During the academic year, I blend smoothies and press paninis about 10 hours a week, just enough to keep up with all the daily expenses of college life. It's a little cafe, way far away from where I sleep and study. I walk home alone in the dark every night with a dead cellphone, shoes with the soles sunken in, and a trés hunchback of Notre Dame look. I'm not complaining. I could be cleaning toilets.

I learned a lot working in a sunny sandwich and smoothie shop in the biomedical engineering building. I've learned a lot going to Cornell University in general, but when you sweep the floors that students walk on, you see things a whole other way.

I clock in. I say "hi" to my coworkers. I wash my hands. I put on my nametag that doesn't say "sweetheart." I make people sandwiches. I'm not complaining, I could be cleaning toilets, but instead, I'll get lectured. He's older than me, he has more degrees than me, and he really wants me to know it. How dare I wrap his sandwich so horribly. Then another one, he's on the football team. He doesn't have to pay for his food through some deal by the program. I should know this by now. He wants to know who I think I am. He then wants to know what I'm doing Friday night. Then another one. His food is cold. I didn't call his name loud enough and now his food is cold. Last time I called someone's name loud enough, I was told to "calm the fuck down." I could be cleaning toilets. At least the toilets wouldn't call me "babe."

Maybe it's time for me to start complaining.

I work hard for my money, so I can do all the stupid things that college students want to do. I work hard in class, so that one day I can work hard for a lot more money, so I can do all the stupid things that white people want to do. I work hard, and I always have. I'm not a princess; please don't call me one. I've been worried about complaining about my job. I've been worried about opening my mouth too wide, being told to shut it. I've been worried that I'll get swept under the rug, another Ivy League, upper-class sweetheart who will never work a day in her life. I've been worried about saying "no." "No, I won't do that." "No, I don't want to talk to you." "No, I'm not going to dance with you." "No, please stop." I've been worried.

The objectification of people at intersections of wealth, power, and gender doesn't always look the way you expect. I’ve never felt as much like garbage as I do when working behind a counter, and it’s not because the job isn’t noble. Feeding people is as noble as anything else. It’s because of how I’m treated. I say, “Hi, how are you doing today?” out of habit because I know better than to expect a response. Sometimes a customer is out of breath, frazzled by everyday life, they’ll lean over the counter and groan, “I’ve been better sweetheart.” Have you ever had so many people avoid eye contact, ignore your questions, bump into you, walk all over you, that you start to wonder if you’re still even a person anymore? I felt like a character in Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis the first weeks I worked in the smoothie shop. I was positive that I’d been zapped down to a teeny-tiny Roly-Poly. I stopped stomping on roaches. At least they didn’t call me “babe.”

I became friends with the older ladies that were employed in the shop. They always made sure I was going to class and doing my homework. On Mother's day, I asked one of them if she were a mother, she responded that she was a grandmother. When I looked shocked, she told me that I sure knew how to flatter a lady. She was one of the strongest ladies I have ever met. She deserved so much more than flattery.

The weeks went on, and the rudeness bothered me less and less. I’d walk home at night with my dead cellphone and shoes with sunken-in soles, and I’d be thinking about the lady who warned me of how dangerous compost is for dogs. I’d barely remember the lady who spit in my face. I started to love the routine of it all. Going to an Ivy League school, each morning can feel like a reminder that you’re just not quite good enough at anything. But I became an expert at smoothie proportions, at sweeping the floor. There was pride in the little moments, like the first day I went a whole shift without dropping a pizza. There was pride in working for my money. There was pride in tipping too much when I found time to go out. There was pride in asking the waitress how she was doing that day. There was pride in listening.

Working in food service has been one of the most pivotal experiences in college so far, and there have been a lot of pivotal experiences. If I could somehow become Queen of the World, I would mandate two full years of bussing tables and taking orders for every single person. I don’t want to call the experience humbling because there is nothing humble about it. There is so much greatness in finding good in the bad, in enduring wild injustice, in finding a way to be better.