December 10th marked the 12-year anniversary of my family’s and my stay in the U.S. It made me reminisce the long and arduous journey I’ve traveled, and reminded me of where I started, how much good has happened since then. I’d like to share with you the story of one of my first jobs I managed to acquire back in Brooklyn, NY, about 5 years ago.
I was so happy, because I had finally been able to find a job at an age when the need for material possessions is at its utmost point. It was a job at a Polish deli, I was supposed to be a cashier. The pay was staggering, an entire $7.25/hour, and the hours and job duties were irregular – I basically was intended to work overtime, and also be a janitor, garbage disposal person, meat and cheese slicer, and stock person, all the while smiling and being incredibly fast at my work. I lasted one day.
Upon arriving, I was told to put on a dirty oversized apron with polka dots on it, and an uncomfortable hat which obscured my view of what was going on around me. I was told I cannot sit down, ever, only when I’m in the toilet, and toilet breaks were immensely limited. I was not entitled to a lunch break.
The people kept coming, lining up, pushing each other, trying to cut in line, yelling out demands that they want this and that, and screaming why am I so slow?! What is taking so long?! I tried my best. It was my first day. Nobody trained me or explained anything, I was automatically put in a line with the other girls and told to hustle. You would expect that these women, having experienced exactly what I was just experiencing, would be understanding and cooperative with a newbie, but it was quite the contrary. They treated me like a slave, rushed around and reprimanded to do the dirty work. I had to take out loads of garbage, which were too heavy for me to lift, I had to go up and down rusty and wobbly steps with products to restock the shelves with, which were unbearably heavy in my arms, I had to sweep the floors around the customers and co-workers from all the trash that was accumulating – all at a horrendously fast pace. After a couple of hours I felt so drained I couldn’t keep up.
I excused myself and went to the bathroom which was so tight I could hardly fit in it – I literally had to slide in onto the toilet, with the tiny sink being directly above my knees. There was no way to stand up. I felt the sharp pain going through my legs and lower back the moment I sat down – up until then my body was simply numb. I barely sat down when I heard a loud whacking on the door and the shrieking voice of one of the girls asking why it’s taking me so long?! I should be at the counter, helping the customers!
So I pulled my pants up, splashed my hands with ice cold water, because there was no hot water, no soap or paper towels either, and with dripping hands went to the register to stand behind the counter and help out as I was told.
Right by the register, there were those large display fridges with deli meats and cheeses arranged neatly in rows with name tags and prices per pound. Behind them, out of the sight of the customers, were three of those steel slicers with a horrifying round blade that kept spinning and spinning at an unbelievable pace. I had no idea how to properly handle that machinery and honestly – I was terrified. Without further ado, I was told to take customers orders one by one, so as they threw names of different sausages and hams and cheeses at me, I was running around trying to locate them all. I took my time approaching the slicer, however, I quickly got yelled at that I should get to work. I asked for a rubber glove, but I was told that there is no time for that. It takes too long to change them and they only keep them around for the food inspectors. I noticed the slicers were used for slicing everything at once – bits and pieces of everything were left behind, the natural meat juices transferred from the blade onto the cheese slices… I wanted to vomit.
I asked how to use the machine properly, so an impatient co-worker, upon rolling her eyes and sighing ostentatiously, gave me a brief tutorial – simply hold the product in your right hand, pressing it down onto the spinning blade, keeping your left hand very close to the blade on the other side so as to catch the slices as they come out. I did just that but my co-worker forcefully pushed my fingers closer and closer to the blade, because supposedly I wasn’t catching the slices quickly enough, and therefore not aligning them properly. I could almost see my fingers getting caught in there.
I continued just so, being extra cautious when nobody was looking. And then I got a small piece of meat that was too small to hold by hand, so I used a specific plastic security device to press down on the meat while I safely held the handle on the other end. One of the girls came up to me and said they don’t use that because its inefficient. I told her the piece is too small to be held in my hand without fear of getting my fingers caught in the blade. To which she replied that I have to push down on it until I can almost feel the blade against my fingertips, because no scrap of meat goes to waste there. Even if one of us would slice too much, we were told to just leave the slices on the side, in the warmth, until another customer stumbled in and ordered the same thing – then we could use the already sliced pieces instead. Sometimes they would lay there for hours.
I had no choice, so I pressed the scrawny piece of ham onto the blade until I could almost feel it spinning under my fingertips, and… as expected, my entire thumb flew straight into the blade and was cut in half at the top, so it looked almost like my thumb was duplicating, or had two separate endings. Blood gushed everywhere, onto the slicer, onto the ham, the wall, the floor, onto my dirty polka dot apron… And as I scrambled, dazed by the sight of my gushing blood, one of the bitches threw me a smelly old wet rag and yelled that I should get down on my knees and wipe up the mess that I’ve made. I left it and ran straight to the bathroom, keeping my left palm under my right so as to prevent the blood from further dripping on the floor. Nobody helped me, nobody even gave me a Band-Aid. I held my thumb under the ice cold water in the sink for a couple of minutes, but the bleeding would not cease. I wrapped it with a thick layer of toilet paper, which kept falling apart due to its getting soaked. I called my mother who came to pick me up and made a big scene.
The bitches threatened not to pay me for my incompetence, the mess they had to clean up after me, and the ham I had wasted. But in the end, they got scared of a lawsuit, so they paid a couple bucks. My mother took me home and my thumb continued as a bloody infected mess for several weeks, probably due to the unsanitary conditions the wound was exposed to. Happily though, it grew back together into one whole finger.
As far as deli meats and cheeses go… I prefer to buy the pre-packaged ones. The sight of the slicers and the people handling them gives me the chills.
Inhumane working conditions? Nope, just immigrant working conditions.
– Pau
The DACA Children 