My brother is an essential worker at a grocery store
I wish we actually valued his dangerous work.
My brother works at a grocery store. At 7 a.m. most days, he clocks in and begins his shift. For the next six to eight hours, he bags groceries. He gathers shopping carts in the parking lot-turned-hot-plate by the Tennessee sun. He cleans up messes. He picks up trash. He helps customers load heavy sacks of food into the trunks of their cars. Sometimes they tip him; mostly they don’t. He works, hard and a lot.
When the pandemic proved to be not only a public health crisis but a political flashpoint, his work got harder. Now, in addition to the usual difficulties and indignities he might suffer in the course of his job, people cough in his face. In addition to the customers who shame him into repacking their groceries after he’s done it “wrong,” he has to wipe their spit off of shopping cart handles. Every day, he must brace himself for the name-calling, rage, and passive-aggressive attacks that have become part of his job.
While much of our country celebrates essential workers like my brother for the work they’re doing to keep our lives afloat, praise is still rare when he’s on the job. The celebration of my brother seems to end with the kind messages he sees in his neighbors’ windows. The vulnerability and danger built into his job continue to be ignored.
