Author's note: This column is typically written collectively by Cornell Dining Student Workers. This week, one student worker shares a personal reflection on what it feels like to stand behind the serving line.
There is something very lonely about my job. I see and serve hundreds of people a day, but there is something you must understand: When you’re standing behind the line, you are separated from the swarm of hungry students. You are branded by your itchy hat and pokey nametag as a server to your Cornellian clientele. They stick their plates at you silently, staring with their hands outstretched and their eager eyes demanding more chicken. This uniform makes you different. It makes you feel alone.
We all learn at some point that you can feel lonely even when you’re surrounded by people, and here, I feel very overlooked while I am being looked at. And that’s just by the typical student. The bad students complain about the food options or quality (OK, I didn’t make the food?), demand more than the portions we’re allowed to give (you don’t need seven drumsticks, I promise) and ask for refunds (?!). I don’t really blame the students who complain. I’m sure Cornell’s dining options leave some students’ tastes and dietary needs unsatisfied. However, in their limited interaction with the dining hall, these students go about voicing their concerns incorrectly and see me as a representation of an organization I too have no say in.
In fact, when I have voiced any type of personal need at work, I am told to focus on the group and my need is neglected.. The rebuttal often revolves around the idea that we are all a team: We all actually want this other thing, which always happens to be exactly what I don’t want. Then, both student workers and our boss agree on this notion that my goals are aligned with Cornell Dining’s goals.
I find that it is here — in this moment when we are not seen by others — that we confront the kind of loneliness that exists even when you’re around people. When you don’t feel held by others, you carry the burden of holding yourself at all times. That, to me, is what loneliness feels like. Holding everything in a container too small.
I didn’t think I had the willpower to hold everything together by myself. I took this job because it was the only job at Cornell I had found that gave me enough hours to earn a livable wage. My freshman year was a hard time in my life. I was a bit depressed, missed my family and struggled to find my footing in this realm of extreme academic rigor.
I am grateful that I found someone to lean on to keep me from spilling out. My favorite coworker, who has since graduated, truly went out of her way not only in the kitchen but as a friend. We shared being first-generation college students who were far from home. In the way only another person in your shoes could articulate, we shared a way of seeing this job as difficult, frustrating and honestly sometimes abusive, at the same time as seeing each other as important pillars in each other’s lives.
For a long time, I felt pretty hopeless that Cornell Dining could actually improve, but what I realize as I’m about to graduate soon is that the answer to this problem is actually in plain sight. It is in the lie that the students and our bosses are led to believe: Cornell’s interests are aligned with ours. Cornell Dining makes decisions and then insists we were on the same page all along. It is a manufactured agreement. Perhaps we insist this lie is true only because contradicting it feels too dangerous. If my friends and I ran the dining hall together, we would do a pretty good f*cking job, and then what would we need administration for?
Working in Cornell Dining, frankly, sucks. It was the connections I made that helped me survive. Our inner lives are heavy and no one should have to carry their problems alone. And the simplest way to make a place less lonely is still the oldest one: letting people share the work and hold it together. I hope someday things are different. Take care, everyone.
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