I am the daughter of a waitress. My skin is made up of the napkins that my mother would fold together on a slow day, and my blood has a mixture of Sprite and lemonade that provides just the right kick of sweetness and sour. My earliest memories are that of going behind the bar and serving myself. My memories hold pictures of the managers dressed in Santa's uniform instead of their own and my memories hold true to the fact that I was not raised by just one man, oh no. Every cook that stepped along that windows line became my father. Every cop that sat at my mom's bar and lifted me to their lap so I could watch the Sox game became my father. Every manager that would feel guilty about scheduling my mom on a late night but let me and my siblings sit in a booth and munch on French fries when there was no babysitter or food to be found became my father.

I am the daughter of a waitress. During certain seasons my pantry would be full and my family's heart would be light. We would have pizza on Fridays and my mom would take home bags of popcorn that the restaurant had not been able to give out fast enough. On cold winter nights my mom would stretch to rub pennies together and get us heating, and instead, we had learned to be innovative enough to simply open our oven and turn it on, because nothing will heat a tiny apartment better than an oven set to broil.

I am the daughter of a waitress. Before I could really understand what manners were I knew that the customer was always right, even when they blustered and threw things at you and told you that you were wrong, or stupid. I knew that you had to bite your tongue and possibly offer a bratty child a free ice cream in order to get any money from them that night. In order to get less than your dues worth, and in order to get what would probably not be enough for a wholesome dinner for three.

I am the daughter of a waitress. I have seen managers cut my moms shifts down to two a week just because she stood by her morals. I have seen hostesses triple seat my mom with thirteen tops side by side by side. I have seen kind women break down in the back and resurface with a smile on their face as they smuse and suck up, just trying to get enough money for little Johnny to get a bike for Christmas. I have had kids tease me because my mother has taken their order before. Tease me because they felt so gracious for leaving a 15 percent tip. When I got home and told my mom she mopped a hand down her face and laughed, trying to make a joke of how it had been a hard night.

I am the daughter of a waitress. My mom's coworkers see her more than I do. They struggle with her and understand her pain. When a man dies we all mourn his death, and they honor him by giving him a small plaque proclaiming "My office". Nobody mentions how they may as well have been his family, because god knew he stood in that corner, in his 'office', more than he slept in his own bed.

I am the daughter of a waitress. My proud mother has to bite her cheek, turn her head away, and do whatever they ask just so they can grace her with three hours of work and to maybe take home fifteen extra dollars.

I am the daughter of a waitress. Her coworkers all clamber about when I bring friends in, and they all make bets on which one I might date. When the boys find out they take out their phones and bring up pictures of their guns, casually. Oh so very casually, as though when I find out they think I won't realize the subtle threat of "don't hurt her. Don't touch her unless she says so. Or you'll have us to deal with."

I am the daughter of a waitress. When my baby brother was born we use to sit him at the bar and two adults always made sure to be on either side of him so his carrier wouldn't fall.

I am the daughter of a waitress. I have seen young girls come in and see that gold, and you can see it in their eyes that they want it. That they haven't realized that to even get a shot at it, they have to sell their soul. I see them edge closer. Ever so closer. Reaching and wanting and not even realizing that doing so is the same as making a deal with the devil. That doing so is guaranteeing servitude.

I am the daughter of a waitress. You will never know the life they go through, because even though their paycheck is not the same they are the world's most clever actors and actresses. They know how to set the tone. They know how to feed your hungry bellies. They are the world's public mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. They love you because they have to, and not because they choose to. They take care of you, put their life in your hands and hope you don't raise hell like a fussy child.

I am the daughter of a waitress. They don't call them servers for nothing. They will swallow their pride just to try and give you a good night. They will miss birthdays and holidays and sometimes be unable to even take their kids to the hospital just so they can have you throw their job back in their face. They sometimes have to flirt with old men and women. Fold their bodies in on themselves so as to appear obedient. To appease a mans incurable anger, or thirst. These tall pines allow themselves to be chopped down just so they can try and make rent in an economy that loves their personality, but not their paycheck.

I am the daughter of a waitress. I know how to make the stubborn one smile, I know how to wheedle, and get people what they want and need. But that does not mean I have to. I may be the daughter, but I am NOT your waitress. I will NOT let you tread on me. I will NOT idly sit by and watch you disrespect people. Not my people, nor anyone else's. You will be treated as how you should treat every human that stumbles into your path: an equal.

I am the daughter of a waitress. And I will NOT serve you.