We belong in the library, absorbing osmotically the studious atmosphere (and discreetly doing homework in the side). We could work in the Office of Admission, walking backwards up those hills and scaring hung-over freshmen in James Hall with massive tour groups. We could even work in Schwemm's, toasting hummus bagels and dispensing midnight hazelnut caffeine. But Valentine? No, that's for the vague category of "someone else."
Optimistically I dropped my job applications off all over campus, anticipating a sinecure within a few days. But as the days drifted by, Valentine was the only one that replied. I gulped, swallowed my elitism (which I didn't want to admit, even to myself, that I had), put on the purple hat, and went to work.
Echoing Marisol Thomer '02's quote in last week's article, I also feel that "once I put on the uniform hat and apron, I cease to exist as a fellow student or hallmate." It is as if a tinted glass wall is automatically constructed around me, and I become nothing more than a fuzzy, indistinguishable shadow. People who normally greet me with an ecstatic grin seem to shy away or see right through me. Those who do say "hi" look a little squirmy, a little awkward, as if I were wearing pink underwear on my head.
When people find out that I work in Valentine they often act as if my dog died. They have a concerned look on their face and ask, "Is it okay there?" as if horrible, unmentionable things happen in the murky depths of the dining hall. Granted, it isn't the most glamorous or comfortable job. I get dirty. I get too close for comfort with unidentified pieces of food. I haul around crates of mugs and plates and curse the fact that they are made of impractical, heavy ceramic. At the risk of direly offending tree-huggers, I begin to wish that we could use paper and plastic utensils. That would eliminate a lot of dish-washing right there.
It is just as stressful and hectic as working at Starbucks, Macy's, or my local frozen yogurt shop, some of the places where I gained my "work experience." Yet the attitude towards working at those places is slightly different, slightly more accepted. At Starbucks I scrubbed at stubborn espresso stains and at Valentine I do the same, although the coffee is admittedly of inferior quality. At Starbucks I had to deal with the whims of ridiculously picky people (just what is an extra-hot, non-fat, extra-whip, soy milk latte?), while at Valentine you don't get very many choices. Yet while it is okay to flirt with the person who makes your frappuccino, or at least talk to them, the person who serves your food is somehow anonymous, undeserving of your human interaction. I guess Starbucks has that trendy, caffeine-drenched image, but really, it is no more glamorous than Valentine.
I am probably being extremely hypocritical here; after all, before working at Valentine I wasn't really ready to strike up a vibrant conversation with the person who serves me a tofu croquette. It is just enough to smile or at least be remotely pleasant (and maybe the so-called "Egg Nazi" will be a little more amiable). Experiencing Valentine from both sides, I know that it is a stress-laden, monotonous place; hungry students just want some food, while workers just want to be paid. And I want both, which doesn't exactly make for an ideal work relationship. To top it off, this is supposed to be where I consume 21 meals a week. But the work at Valentine keeps me grounded in reality, in the midst of the idyllic Amherst vacuum where it is easy to float in clouds of intellectual elitism.
I am not saying that people should go work in Valentine to get a taste of "real life," to save the planet from the ravages of paper and plastic, or to relieve the overworked employees. All I ask is that when you see someone don the cap and the uniform, acknowledge their presence. Although I can't hope to transcend the "Valentine stigma" with one measly article, I hope that I have at least given it a human aspect, a human face. As yet, robots don't serve your food: people do-people who could be sitting in your class, living in your hall, eating at your table the next time you venture to Valentine. Those hands you glimpse as you bus your silverware have bodies and faces. And please wipe off all your ketchup; there is nothing as utterly appalling as hour-old, crusted Heinz.