I.
Like my father, I am my uniform.
my keys jingle to a jazz beat composed by Casio.
The radio summons me to the ballroom,
I smile, show teeth
stand straight, bare my chest, so guests can get a good look at my
nameplate.
They call me by my first name because they can’t pronounce my last.
My job is simple:
empower the guests,
kneel down and let them be my dominatrix.
Make everyone feel successful,
Make everyone feel white.
And I make you feel good,
cause I need your tax break money.
“This is a full service hotel, right?”
Yes sir! You pay three
hundred for my services
for which I only get paid
seven an hour.
II.
Like my father, I am my uniform.
I wear a tomato red polo, emblem on the upper left pec, and black
slacks.
At lunch, I am told to sit with my class
American grown alcoholics, drug addicts, high school drop outs
Central American immigrants with no formal education.
Together, with our tomato red uniforms, we watch a mostly all white
managerial team
mingle with a recent college grad of hotel management.
They ignore us and when we’ve done a good job, they pet us and give us
a treat.
And if you kiss the right ass, you can become employee of the month.
You can park next to the hotel and have your name embroidered on five
shirts.
“But remember, you have to park on the street when Pfizer comes next
week.”
And after five years of degradation, you either get a diamond quartz
watch or binoculars
each with a suggested retail price of forty nine, ninety five.
III.
Like my father, I am my uniform.
I remember getting yelled at by my mother for putting on my dad’s work
shirt.
It had his scent, a mixture of gasoline, engine oil, WD-40, and Aramis
cologne.
He was a truck driver, moving car parts from Hempstead to Shirley
driving up Sunrise and back on the L.I.E.
When my dad was at work, I would pretend I was him, creating dialogue
with him and the car dealers
making engine noises when the truck was running
screetching when he had to hit the brakes and a bang for a car
accident.
Sometimes, he would sneak me into the truck and let me ride with him
all day, sitting on a bucket and taking in the air.
The truck smelled like him, sweetened by carbon monoxide.
I wanted to be him.
I wanted to be Dad.
But one day I saw his white co-workers laughing at him
cause he couldn’t say refrigerator.
Refigrator, Reffygrator,
Refogodater. Aww Freddy, you dumb spick!
IV.
Like my father, I am my uniform.
I have a bachelor’s degree in failure and no one at work knows it.
“Hey, why don’t you get a real job? You got a degree, go teach or
something?”
Teach what?
Regurgitate books from high school and college to feed the young?
I think of my favorite teachers, beaten by life
they never told me what to do or think.
They subtly mentioned the holes they fell into
and if you paid attention you avoided them.
And I think of Raul, my Salvadoran manager who hates me.
He doesn’t like that I speak better English and doesn’t like the fact
that I associate with the minorities rather than push the glass ceiling
for a management position.
I don’t want to be a sell out. I don’t want to say “Yes boss,
whatever you say.”
I don’t want to tell my workers, I’m cutting your hours so that I may
get a five thousand
dollar paycheck at the end of the year. I’m in it for myself guys
and if you don’t like it, you can quit. Yeah, Raul abuses
us. But I don’t pay him no mind.
He’s just mad because he can’t shave his fresh off the boat look.
(F.O.B.)
V.
Like my father, I am my uniform.
When I quit my job
I lie to the managers and tell them that I have been accepted to an MFA
program
Tops in the nation
I say. They stay still and wonder “How could that be?!?”
I know its tough to look beyond my uniform, but I did want to leave
with a good impression. Still confused, I tell them, that I
helped the associates get the union.
Soon they will vote and finally have something to say. I know, I
know, you wouldn’t think of it from a spick in a tomato red shirt.
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