Midnight Rants
( Sorry if this is bitchy, I just got out of a ten hour shift.)
"I cannot stand middle class people pretending to be rich. At Dean and Deluca we have plenty of them. They spend half of their monthly salaries on Gucci sunglasses worn inside the store at 9 Pm and believe that ordering salmon with feta cheese will make them more sophisticated. Meanwhile Fox news is the only channel that helps them keep up with the world and they have never left the United States, not even in books.
We were selling prime rib today at the Hot Bar, the meat was uncooked and bloody, a sign of social status for those who are willing to pay forty dollars for it, and I kept wondering how much of it was about taste and how much of it was about being accepted into the obscene hierarchy of the vain. I kept asking myself how can you enjoy chewing on flesh that has uncooked blood all over it. Just like that rich Catholic lady who gets her lunch with us every afternoon: She came in one day to treat two foster kids to a “gourmet meal,” probably to meet her monthly charity requirements. The two little boys were wearing baseball caps and their eyes kept staring at the floor, I think the smaller one was frightened and appeared to be at the verges of tears. They were both probably wondering where the cheeseburgers were hidden, and the lady who was with them kept apologizing to us, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry it takes them so long to decide: they have never been exposed to gourmet meals before.” I thought of taking those two foster kids out with me one night, I kept staring at the strange Catholic lady and thinking: Yeah, how about exposing them to something else besides a piece of uncooked meat if you really wish to go to heaven one day. Because, how can you enjoy life when you are so worried about looking good on it?
And I know I am just as guilty. I could quit my job if it hurts me so much to work there. I could just go back to working at a bookstore until I graduate from college, but this job pays my rent, as simple and as justified as this may sound and I have a very flexible schedule that will let me finish school faster. I still have to say: Working at Dean and Deluca in South Charlotte, the cradle of upper class society has been harsh on me. I cannot help but wonder how did we ever get to these fierce stages of capitalism and consumerism in America, after so many revolutions (who cares if they failed)? Oh boy, what would Marx have said? I get so tired of you America.
And I don’t care what you think, I don’t care if your answer to me is, “Yes, but, well, Carolina, you are Mexican, you should be glad that we even let you into our country.” Because I am not buying that argument anymore, because I have heard it already and because you are working with stereotypes just like you have been all along. Because I’m not Mexican, if that helps. Because I pay taxes like you do, but even if I didn’t I would still need to have a voice. Because I have been to different hemispheres and I have talked to people from Cuba, Honduras, Salvador, Ecuador, Colombia, Peru, Uruguay in their language and because I know how the world works better than our prime rib-special customers do, and probably better than you do. And I know this entry sounds bitter and arrogant, I know that I sound very bitter and arrogant, but if you worked there maybe you would understand, if you ever had a job like mine you would understand. I have become bitter, I AM bitter. Cheers to that."
"I cannot stand middle class people pretending to be rich. At Dean and Deluca we have plenty of them. They spend half of their monthly salaries on Gucci sunglasses worn inside the store at 9 Pm and believe that ordering salmon with feta cheese will make them more sophisticated. Meanwhile Fox news is the only channel that helps them keep up with the world and they have never left the United States, not even in books.
We were selling prime rib today at the Hot Bar, the meat was uncooked and bloody, a sign of social status for those who are willing to pay forty dollars for it, and I kept wondering how much of it was about taste and how much of it was about being accepted into the obscene hierarchy of the vain. I kept asking myself how can you enjoy chewing on flesh that has uncooked blood all over it. Just like that rich Catholic lady who gets her lunch with us every afternoon: She came in one day to treat two foster kids to a “gourmet meal,” probably to meet her monthly charity requirements. The two little boys were wearing baseball caps and their eyes kept staring at the floor, I think the smaller one was frightened and appeared to be at the verges of tears. They were both probably wondering where the cheeseburgers were hidden, and the lady who was with them kept apologizing to us, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry it takes them so long to decide: they have never been exposed to gourmet meals before.” I thought of taking those two foster kids out with me one night, I kept staring at the strange Catholic lady and thinking: Yeah, how about exposing them to something else besides a piece of uncooked meat if you really wish to go to heaven one day. Because, how can you enjoy life when you are so worried about looking good on it?
And I know I am just as guilty. I could quit my job if it hurts me so much to work there. I could just go back to working at a bookstore until I graduate from college, but this job pays my rent, as simple and as justified as this may sound and I have a very flexible schedule that will let me finish school faster. I still have to say: Working at Dean and Deluca in South Charlotte, the cradle of upper class society has been harsh on me. I cannot help but wonder how did we ever get to these fierce stages of capitalism and consumerism in America, after so many revolutions (who cares if they failed)? Oh boy, what would Marx have said? I get so tired of you America.
And I don’t care what you think, I don’t care if your answer to me is, “Yes, but, well, Carolina, you are Mexican, you should be glad that we even let you into our country.” Because I am not buying that argument anymore, because I have heard it already and because you are working with stereotypes just like you have been all along. Because I’m not Mexican, if that helps. Because I pay taxes like you do, but even if I didn’t I would still need to have a voice. Because I have been to different hemispheres and I have talked to people from Cuba, Honduras, Salvador, Ecuador, Colombia, Peru, Uruguay in their language and because I know how the world works better than our prime rib-special customers do, and probably better than you do. And I know this entry sounds bitter and arrogant, I know that I sound very bitter and arrogant, but if you worked there maybe you would understand, if you ever had a job like mine you would understand. I have become bitter, I AM bitter. Cheers to that."