In the latest installment of the "Mission Impossible" movies, the president activates "Ghost Protocol," a black ops mission. Ethan Hunt and his team essentially become invisible.
I learned that in my own Mission Impossible to achieve affordable health insurance, I, too, became part of a "Ghost Protocol" -- a contingent of invisible people. Although, in our case, we weren't driving Lamborghinis through glamorous European cities or cracking codes in the Kremlin.
No, my team was made up of fellow Cracker Barrel employees, and I soon discovered that we were part of an even larger group of invisible people -- those in the retail and restaurant service industry.
Why were we invisible?
Think about it. You walk into a restaurant, and your only thought is the food that you will soon consume. Do you look at the hostess's face? After leaving, if you saw your waitress in the grocery store, would you recognize her enough to say, "Hi, you just waited on me at Cracker Barrel!"
Invisible people.
These are the people who are making minimum wage and are trying their best to live on it. These are the people who remain unnoticed by the rest of the world, because they are in a servant-hood role. They are taking care of people's needs, and once those needs are met, they are forgotten.
But as much as they are invisible, their personal plights scream for attention.
Luckily for me, the bulk of my income came from my freelance writing gigs. The Cracker Barrel job was solely a means to get into an affordable health insurance plan. But as for the rest of my coworkers? They were usually single moms or those otherwise known as "the working poor." Their paycheck WAS their livelihood. I was socking mine away as a reserve savings account, untouched. But their money was to keep food on the table.
They were the epitome of the Puritanical work ethic, but their efforts remained ... invisible. Their presence was usually looked down on. Their time was not valuable, unless it was spent in service of another person. Many didn't have the education or where-with-all to know when or how their rights were being violated, and if they did have that sense, they didn't have the resources to solve their problems.
I realized when I donned my brown Cracker Barrel apron and khaki pants that when I walked out of the door, I no longer took on my journalist persona. I became, essentially, invisible to the rest of the world. I was in Ghost Protocol mode, and the psychological effect was astounding.
Everywhere I went, if I was dressed in my Cracker Barrel uniform, people did unusual things. They'd bump into me and then would walk on without apologizing. If I happened to duck into a supermarket to pick up a sandwich before work, they'd ask me to help them find something in the store. They'd stare at me as if I should be sweeping a floor. And their expressions were nothing short of contemptuous.
But what was even more interesting was the effect my uniform had on other invisible people. It was almost as if we shared a secret handshake. I'd stop off at a convenience store for gas, and the attendant would immediately morph from an expressionless robot into a lively conversationalist. I'd grab a bottle of soda in the local Kroger, and the cashier would unexpectedly pat my hand and tell me she hoped I didn't have to work too hard. I'd smile, and we'd exchange stories about our workplaces.
I found that the Invisible People were the kindest, warmest, most open group of people I'd encountered in my life.
And yet to the rest of the world, we were nothing more than a caste segment, lower than the rest.
At the Cracker Barrel, the Invisible People remained invisible to the customers. They were the dishwashers, the cooks, the garbage collectors. They were Hispanic immigrants and recent high school graduates. They were pregnant waitresses and senior citizens trying to earn enough to make ends meet.
If I learned anything during my Mission Impossible, it was that the Invisible People were not a sucking sponge on the rest of society, as has been portrayed by members of the Tea Party who are against "Obamacare."
They pay their taxes. They work hard.
Their only fault, their only objectionable characteristic, is that they're poor.
And if I thought that I had a tough time paying for health care, I was in no way prepared for what happened next, with one Invisible Person who I'll call Amy.
Tune in for the next part of Mission Impossible: Health Insurance.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
The Snarl Behind the Smile
You've seen it in spy movies countless times, I'm sure: There's always a character in the plot who pretends to be the spy's friend. This person supposedly offers good information. By the end of the tale, however, the spy has discovered betrayal and is embattled to achieve the mission in spite of the Judas.
Most people don't realize (most non-Southerner Americans, that is) that Southern women are the world's masters at this type of manipulation and deceit. I speak with a Northern accent, because I was raised in the Northeast. But my mother and her three sisters are dyed-in-the-wool (or should I say, dyed-in-the-crisp-cool-linen) Georgia peaches.
