"I'm not really a waitress" is a color of nail polish by O.P.I., and it's also a telling commentary on how many people view service industry workers.
You wouldn't hear someone saying, "I'm not really a nurse," "I'm not really a police officer" or "I'm not really a stockbroker" and then explaining how they're "really" an aspiring actress, author or celebrity chef.
It's sad and silly for anyone to look down upon other people because of what they do for a living, but it seems it's in our DNA -- and by "our," I mean educated urbanites. The first thing most people ask upon meeting someone is, "What do you do?" If the answer is something along the lines of barista, server or bartender, there's often an awkward pause while the questioner tries to either A) sound enthusiastic ("Oh, that's so cool!"), or B) change the subject ever so slightly ("I just love Chez Snootworthy; have you eaten there?").
I worked in restaurants and bars throughout high school, college and graduate school, and was made to feel like a second-class citizen the entire time by customers and, occasionally, contemporaries. I'll never forget the time I was waiting tables at a popular downtown Detroit pizza place while working toward my master's degree, and one of my fellow undergraduates who had already landed a full-time job came in and sat in my section. He acted superior and condescending, and I was devastated for weeks. I should have brushed it off, but it's phenomenal what something like that does to your self-esteem.
Flash forward to 2007. I'd recently quit my reporting job at the Arizona Republic to freelance full-time, and my husband and I were considering buying into a partnership with the owners of a local wine bar in Phoenix. I worked on site for a while to make sure it was what I really wanted. I lasted a mere few months and changed my mind. I'd forgotten how difficult it was physically and psychologically, and I soon recalled why I'd wanted a job that required a lot of sitting in chairs all day.
During that time, a gentleman with whom I'd worked at the newspaper came in with his wife for a nightcap. He was obviously shocked to see me behind the bar. His face transformed from a happy smile of recognition to concern and worry. He asked what I was doing there. I tried to explain, "I'm not really a bartender," but I could tell he'd already made up his mind that I had sadly and pathetically been lowered, in his eyes, to working as a minion slinging drinks.
I was outraged! Offended! Aghast! And then I remembered: This is how service professionals are treated every single day. They're there for us, smiling as they serve us lunch, pour happy hour drinks or remove dirty plates after a gluttonous dinner. What do they get in return? Crappy hours, sore feet, bad backs, an aching armload of other people's garbage and a boatload of bad attitude.
Next time you judge people by what they do, especially when your good times depend on their labor, think twice about who deserves the label of "loser."
