My heart sank as I looked up at the mini mansion in front of me. About a year ago, I decided to become a professional organizer on Care.com.
I tensed my shoulders and braced for the impact, knowing what lied within nice homes like this, or a Whole Foods grocery store, or even a Target. It’s not just the people. It’s their judgement, specifically reserved for people like me. Their disappointment was almost palpable, shown through downcast glances and pursed lips. With their shifting eyes alone, whoever lied beyond these double doors had the power to wash momentary waves of judgement up and down my body.
And there I stood, outside a giant white monstrosity, owned by a woman I’d never even met. My Vans wouldn’t do. I bought them at a Plato’s Closet three years ago, and over those years they held memories of sitting cross-legged on my friend’s dorm floor and of scuttling through snowy winter sidewalks. But they just wouldn’t do. These nostalgic purposes didn’t matter anymore. “Covered in just enough dirt to show my status,” ran through my head before I raised my fist to knock.
She opened the door and smiled out the words, “Hi, my name is Millie.”
“Hi, I’m Alex,” I nervously spat out, peeking behind her to see a foyer straight from a Style at Home magazine.
And so it began.
“Could you please take your shoes off?” she asked, smiling still, as they do. Always polite, with unspoken thoughts veiled behind socially adept smiles. But her eyes didn’t lie. I could almost hear my own thoughts as she locked hawk eyes on my sneakers. I set them on the doormat, leaving my supposed filth at the doorstep.
I felt dirty but decided to overlook the feeling and continue organizing. I used to doubt myself all the time, but organizing was different. It felt easy to straighten everything into control, to lock shapes and pieces together in cluttered closets until my uncertainty became confidence. Millie was thrilled with the way I decluttered her Magnolia Homes-esque kitchen cabinets and her infant’s sleek white nursery. I wondered if I earned my way to the top, where the worthwhile, respected members of society sat each day. She let a genuine smile out.
“Wowww. This is amazing!” She clasped her hands together. “I want to move the baby’s play pen to the left,” she paused and shot a glance towards me, seasoned in giving commands, “If you could do that.”
At some points during these little interactions with her, I stopped feeling like a human. I was her humble pawn, and she was the Queen. In our game of chess, it was clear what my role was – she was important, and my life’s purpose was to help the Queen accomplish her goals.
During my third visit to her home, I ran out of water. I knew that she had glass VOSS bottles on the fridge’s top shelf. Right next to them rested a bougier version of a Brita that was filled to the brim with water. She also had a recessed filtration/ice system. It was top-of-the-line, stainless steel contraption of a refrigerator that held only the finest waters and the most organic foods.
“What was it you asked again?” Millie glided toward the kitchen island as I wiped its granite surface.
“Oh, just for some water! If that’s ok. I ran out.” I held up my knock-off Yeti.
Again, I felt the same looks. Her eyes to the fridge, then to the fridge filtration system, then back at me. She paused just long enough that I knew she was considering what drink to give me.
She finally landed on, “You can just fill it up in the sink.”
Three different types of filtered fancy waters, yet I only deserved tap. This one hurt even more than the can-you-take-your-shoes-off moment. Now, I really knew. I was too filthy to even drink the same water as my Queen. I was me. And to be me, means to be low. I used to love running up to the kitchen sink as a kid to drink from it fountain-style when my parents weren’t looking. But this time something felt off. Why couldn’t I sip the same water? Why did wealthier strangers shoot me those same hawk eyes when all I did was exist in the same isle as them?
In my eyes, this Queen had already reached checkmate. She had money to throw money at me for pointless things, like lining up high end Pampers diapers. She didn’t have to choose between grocery funds or buying gas each week. After all, Millie’s SUV was perfectly electric. I used to eavesdrop on her “important” phone calls as I folded her clothes. She’d complain to her friends and coworkers on the phone about how this house is “small compared to her home in New York.” Millie would say, “it’s super crazy, everything here is super chaotic.”
Meanwhile, the live-in nanny and I rushed back and forth and handled her child and home-related messes at all hours. A book titled “You Are a F***ing Awesome Mom” sat on the toilet seat upstairs. “Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night,” I thought.
When my parents used to drive through Philly with me in the backseat, they’d lock the doors upon seeing the homeless men stalk up and down rows of cars for change.
“Door locked, don’t look,” they’d say.
And now, years after the work for my royal highness ended, my questions remain:
- When the privileged DO decide to look at the less fortunate, what looks do they give?
- How do we justify treating those with less like they mean less?
And, most importantly, the final question that I can’t quite shake:
3. When will I, and many others, finally be treated like humans?