As such, throughout my childhood, I learned by osmosis the genteel mannerisms that deflect ire, the smooth talk that oozes saccharine sarcasm and the wide-eyed expression of an ingenue that masks a cunning mind.
In short, the snarl behind the smile is imperceptible to those outside of the culture. And to those within, it can be detected, but only with careful observation and precise perception.
Actually, if the CIA ever decided to recruit agents from among the student female population at Ole Miss, there's no telling what secrets might be obtained.
But I digress.
At Cracker Barrel, my manager was a woman who, unknown to many, was a master at the snarl behind the smile. And just like so many who have gone before her in my life, she had no idea that I was on to her. In cases like these, I allow my Yankee accent and mannerisms to take center stage, while I secretly watch Southerners think they're snowing me and play into it accordingly.
I'd just had my insightful chat with Monica about the UPTSQ1978555 Secret Code, when my manager advised me that it was time for my very first employee evaluation.
This was what I was waiting for! I was actually very excited about the prospect, and especially to hear that my sales efforts were paying off, not only for the store but also for my future prospects as a regular employee! I arrived at the store expectantly and in great cheer.
The manager directed me to a table in the corner of Cracker Barrel's dining room, tucked near the fireplace, and with a smile, handed me an evaluation form. It was filled with lines of performance measures, with a 1 to 5 rating system. (One, being for poor performance, five, for excellent performance.)
She complimented me on my friendliness and how my eagerness had shortened the learning curve. And then she surprised me.
She gave me a 3 for personal appearance. I was taken aback, as I knew that I washed and ironed my Cracker Barrel uniform daily, making sure that creases were down the center of my pants, apron and even my shirt sleeves. I always had a coif or ponytail to keep my hair from my shoulders. And I knew for a fact that my makeup was properly applied, because throughout my life, people have always complimented my smooth and rosy complexion. I felt like the poster girl for the Cracker Barrel "country fresh" persona, but my manager didn't see it that way, obviously.
Next, she gave me a 3 for my willingness to speak to customers. I definitely took issue with that. To my knowledge, I was one of a very few people who made a concerted effort to stand at the front door to greet people. And if I missed someone, I walked around the store to say hello. No one entered the place without being welcomed, unless I happened to be picking up a sweatshirt from the floor. No one.
And then the biggest shocker of all: she gave me a 3 for my UPTSQ1978555 performance.
"You're doing a really good job," she said, smiling and snarling at the same time. "But keep working hard to bring up your UPTs."
I sat there with my jaw on my chest. What else did I have to do to get a 5, handstands and cartwheels? Juggle? I could always bring in my ventriloquist puppet, but ...
And then I made a decision. This was just a part-time job, after all. My regular job was writing, and I was a college-educated professional. This performance review was no reflection on my personal qualities. Maybe my manager had PMS when she filled out the sheet. At any rate, it didn't matter.
So I did what I do best and returned to her my snarl behind the smile.
"Oh, thank you so much!" I responded, smiling broadly. "I really enjoy working here. I like all of the people here, and I think it's a fun place to be."
She smirked a little at that, and like all Southern women, thought she was covering it up. "I'm so glad you do," she returned with a drippy honeydew voice.
And then I pulled my punch, reverting to my journalistic tactics that I use when I'm interviewing a difficult source.
"Just one thing," I said, as she began to rise from the table. She sat down, her face quizzical.
"I've been averaging about 15 hours a week now, but I understand that I have to average 24 hours a week in order to qualify for health insurance. As this is the reason I took the job, I was wondering when you'll be able to add hours to the work week for me."
She stared at me. It was as if I'd just requested the key to the White House bedroom where the President sleeps. And then, she deftly covered her perplexity with an easy smile.
"Of course," she said. "I'll start doing that for you next week."
"Thank you," I smiled, beginning to stand up.
"Only just remember one thing," she interjected.
I sat back down, realizing with a sinking feeling that now she was the one who was about to pull a punch.
