My Sixth Grade
Posted March 11, 2003
When I was in sixth grade, each student was assigned, in rotation, to help in the cafeteria.
The details of setting dissolve into a steamy haze punctuated by the ringing of struck glasses and the chunks of processed plates and the clatter of cheap silverware shoved together, the hissing of water and the whirr of the dishwasher, the flatware and glasses and plates and trays pulled through the long stainless steel box like a car through a car wash.
I have naturally curly hair - much as Medusa did. I hated the hair net I had to wear. I hated the clammy rubber gloves that smelled like they'd been left drying somewhere damp, and felt pruney on the inside like your fingers get when you soak for too long in the tub. They were way too big for me, and yet they suffocated my hands The water was so hot, you had to wear the disgusting gloves or suffer from the heat. Worst of all, the adults didn't care about you, hardly noticed you, they just wanted to get the job done. And the kitchen was too noisy to talk even if they had cared. But what did fat hair-netted ladies in sitcom uniforms and clunky black shoes have to say to a scared, rebellious 12-year-old girl, except "keep up!"
The food wasn't very good to begin with and it was especially unappetizing scraped off plates. I suspect they rotated the stations. I vaguely remember handling nice clean trays and dishes that steamed dry as you looked at them, removing them from their conveyer ride through the dishwasher.
But what I really remember is the soiled plates. Featureless beige-white thick stoneware that came to me smeared with garbage. Me miserable in my hair net and my malodorous clammy gloves, running them under the absurdly hot water and scraping at them with desperate distaste with a brush. The water came from a spigot up high. I remember it as if it were above my head. I think it ended in a hose with a rose and you sprayed them down first and the only brushed off the stubborn stuff. You'd think I'd remember a thing like that forever. The distaste and horror are as fresh as yesterday. The clammy stinky claustrophobic gloves as immediate as if they're steaming next to me as I write. The rest recedes into murky steam that makes me tense to try to think about it.
I think it was supposed to teach us the value of honest toil.
It taught me a horror of group enterprise, like PE taught me a horror of sports.
By Ruby Jung, including the background. All rights reserved to the story. If you care for the background, you may use it.