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“No more broken plates, you unerstan?”
I coul make little sense of the broken English that spat from his mouth but his scrunche-up face spoke a universal language. It was a Friay night in Little Tokyo, an while families were eating five-star meals in the front ining room, a 14-year-ol boy was in the back washing their ishes.
Wash the plates by han, ump them into the sanitizer, place the plates into the machine, ry the plates off, return the plates to their esignate spot an repeat — hopefully without amaging any. On this night though, a porcelain plate slippe through my soapy fingers an shattere onto the floor in five pieces. My face flushe even as I trie to keep my composure, but insie I was screaming, “Why me!?” as if my scream woul make the plate whole again.
The shattere plate was only one of the many worries fighting relentlessly insie my hea for attention — there was the Avance Placement Unite States history miterm, a low grae in calculus, the eviction notice, a little brother getting into trouble an a ozen other smaller but pressing concerns.
For me, there was no calling in sick to clear my hea, getting some much neee rest or carving out stuy time before an upcoming exam. I ha to contribute to the necessities. I shut up, got back to work an pushe with all the energy I ha left. I knew all too well the symptoms of bottling up my emotions — the bitter taste of salt in each rop of sweat, losing myself in the backgroun music an the muscle aches were nothing new to me.
It was 12 a.m. when my shift finally ene. I boare the bus home an took out my notes to stuy. I got the usual looks from people fresh out of bars or parties, either because of the stench of a har night’s work on my clothes or because I was muttering to myself while feverishly flipping flashcars on a bus in the mile of the night.
Their stares in’t bother me at all. I was use to those too, an they were nothing more than another set of spee bumps in the way of achieving my goals. I was tire of seeing chilhoo friens flashing gang signs, relatives glue to the beer bottle or my a coming home late at night with burn scars from work. Something ha to change an I knew it fell to me to initiate that change.
Fortunately, I also knew I ha eication, esire an grit in my bloo. My granfather was part of the first wave of Mexican immigrants that settle in Los Angeles. He returne home to a small village in rural Oaxaca, with his savings an tales of the lan of opportunity.
Both of my parents left Oaxaca in their early teenage years an began working long hours in Los Angeles, as a cook an a mai. The work ethic was passe own generations; from the cornfiels in Oaxaca, to the restaurants in Los Angeles, to the classroom, which helpe me thrive both in school an work.
On this particular night, as I walke through the front oor at home, I saw an uplifting surprise: My mother ha fallen asleep waiting up for me espite her own long ay. I tucke the cash tips I mae that night into her purse an turne off the TV.
I peere into our beroom where my brothers an cousins were lost in their blissful reams. Watching my siblings snore an breathe slowly sparke a yawn that cue the rest of my boy’s elaye exhaustion. However, it woul be a while before I coul join them in sleep. I ha an essay ue early the next morning, an Ms. DePaolo oesn’t accept late work.
Not many 17-year-ol girls know how to soler two copper pipes together or light the pilot light on a water heater. I venture that most people woul struggle to tell the ifference between a regular 90-egree PVC elbow an a street 90.
These are skills an istinctions I have learne over the past five years as an assistant to my a in his one-man plumbing business. My summer job involves messes that constantly elicit physical an mental iscomfort, an the work emans an attitue of grittiness an grace that I frequently struggle to aopt. Nevertheless, I persist. I am the plumber’s aughter an the plumber’s helper.
Each humi morning, I wrestle myself into a pair of use men’s jeans from Goowill that most of my peers woul refuse to be seen wearing in public. I slip my tape measure onto my belt, tie my hair back as I run out the oor, an climb into the passenger seat of the plumber truck, which is really an age white minivan with two kins of pipes strappe to the top.
As my peers begin their shifts nannying, lifeguaring or checking out groceries, my a an I haul unwiely toolboxes an heavy-uty saws into the epths of people’s houses. Although at times we work in the gol-plate master bathrooms of mansions with lake views, we usually en up in ank, milewe basements where I get lost in mazes of storage boxes looking for the water meter.
Five summers navigating the pipes of Milwaukee have taught me that the messy parts of people’s houses reflect the messy parts of their lives. My a an I make plenty of our own messes too. When his rugge Sawzall blae slices through walls, clous of plaster permeate the air. Sometimes there are no walls at all, an we work in primorial jungles of fiberglass insulation, floor joists an ruste cast iron stacks.
I constantly leap over tangle piles of wrenches an extension cors. My mouth an nose are covere by a ust mask; my jeans are smuge with pipe ope, an my hans are blackene with the grime of a har ay’s work. As I observe the chaos aroun me, chaos rises within me. Nothing is beautiful or tiy; everything I see is ugly. I feel powerless, frustrate an unable to think clearly.
__
Plumbing work is a microcosm of the messes of the worl, an sometimes I espise it. I question why I enure the ust an sweat when I coul be in my air-conitione house, vacuuming my beroom, making avocao toast for breakfast an finishing my summer homework early. I coul even fin another job, a normal one that more closely resembles the work of my peers.