"Make sure you keep working on your UPT performance. We need people on the floor who will move the items, and your UPT performance is central to how many hours I schedule you."
She smiled and stood.
I suddenly felt like I was playing chess with a sociopath. And I realized in that one brief moment that achieving the Mission Impossible to get affordable health insurance ... might actually be ... impossible.
Tune in for the next part of the story ....
Saturday, January 21, 2012
The Secret Code to Completing the Mission
Names of Cracker Barrel employees have been changed to protect their identity and privacy.
You've seen it in countless spy movies: The spy is on a mission, usually in a dark alley or crowded night club or train station. And suddenly, someone yanks their arm or whispers in their ear or makes eye contact and jerks their head to the side for a tête-à-tête.
And that's always when the plot thickens, because the spy learns a crucial piece of information needed to complete the mission.
In my case, (as I pursued my Mission Impossible to achieve affordable health insurance from a part-time job at Cracker Barrel), my surprise contact who had my "secret code" came in the form of Monica, a Bible student with a bun on her head.
There were about a half-dozen part-time employees at my Cracker Barrel store who were students at the local Bible college. They all wore their hair the same way (length to the hips, piled in tight buns). They all refused to work on Sundays (church time). They all were courteous, kind, earnest, and most importantly, they all met the Cracker Barrel definition of, "country fresh."
Monica was the stand-out among them. She had a natural way of leading people -- not just her fellow students, but also the other Cracker Barrel employees. She worked two jobs, one in the retail store with me, the other as a cashier. She talked to customers like a consummate politician, calming even the most dissatisfied among them, and she had one of those take-charge personalities that encouraged others to look to her for guidance.
She was about 20 years my junior, and to say that she even commanded my respect ... is saying something. So when she whispered my name from behind the register one quiet night, Monica had my full attention.
"Hey," she said, beckoning me as I was re-folding a pile of sweaters that customers had jumbled into a disheveled pile. I sauntered over to the counter conspiratorially.
"You are doing a really good job," Monica said, her eyebrows in her forehead. I felt like I'd just won a medal.
"Really? Why do you say that?"
"Have you seen your UPT (SQ1978555, I added to myself) numbers?"
There was the mention again of the UPTSQ1978555 Secret Code, the mathematical formula whose meaning was still eluding me as a trainee.
"No," I answered, a little embarrassed. "I mean, I do the math once an hour like they told me, but I still have no idea what that UPT thing is. I just turn it in without thinking much about it."
"Let me explain something," Monica said, as if she was preparing for me to imbibe Zen wisdom. "The UPT (SQ1978555) never is high. Never. Except when you're working."
Now I gave her laser-focused concentration. "OK, explain that to me. Why is it important, and what do I have to do with it?"
"It measures how many sales you're making per customer. You're supposed to average selling three items per person. Most people are lucky if they get to two. The economy is down. Our sales are never up and haven't been for a full year. You're always at or near 3, and sometimes, above. The managers look at who is moving stuff out of the store, and then they give them more hours to work."
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Now I was getting the full picture.
"So you're saying," I returned, "that the UPT (SQ1978555, I said to myself again) goes up when I'm working? How is that? All I'm doing is talking to people and doing goofy stuff at the front door when they walk in and out."
"Yep!" she said, laughing. She opened up the sales book and showed me the names of other employees and their UPTSQ1978555 numbers, then compared them to mine. And she was right. There were a couple of others who also were averaging higher scores than the others, but my scores were consistently up there.
"Listen," she told me, "It makes a difference who is working out in the retail store. It really does. As long as they're happy with your UPT (SQ1978555), you'll always have a job here."
I beamed.
This was what I needed to know! I knew that in that very moment, this was the secret code to completing my mission! And I could do this! I was naturally adept at making people feel happy when they saw me, and I was equally adept at getting them to buy anything I suggested to them. If all that was required was to keep the UPTSQ1978555 numbers high, then I'd easily win the working hours I needed to qualify for the health insurance plan.
And I'd never have to fork out hundreds and hundreds of dollars per month to pay for health insurance for me and my child. Ever. Again.
