Labor and the Color of Its Collar

This summer, I led a double life. In one of my realities, I reported to the offices of an academic publication in New York City’s SoHo wearing jeans and sneakers. But each day, when the clock struck three, I pulled a reverse-Cinderella and transformed into the glamorous hostess of an upscale Italian restaurant.

The costume change I underwent was certainly symbolic. One job had me researching ancient Hindu legal texts, the other had me opening menus for wealthy lawyers. One set of bosses didn’t care what I looked like; the others would send me home to change if they didn’t like my shoes. While I earned my editorial internship by navigating a challenging application process, I procured my restaurant job by walking up to the general manager and telling him that if he wanted a hard-working hostess, he should hire me. So he did.

But despite their superficial differences, I’d like to set something straight: One was not “better”—more impressive, productive, or interesting—than the other. And yet, I’m finding that when prospective employers and even friends ask me about what I did this summer, I know which job they want to hear about: the white-collar one rather than the blue.

To be fair, the list of resume-worthy skills I picked up at my internship sparkles. I learned how to craft a publicity report using an array of analytical tools. If you asked me to spearhead the next issue’s publicity campaign, I could upload the right articles and send the appropriate emails with confidence and style. Someday, when I found a fashion journal, I’ll know how to operate its publication and measure its success.

I also practiced and honed skills that are harder to quantify, like how to meticulously fact-check essays or skim entire book chapters in mere minutes. By the end of my summer, I was assigned to propose my own edits in the margins of our distinguished writers’ essays.

I’ll admit that working in a restaurant didn’t necessarily equip me with equivalent technical skills. But I grate when people assume that I learned nothing valuable in my time as a hostess.

If my internship gave me the skills I need to apply for prestigious posts, my restaurant job taught me what kind of person I want to be once I’m there. My boss—the restaurant’s general manager—held his employees to an extremely high standard of punctuality and accountability. In my two months there, I watched two different girls get hired and quickly fired for arriving late to work. On Harvard Time, neither would have been tardy.

On another evening, he asked our highest selling waitress to leave immediately, because she’d made one too many mistakes dealing with customers. My boss didn’t enjoy making these kinds of rash staff cuts, but later, he’d take me aside and impress upon me the importance of ruthless perfectionism in doing business.

Beyond presenting me with real consequences for tardiness, honing my attention to detail, and teaching me how to multitask, my restaurant job trained me to treat everyone I met with respect worthy of the queen. And though I know as well as the next person that you shouldn’t judge people by their appearances, I noticed that everyone—including myself—does this anyway without realizing it.

In the worlds of finance, modeling, and big business—where most of our clients worked—it’s easy to assume that those who act important and dress expensively are the wealthiest and therefore most worthy of our attention. Often, they were. But other times, the most unassuming couple turned out to be a wine connoisseur and truffle fanatic. In these instances, we wasted time catering to more demanding, entitled customers while the real VIP sat two tables away, gearing up to spend several hundred dollars on lunch without a waiter to take her order.

The stereotyping was mutual. Whereas I spent my mornings sending edits to Ph.D.s from my Harvard College email address, doctors and lawyers condescended to Hostess Lily in the evenings. “What about schooling?” a couple of Ivy Leaguers once asked me. “Have you ever considered pursuing any?” I could see customers’ eyes refocusing, seeing me for the first time when I told them I study at Harvard.

Later, I’d realize that the other employees were never offered similar opportunities to explain themselves. I’d wonder why customers asked me these questions but not the others. Because I look young? Innocent? Because I don’t speak English with an accent?

I thought it unfair that no one knew about the bread server’s master’s in philosophy. I wanted to publicly broadcast that the manager could speak five languages fluently—that everywhere you turned, blue-collar workers boasted white-collar skills.

But this exercise missed the mark completely. A blue-collar job is a tiring, immense amount of work in its own right, one that is worthy of the utmost respect. Blue-collar workers don’t become validated by their white-collar skills. And yet, I think we should consider the reverse more seriously.

Let’s champion the skills that blue-collar work develops. I’m glad I know how to use Google Analytics, but I’m proud that I picked up some Italian this summer. I’m happy that I can put coding experience on my resume, but I’m more interesting for knowing how to fillet a whole Branzino. Perhaps I’m a better candidate for future jobs because of my internship, but I’ll certainly be a more valuable employee—a humbler, harder worker—thanks to my restaurant training.

Lily K. Calcagnini ’18, a Crimson editorial executive, is a History and Literature concentrator living in Dunster House.