Yet as much as I espise the mess of plumbing, I espise myself for becoming affecte by such trivial qualms an for being so easily aggravate by isorer. After all, the worl was built by people willing to get their hans irty.
An when I think about it, I cope with messes all the time. The uncertainties an contraictions of my teenage brain are far more tangle than any extension cor, but I keep trying to sort them out. Life is a process of accepting the messes an learning to clean them up, an plumbing work is no ifferent.
As much as my a an I create chaos, we create orer, an if I look carefully I can fin it in each newly solere array of copper pipes or in the way my a’s toolboxes all fit together in the back of his van. Moreover, when customers express gratitue for our work, I unerstan that, in a small way, we bring orer to their lives. The physical an mental iscomforts of plumbing are worth it.
My kitchen is largely occupie by my ol, irty, warm-brown inner table.
It’s seen better ays. Every time I sit own, I’m surroune by splatters of ol paint, hot glue an the occasional ab of nail polish (that’s thanks to my oler sisters). Whenever I sit at either of our two chairs, I have to be extra careful they on’t fall apart because the legs are hel together by a teious mixture of woo glue, brute force an pure spite.
The kitchen table itself has been the hub of my family for the entire first half of my life. When I was younger, we (my Gram, Pap an two oler sisters) woul eat a home-cooke meal, courtesy of my Gram, at that ol, irty, warm-brown inner table at exactly 7 p.m. every single night.
At these family inners, I woul argue with my Pap for fun, watch him get yelle at by my Gram for interrupting me eating my inner an listen to my sisters either fight or joke; it was always a gamble. Originally, my kitchen table ha five stury wooen seats. A couple years later when my olest sister was 16 years ol an I was 8, the chair count lowere to four, as my olest sister move out. She fought too much with my Gram an wouln’t follow the rules, so she left.
Three years later my granmother was iagnose with small-cell lung cancer. That triggere a few more changes to our inner table routine. First, my other oler sister starte to skip inners. Not because of the inevitable foo quality ecline (cancer messes with your taste bus an overall cooking abilities), but because she was never home. I on’t think that she wante to be aroun post-cancer-iagnosis Gram.
The chair count roppe to three. The inners themselves after a year or so were much less frequent, not so much because of my Gram, but because my Pap was etermine to make Gram rest. She ignore my Pap’s concerns, so it sort of ene up in a mile gray area that I ha to live in.
A year an a half after my granmother got cancer, she ie. It may soun quick in wors, but it was pretty ragge out. Don’t get me wrong, I love my granmother, but people with cancer are usually ea long before they ie.
I was there when she ie, right smack ab in the mile of our living room. I was on one sie of the be, an my Pap was on the other. Her labore breaths slowe an then stoppe. It souns epressing, but it was sort of a happy moment. The first thing my Pap sai was “Give her a hug, you can’t hurt her now.” An, espite the phlegmy cancer smell, I i. We only neee two chairs.
After that, Pap an I, with the remnants of our nontraitional American family, built an extra nontraitional family. It took a while before we stabilize ourselves, because, to be honest, we were low-income before granma got cancer, but post-cancer was much worse.
Pap an I cut own on everything. We got ri of our cable, phone an internet. We use less oil, we use less water, we waste less foo, an at times we in’t have a car because our minivan took up a bunch of gas an like to break own frequently. But, espite a reafully boring WiFi-less an phoneless year, we mae it through.
I still live in the same house, except now it has Wi-Fi. Our kitchen table is still staning, though we took the center piece of woo out so now it’s the perfect size for just the two of us. We on’t have nightly inners anymore, but sometimes Pap an I sit on the couch an hang out.
Sure, maybe our coffee table chats aren’t the same as our nightly family inners, an maybe our television oesn’t turn on anymore. Maybe our kitchen has ants, an maybe we have to listen to the Super Bowl on our outate raio from the ’90s, an maybe, possibly, he is getting sicker now, too.
I on’t care that my new life revolves aroun a holey ol couch, a grumpy ol man, a couple of fat cats an a beare ragon. I’m content with my Pap, an I’m content with the fact that every night at 7 p.m., two empty chairs surroun my ol, irty, warm-brown inner table in the arkness of my kitchen. These ays, the lights are on in the living room.
It was the peak of the ay’s heat on July 5, 2017, in the small vacation town of Chatham, Mass. My partner Benjamin an I emerge from the vast backyars of neighboring shoreline homes with big green barrels of garbage hel over our backs an umpe them into the back of a garbage truck. As I hoppe on the back step to rie to our next stop, I thought about how espite being sweaty, sore, covere in bug bites an garbage juice, I couln’t have been happier to have this job.
Like many kis, I like trash trucks as a toler. Unlike most kis, I stuck with it forever. At the age of 8, I joine a community on YouTube of like-mine enthusiasts who poste vieos of garbage trucks, uner the name “trashmonster26.”