At that moment, I became more determined than I'd ever been to complete my Mission Impossible. And just like Ethan Hunt scrambling up a skyscraper with ease, I felt confident that I would do it.
Tune in for the next chapter of Mission Impossible: Health Insurance ...
You've seen it in countless spy movies: The spy is on a mission, usually in a dark alley or crowded night club or train station. And suddenly, someone yanks their arm or whispers in their ear or makes eye contact and jerks their head to the side for a tête-à-tête.
And that's always when the plot thickens, because the spy learns a crucial piece of information needed to complete the mission.
In my case, (as I pursued my Mission Impossible to achieve affordable health insurance from a part-time job at Cracker Barrel), my surprise contact who had my "secret code" came in the form of Monica, a Bible student with a bun on her head.
There were about a half-dozen part-time employees at my Cracker Barrel store who were students at the local Bible college. They all wore their hair the same way (length to the hips, piled in tight buns). They all refused to work on Sundays (church time). They all were courteous, kind, earnest, and most importantly, they all met the Cracker Barrel definition of, "country fresh."
Monica was the stand-out among them. She had a natural way of leading people -- not just her fellow students, but also the other Cracker Barrel employees. She worked two jobs, one in the retail store with me, the other as a cashier. She talked to customers like a consummate politician, calming even the most dissatisfied among them, and she had one of those take-charge personalities that encouraged others to look to her for guidance.
She was about 20 years my junior, and to say that she even commanded my respect ... is saying something. So when she whispered my name from behind the register one quiet night, Monica had my full attention.
"Hey," she said, beckoning me as I was re-folding a pile of sweaters that customers had jumbled into a disheveled pile. I sauntered over to the counter conspiratorially.
"You are doing a really good job," Monica said, her eyebrows in her forehead. I felt like I'd just won a medal.
"Really? Why do you say that?"
"Have you seen your UPT (SQ1978555, I added to myself) numbers?"
There was the mention again of the UPTSQ1978555 Secret Code, the mathematical formula whose meaning was still eluding me as a trainee.
"No," I answered, a little embarrassed. "I mean, I do the math once an hour like they told me, but I still have no idea what that UPT thing is. I just turn it in without thinking much about it."
"Let me explain something," Monica said, as if she was preparing for me to imbibe Zen wisdom. "The UPT (SQ1978555) never is high. Never. Except when you're working."
Now I gave her laser-focused concentration. "OK, explain that to me. Why is it important, and what do I have to do with it?"
"It measures how many sales you're making per customer. You're supposed to average selling three items per person. Most people are lucky if they get to two. The economy is down. Our sales are never up and haven't been for a full year. You're always at or near 3, and sometimes, above. The managers look at who is moving stuff out of the store, and then they give them more hours to work."
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Now I was getting the full picture.
"So you're saying," I returned, "that the UPT (SQ1978555, I said to myself again) goes up when I'm working? How is that? All I'm doing is talking to people and doing goofy stuff at the front door when they walk in and out."
"Yep!" she said, laughing. She opened up the sales book and showed me the names of other employees and their UPTSQ1978555 numbers, then compared them to mine. And she was right. There were a couple of others who also were averaging higher scores than the others, but my scores were consistently up there.
"Listen," she told me, "It makes a difference who is working out in the retail store. It really does. As long as they're happy with your UPT (SQ1978555), you'll always have a job here."
I beamed.
This was what I needed to know! I knew that in that very moment, this was the secret code to completing my mission! And I could do this! I was naturally adept at making people feel happy when they saw me, and I was equally adept at getting them to buy anything I suggested to them. If all that was required was to keep the UPTSQ1978555 numbers high, then I'd easily win the working hours I needed to qualify for the health insurance plan.
And I'd never have to fork out hundreds and hundreds of dollars per month to pay for health insurance for me and my child. Ever. Again.
At that moment, I became more determined than I'd ever been to complete my Mission Impossible. And just like Ethan Hunt scrambling up a skyscraper with ease, I felt confident that I would do it.
Tune in for the next chapter of Mission Impossible: Health Insurance ...
