In 1996, we captured a video of my 81-year-old grandmother. In the footage, she’s standing in the kitchen, radiating joy through her eyes and flashing a wide smile that highlights her high cheekbones. It was a special moment because she had just secured a new job.
Watching this video now brings a sense of nostalgia. I see my grandmother filled with life and energy, and I can hear the distinct country accent of southwest Georgia in her voice. As she moves around the kitchen, juggling between the stove, counter, and pantry, she talks passionately about her responsibilities at the local nursing homes. One of her tasks is to provide companionship and human connection to the residents who feel isolated. She also handles filing and has even mastered the use of an electronic typewriter. It’s fascinating to see how she makes the machine come to life with precise codes and the rhythmic sound of ink hitting the paper.
However, the most memorable moment in the video is when she declares with her characteristic spunk, “Down there, honey, I’m working! I am working! And I ain’t cleanin’ no bathroom, either.”
This reminder takes me back to my roots and my family history. Our elders have experienced so much and lived through times that feel distant from our own. My grandmother grew up in a world where men worked the land and women often found themselves cleaning other people’s bathrooms. They learned to bring dignity to these kinds of jobs out of necessity, even though they resented the lack of options in a land that was supposed to offer opportunities.
A few weeks ago, we hired two crews to help with tasks around the house. One team consisted of Hispanic women who provided deep cleaning services, while the other group of Hispanic men took care of landscaping. As someone who comes from a background of sharecroppers and domestic workers during the era of racial segregation, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of discomfort. It seemed like I was witnessing a scene reminiscent of my grandmother’s time, though with different races and ethnicities involved.
Our own experiences and knowledge shape the way we interpret the events that unfold before us. They allow us to recognize patterns and make connections. The people we learn from have a significant influence on our worldview. Some may view the scene at my house as a sign of progress and economic mobility. Others may see it as further evidence that factors like race, ethnicity, gender, and national origin heavily influence one’s opportunities in America. Then there are those who ponder the individuals within this scene and question how we ended up echoing history’s rhyme, wondering why we find ourselves on this side of it.
To clarify, what occurred at my house that day was not a repeat of the past but a familiar occurrence. The minority-owned cleaning company offers its employees benefits, bonuses, and weekends and nights off. We compensate the cleaning crew with cash tips. The landscaping crew also received a fair price for their work, which they rightfully deserved.
Nevertheless, throughout our nation’s history, individuals tasked with low-skilled labor often belong to specific racial or ethnic groups. It has varied across time and regions, with Irish or East Asians assuming those roles in the past and African Americans occupying them in places like southwest Georgia. Today, in the suburbs near our nation’s capital, these positions are predominantly held by Hispanic individuals. Predictably, theories of inferiority emerge as justifications for their marginalized status. People question their intellect, biology, and culture, dismissing their abilities.
However, I know better. In the world where I was raised, the deacon at church on Sundays could be found serving as the janitor at the high school on Mondays. I understand that a person’s worth extends beyond the type of work they do. Yet, it raises the question: What does it signify when the descendants of these individuals now have the power to hire the ones who have taken their place?
When my grandmother triumphantly danced in the kitchen that morning, it meant more than just finding pride in her work or having opportunities. It taught me that while the nature of work holds significance, the essence of the worker matters even more. This is why I couldn’t help but see glimpses of my elders in the men and women who worked at my house. Despite differences in history and circumstances, they all shared a relentless pursuit of greater opportunities and choices for themselves and their families in this land of supposed possibilities.
Succeeding in America should not solely mean possessing options and resources that were unavailable to previous generations. It should also entail acknowledging our responsibility to those striving alongside us, both in significant ways and small gestures. I recall a moment from my childhood when I brought a few stalks of freshly cut sugar cane to my grandmother’s house. As I carried them from the truck to the picnic table under the pecan tree, she jokingly exclaimed, “Ya’ll move out the way of working folk!” It was a lighthearted reminder of a hard-earned truth: True dignity comes from the people who perform the work, rather than the work itself.
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