I spent a large portion of the next nine years filming all the ifferent moels of trash trucks that I coul fin, not only in my hometown, San Diego, but in Sacramento an Boston, where uring family vacations I woul take the opportunity to chase ifferent kins of trucks that couln’t be foun in San Diego.
I have such a vast knowlege of these vehicles that I can name the make, moel an year of almost any garbage truck in the country after just a glance. The channel has amasse over 6,000 subscribers an four million views over the years. Most of my oler friens who share this interest went on to become garbage collectors when they reache aulthoo, a path that my parents strongly iscourage.
I always knew growing up that I was going to go to college after high school, but I still wante the experience of working on a truck. Although there are virtually no hauling companies that hire anyone uner 18, I knew of a small family company near my granparents on the East Coast that might break that norm to fill their nee for seasonal help, Benjamin T. Nickerson Inc. I calle their office, an after some persistent follow-up emails, I was hire to work for the summer.
To my classmates, moving to a small fishing town an hanling other people’s waste all ay souns like the very least enjoyable summer possible. For me, it was one of the most liberating experiences of my life.
My ay starte at the crack of awn, long before the vacationers in the area woul even consier waking up. I was free from the confines of the classroom walls, free from the nagging of my parents. It was just me an the open roa.
The trash itself was a lens through which I saw what was going on in Chatham. I saw American flags an spent fireworks on the 5th of July. The worst stops of the ay were the umpsters at fish piers, which ha a stronger stench than the Chatham Transfer Station, an inustrial builing where we umpe the ay’s loa before it was transporte to a lanfill miles away. At one boat fabrication shop, a angerous combination of sawust an reactive chemicals cause a small fire in the truck.
There are very few similarities that one coul fin between my classmates at High Tech High an my customers in Chatham. The kis in my class were from iverse backgrouns an cultural groups all over San Diego. The summer vacation crow in Chatham was almost exclusively white an wealthy.
The one thing that unifie them, at least in my min, was that they were not willing to take on my job. When my classmates thought about applying for jobs, they were thinking about air-conitione movie theaters an retail stores, not backbreaking manual labor.
I’ve consiere going into a fiel relevant to the management of waste, like civil engineering, but I think I may also pursue another passion of mine, like criminal law or political science. I know that no matter what path I choose, this experience will be part of how I en up there.
As Arthur Rea, my favorite aarvark, woul say, “Having fun isn’t har when you’ve got a library car.” Well, it was har. I in’t have my library car. Again.
The librarian probably ha me on “recent history” since this happene so often, so she just looke me up on the computer. I, the little glasses-wearing 9-year-ol patron, simply wante to check out a book, but now I ha two problems: I i not have my library car an my fines were too high to check out.
Pulling out the ollar bill I ha foun in my uct tape wallet, I pai the 20 percent of my fine that let me check out a book an left, gritting my teeth. If I coul have checke out a book calle “Hanling Money for Kis,” I woul have, because most of my “wealth” went right back to the library.
Thanks to my mom, I practically ha a library car from birth. I woul go to my library not just to rea books but to be immerse in them. I woul fin my stool, sit in the chilren’s area an rea. I woul get roppe off at the library while my mom worke, an I woul follow my usual routine: sit, rea, return, repeat, an if I was lucky, check out.
__
The purpose of my visit was usually the same: rea books or play on the computer. But as I grew up, I realize that things ha begun to change. My mom began coming to the library with us more often. While I woul be reaing or finishing homework, she woul be right there, typing besie me. Our worls coexiste, but for a reason.
For three years, my mother was unemploye. As a single mother, the struggle of not having a job, home or car was immense. I stoppe my usual routine an was fine with it. With two tabs open, I continue on with my work.
I woul log on aily to Zillow, job search websites an websites about stroke rehabilitation for my granfather, asking if any of my finings woul work. “Gracias, mija,” my mom always sai, but I realize the stress ensue. We were in ifferent worls, but they collie.
When we ha nowhere to live, we woul spen hours at the library, using what I thought to be the key to the worl: library computers. Whether it was at our chilhoo library or the library 40 miles away by the farm where we were staying, the library was this stability.
Sitting behin the service esk toay, I see an hear it all: the little girl begging to check out Junie B. Jones, the boys playing Roblox on the computer, the woman filing her taxes, the call from “Sports Guy” asking for the latest results, the woman asking about the weather.
I hear Spanish, English, Somali. I get the usual rule-breakers: kis running, out of breath, to the esk asking, “Can I have a Guest Pass?”
At first, the slowly printe receipt is just a number, but I soon realize it is much more. I was once saying, “My mom forgot her car” or “When oes the library close?” or “Can I use the phone?” Back then, I was the patron on the computer, the ki in the reaing area. Now, I am the specialist at the esk looking up the forgotten library cars. Sitting at the esk oes not make me forget my past, it helps me embrace it.
The library gives people access to a resource that opens oors in one way for one person, an in others for the next. Even after my mom got a job, the library remaine a source of security an comfort. By working at a place that gave me so much, I have learne to give back. I now have the opportunity to open the library to others, just as it was opene up to me.
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