Thursday, January 19, 2012
The Night I Saw the Man Who Almost Killed Me
Sydney Bristow, spy-extraordinaire, gets her kicks in when she unexpectedly encounters her arch nemesis, Anna Espinosa. Their fight scenes on the TV show, "ALIAS," are a wanna-be tough girl's dream of getting the bad guy and teaching him/her a lesson.
But as a "secret agent" trying to achieve my Mission Impossible to attain affordable health insurance, I never thought I'd also have my own brush with the man who almost killed me.
You might think it went something like this:
But ... um ... that isn't how it went down .......
It was a Friday night.
Friday nights were always insanity nights at Cracker Barrel. The place crawled with families, people seeking country cooking after their long work weeks, elderly couples out for their weekly date night ... and grandmas and grandpas who had the fine task of babysitting their spawn's spawn.
Ironically, I liked Friday nights. I liked putting on the Disney Princess mask (see previous entry) and flit around the store like Tinker Bell. The average wait for a table was about an hour, so that gave me plenty of time in the ole' country general store to keep the masses entertained.
I made it my mission to play games in the toy corner with children while their moms shopped. I'd mull candy choices with those leaning against the shelves of 1950s-era sweets. I'd discuss Gooseberry cookbooks and hand-select shawls and scarves with elderly women.
I wore my secret agent mask well, playing my part just like Sydney Bristow sashaying into a casino in Monaco.
One thing I always liked to do on Friday nights was stand right at the door entrance with unusual store items in my hands. I'd select a bizarre kitschy item and brandish it with flair. It always brought a smile to people's faces, and it always led to great conversations. Plus, people usually sought out the item in question to buy it for themselves.
On this particular Friday night, I was standing with a large green witch's hand on my head. This battery-powered contraption tapped its fingers and was meant to rest on the edge of a Trick-or-Treating candy bowl. But my head was just as good a place to put it as any.
So I stood at the door, greeting laughing people, who went straight for the Halloween display to snatch up a creepy hand of their own ... and that's when I saw him.
You've probably experienced something like this: You see someone you know. But you're in a different setting, so it's hard to place them. For example, you'd know your bank teller's name while in the bank, but if you saw him or her in line at an amusement park, you might be stumped as to how you know them.
I saw the man walk in with two small grandsons, and I immediately knew that I knew him, not just in a passing, cursory way ... but that I knew him very well. The problem was, I absolutely could not figure out how. We were in the wrong setting. As I greeted guests and brandished the witch's hand, my gaze followed the man. He was browsing the store with the children while waiting for his table. It gnawed at me. It ate at me. I felt deep down that this was an unpleasant connection. And for the life of me, it eluded me like vapor. In short, I felt like Sydney Bristow trying to place a disguised Anna Espinosa among Moroccan street vendors.
"Break time!" one of my coworkers whispered in my ear. She grabbed the witch's hand from the top of my head and put it on her own, as if that was the plan from the beginning. "You get 15 minutes tonight. I'll just stand here until you get back."
I smiled at how everyone was enjoying the witch's-hand-on-top-of-the-Cracker-Barrel-employee's-head. I excused myself and made my way back to the break room behind the kitchen. As I chomped down on a protein bar, two waitresses breathlessly came in, chattering excitedly. One was about six months pregnant.
"I just saw my gynecologist out there!" she said, laughing.
"Wonder if he'll give you a good tip," the other returned.
And that's when it hit me.
That's how I knew him.
Two years earlier, I'd had a hysterectomy. The surgeon's knife hit a blood vessel, and I bled out in the OR and had flat-lined on the table. After he brought me back and sewed me up, I continued to bleed internally, and a large clot formed on the internal surgical site, resulting in so much pain for six weeks that I regularly begged God for death.
The man who I recognized in the ole' country store was my surgeon.
Shaken, I returned to my post.
"What happened to you?" my coworker asked.
"Why?"
"You're as white as a ghost! Are you okay?"
I smiled, despite a churning stomach. I felt so odd. I hadn't been back to that doctor since, and I'd always blamed him for months of a horrendous recovery -- not to mention blaming him for almost killing me.
"I'll be okay."
