“Don’t ask if we want *another* drink; it’s passive aggressive and rude.”

“Roll the silverware tight like you!”

“This salad is entirely too big.”

“You want to check my ID? How f*cking racist.”

“You rang in crunchy instead of a crispy taco shell. Those 34 cents are coming out of your tips.”

“Smile more! Then maybe you’ll make more money.”

“You forgot our hot sauce. Why don’t you buy us a round of shots to make up for it?”

I’ve received 20 cent tips, pamphlets asking if I’m going to Heaven, and verbal “tips” ranging from “best server ever” to “learn to smile.” I’ve been a server for only two years, but in that time, I have been screamed at, laughed at, told I am the worst, told I am the absolute best, been tipped nothing and tipped $100. For every awful customer, there is one who restores my faith in humanity. Why do I stay? Why do I pick to serve instead of intern or work somewhere I am respected? The easy answer is the money.

I was a host at a Ma & Pa shop where they refused to let me serve, but the servers were all cheerleaders with no restaurant experience who looked great in leggings. Most nights, I walked 25,000 steps, bussing tables, seating guests, taking drink orders, cleaning the restaurant, and ensuring the night ran smoothly. Offended and jealous of servers’ tips, I started waitressing at a corporate restaurant, quickly became the best, but was making awful money, getting disrespected, and lost my hours to newbies who the managers wanted to impress.

I finally got my “dream” restaurant job at a Ma & Pa bar with an outside patio, lovely regulars and great tips, but I can’t make mistakes or else I pay for them, either with my hard-earned money or by getting reamed out by my general manager. My body hurts at the end of every shift because regardless of how I am treated, I bust my butt for my tables.

The emotional labor of serving is very real. I’ve hidden tears as I walk up to tables with their requested item to ensure I don’t lose my tip. I smile and put on a show, making my tables fall in love with me, even when my grandmother is in the hospital or my boyfriend and I just got into a huge fight. I’m exhausted at the end of each shift but trained myself to be extroverted long enough for doubles on weekends to pay my rent. My feet ache on Thursdays because they know I’ll work over 40 hours from Friday to Sunday. When Arlie Hochschild coined the term “emotional labor,” I have no doubt that this is what she meant: the smiling when customers are screaming, the learning to handle situations with compassion even if you have none, and the art of learning to cry in the walk in while taking care of your tables to avoid losing 20 cents.

Photo Cited

“Me Showing New Servers the Walk-in: ‘This Is Where I Come to Cry.” – Milhouse, The Simpsons.” Pintrest, http://www.pinterest.com/pin/542613455087486761/.