A woman tapped me on the arm and asked if I could gift wrap something for her. Grateful for the distraction, I got to work on the present. As I was chattering with her, I saw the surgeon in the store again. Only this time, he was eyeing me.
Does he know me? Does he recognize me? What do I say to him if he does?
I can honestly tell you that I wanted to tell this man off. But I reminded myself that I was there to do a job, and he was a customer of my employer. It wasn't the right time or place. And besides, what could be served by any of it? Even if he remembered me, what would I gain by a confrontation? Nothing would ever salve that memory.
As I continued to wrap the present, I realized the irony of working a menial job for affordable health insurance, and right in front of me stood a man who had almost cost me everything.
But this was a new day! With this job, I hoped to gain re-entry into the ranks of those with affordable health coverage. It was time to move ahead, not look at the past.
I still wondered, however ... of all of the patients who that man had treated, would he even remember me? What he'd done to me?
I finished tying the bow on the gift and handed it to the customer with a smile.
That's when the surgeon deliberately walked past my gift-wrapping stand and said, "Goobye," and then ... he called me by my first name.
I caught my breath and thought, "Oh, but my name is on the name tag on my apron," and at the same time, naturally looked down at the apron.
Except.
The name tag wasn't there. I'd left it at home.
Next up Mission Impossible: Health Insurance -- "The Secret Code to Complete the Mission."
But as a "secret agent" trying to achieve my Mission Impossible to attain affordable health insurance, I never thought I'd also have my own brush with the man who almost killed me.
You might think it went something like this:
But ... um ... that isn't how it went down .......
It was a Friday night.
Friday nights were always insanity nights at Cracker Barrel. The place crawled with families, people seeking country cooking after their long work weeks, elderly couples out for their weekly date night ... and grandmas and grandpas who had the fine task of babysitting their spawn's spawn.
Ironically, I liked Friday nights. I liked putting on the Disney Princess mask (see previous entry) and flit around the store like Tinker Bell. The average wait for a table was about an hour, so that gave me plenty of time in the ole' country general store to keep the masses entertained.
I made it my mission to play games in the toy corner with children while their moms shopped. I'd mull candy choices with those leaning against the shelves of 1950s-era sweets. I'd discuss Gooseberry cookbooks and hand-select shawls and scarves with elderly women.
I wore my secret agent mask well, playing my part just like Sydney Bristow sashaying into a casino in Monaco.
One thing I always liked to do on Friday nights was stand right at the door entrance with unusual store items in my hands. I'd select a bizarre kitschy item and brandish it with flair. It always brought a smile to people's faces, and it always led to great conversations. Plus, people usually sought out the item in question to buy it for themselves.
On this particular Friday night, I was standing with a large green witch's hand on my head. This battery-powered contraption tapped its fingers and was meant to rest on the edge of a Trick-or-Treating candy bowl. But my head was just as good a place to put it as any.
So I stood at the door, greeting laughing people, who went straight for the Halloween display to snatch up a creepy hand of their own ... and that's when I saw him.
You've probably experienced something like this: You see someone you know. But you're in a different setting, so it's hard to place them. For example, you'd know your bank teller's name while in the bank, but if you saw him or her in line at an amusement park, you might be stumped as to how you know them.
I saw the man walk in with two small grandsons, and I immediately knew that I knew him, not just in a passing, cursory way ... but that I knew him very well. The problem was, I absolutely could not figure out how. We were in the wrong setting. As I greeted guests and brandished the witch's hand, my gaze followed the man. He was browsing the store with the children while waiting for his table. It gnawed at me. It ate at me. I felt deep down that this was an unpleasant connection. And for the life of me, it eluded me like vapor. In short, I felt like Sydney Bristow trying to place a disguised Anna Espinosa among Moroccan street vendors.
"Break time!" one of my coworkers whispered in my ear. She grabbed the witch's hand from the top of my head and put it on her own, as if that was the plan from the beginning. "You get 15 minutes tonight. I'll just stand here until you get back."
I smiled at how everyone was enjoying the witch's-hand-on-top-of-the-Cracker-Barrel-employee's-head. I excused myself and made my way back to the break room behind the kitchen. As I chomped down on a protein bar, two waitresses breathlessly came in, chattering excitedly. One was about six months pregnant.
"I just saw my gynecologist out there!" she said, laughing.
"Wonder if he'll give you a good tip," the other returned.
And that's when it hit me.
That's how I knew him.
Two years earlier, I'd had a hysterectomy. The surgeon's knife hit a blood vessel, and I bled out in the OR and had flat-lined on the table. After he brought me back and sewed me up, I continued to bleed internally, and a large clot formed on the internal surgical site, resulting in so much pain for six weeks that I regularly begged God for death.
The man who I recognized in the ole' country store was my surgeon.
Shaken, I returned to my post.
"What happened to you?" my coworker asked.
"Why?"
"You're as white as a ghost! Are you okay?"
I smiled, despite a churning stomach. I felt so odd. I hadn't been back to that doctor since, and I'd always blamed him for months of a horrendous recovery -- not to mention blaming him for almost killing me.
"I'll be okay."
A woman tapped me on the arm and asked if I could gift wrap something for her. Grateful for the distraction, I got to work on the present. As I was chattering with her, I saw the surgeon in the store again. Only this time, he was eyeing me.
Does he know me? Does he recognize me? What do I say to him if he does?
I can honestly tell you that I wanted to tell this man off. But I reminded myself that I was there to do a job, and he was a customer of my employer. It wasn't the right time or place. And besides, what could be served by any of it? Even if he remembered me, what would I gain by a confrontation? Nothing would ever salve that memory.
As I continued to wrap the present, I realized the irony of working a menial job for affordable health insurance, and right in front of me stood a man who had almost cost me everything.
But this was a new day! With this job, I hoped to gain re-entry into the ranks of those with affordable health coverage. It was time to move ahead, not look at the past.
I still wondered, however ... of all of the patients who that man had treated, would he even remember me? What he'd done to me?
I finished tying the bow on the gift and handed it to the customer with a smile.
That's when the surgeon deliberately walked past my gift-wrapping stand and said, "Goobye," and then ... he called me by my first name.
I caught my breath and thought, "Oh, but my name is on the name tag on my apron," and at the same time, naturally looked down at the apron.
Except.
The name tag wasn't there. I'd left it at home.
Next up Mission Impossible: Health Insurance -- "The Secret Code to Complete the Mission."
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
A Disney Princess Mask for an Undercover Secret Agent
People who know me well would tell you that I'm a Disney World fanatic. And yes, if you've been to Disney World, you might think it's because of the amusement park rides ... but really .... that's not it for me.
The reason I love going to Disney World is that I'm allowed to step into a place where people are happy. Whatever is going on in your life, I think this is the only place on earth where the staff makes a concerted effort to convince you that it doesn't matter. It's a place of suspended reality -- a place where the world stops turning on its axis, and you can just sink into the colorful joy of make-believe.
Now when I took my part-time job at Cracker Barrel to obtain affordable health insurance, I didn't approach each work shift as if it was drudgery. No -- if I had to work a menial job to pay for health insurance for me and my child, at the very least, I would have fun doing it. It was the only attitude available to me, because anything less would have made the mission ... well ... impossible.
I didn't have to think long and hard about how to do it, either.
When I was 16 years old, I had a part-time job as Minnie Mouse in my local shopping mall in Syracuse, New York. For five hours a day, my only job was to skip around that mall and play with children. So the connection was easy for me -- I'd apply everything I'd seen in action at Disney World to my retail store job at Cracker Barrel. In essence, I would put on a Disney Princess mask for my secret agent role. I would become that Minnie Mouse again -- only this time, clad in a brown apron, white shirt and khakis.
Cracker Barrel has a simple motto for its dress standards for employees: "Country fresh." It made perfect sense to me. Every day when I got ready for that job, I kept that "country fresh" motto front and center, all the way from the creases I ironed in my pants' legs to the way I affixed a pony tail or bun atop my head. I walked out of my house with a starched white shirt and my female version of a Tom Cruise smile.
I became that persona. I blended it into my mannerisms and my attitude.
For me, it was about adopting an old-fashioned sense of pride in my work. Yes, the work wasn't at all like my freelance journalist life. But that was the point. I relished in the idea that this actually could be my own personal escape, too. It was true that most women my age didn't have to take such a measure to provide for their families. That didn't matter to me anymore. What mattered was that I enjoy every day and that I make the people around me enjoy it, too.
I would be the Disney Princess in Cracker Barrel, I decided. I would achieve the Mission Impossible with the Ariel smile on my face, the Snow White song in my heart, the Rapunzel can-do attitude and the graceful panache of Cinderella to cap it all off.
And I did. During my first few weeks at Cracker Barrel, I was assigned to weekend nights -- Fridays and Saturdays -- and usually Sunday afternoons. I made it my mission to play cars with little boys, cradle dolls with little girls, choose the best old-fashioned candy with elderly gents, suggest soft clothes for shop-a-holics, turn on every moving animated stuffed toy crammed on the shelves ... and straighten, and sweep, and dust, and shine windows ... with the Disney Princess flair.
But even with that contrived attitude, I still had my moments of extreme frustration ...
.... like the night I saw the man who almost killed me.
And ironically, the incident was all connected to my need for health care.
Tune in for the next part of Mission Impossible: Health Insurance.
The reason I love going to Disney World is that I'm allowed to step into a place where people are happy. Whatever is going on in your life, I think this is the only place on earth where the staff makes a concerted effort to convince you that it doesn't matter. It's a place of suspended reality -- a place where the world stops turning on its axis, and you can just sink into the colorful joy of make-believe.
Now when I took my part-time job at Cracker Barrel to obtain affordable health insurance, I didn't approach each work shift as if it was drudgery. No -- if I had to work a menial job to pay for health insurance for me and my child, at the very least, I would have fun doing it. It was the only attitude available to me, because anything less would have made the mission ... well ... impossible.
I didn't have to think long and hard about how to do it, either.
When I was 16 years old, I had a part-time job as Minnie Mouse in my local shopping mall in Syracuse, New York. For five hours a day, my only job was to skip around that mall and play with children. So the connection was easy for me -- I'd apply everything I'd seen in action at Disney World to my retail store job at Cracker Barrel. In essence, I would put on a Disney Princess mask for my secret agent role. I would become that Minnie Mouse again -- only this time, clad in a brown apron, white shirt and khakis.
Cracker Barrel has a simple motto for its dress standards for employees: "Country fresh." It made perfect sense to me. Every day when I got ready for that job, I kept that "country fresh" motto front and center, all the way from the creases I ironed in my pants' legs to the way I affixed a pony tail or bun atop my head. I walked out of my house with a starched white shirt and my female version of a Tom Cruise smile.
I became that persona. I blended it into my mannerisms and my attitude.
For me, it was about adopting an old-fashioned sense of pride in my work. Yes, the work wasn't at all like my freelance journalist life. But that was the point. I relished in the idea that this actually could be my own personal escape, too. It was true that most women my age didn't have to take such a measure to provide for their families. That didn't matter to me anymore. What mattered was that I enjoy every day and that I make the people around me enjoy it, too.
I would be the Disney Princess in Cracker Barrel, I decided. I would achieve the Mission Impossible with the Ariel smile on my face, the Snow White song in my heart, the Rapunzel can-do attitude and the graceful panache of Cinderella to cap it all off.
And I did. During my first few weeks at Cracker Barrel, I was assigned to weekend nights -- Fridays and Saturdays -- and usually Sunday afternoons. I made it my mission to play cars with little boys, cradle dolls with little girls, choose the best old-fashioned candy with elderly gents, suggest soft clothes for shop-a-holics, turn on every moving animated stuffed toy crammed on the shelves ... and straighten, and sweep, and dust, and shine windows ... with the Disney Princess flair.
But even with that contrived attitude, I still had my moments of extreme frustration ...
.... like the night I saw the man who almost killed me.
And ironically, the incident was all connected to my need for health care.
Tune in for the next part of Mission Impossible: Health Insurance.
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