Dirty White Shirts

"Alright, we'll see you on Monday, remember our dress code is dark jeans with a white, button down, collared shirt. Make sure it's clean and ironed." 

I left my interview feeling confident and excited. I was 15 and had just landed a part-time job to fuel my adventure fund.

The new restaurant in town was popular and hiring. I got hired on the spot to fill the position of "hostess" and my anxiety about the interview quickly dissipated.

My parents weren't thrilled with the news about my new job. It was after all very secular: they served alcohol and played rock music and they speculated that most of the servers worked there to get fast cash for their drug and sex addictions. With heavy sighs, I was instructed to be "salt and light".

I bought two brand new white shirts from the boy's section (so that they would be baggy and long enough to tuck into my jeans) and two white tank tops (so that they would not be see-through) to wear under them. At my mom's insistence, I buttoned all but the very top button.

My first shift: the manager complimented my hair, examined my carefully ironed shirt, and suggested that I unbutton one or two more buttons and buy shirts that were more form fitting since I am the first impression for customers.

My second shift: the manager picked up pieces of trash to put in the breast pocket of my clean, white shirt and informed me that wearing a shirt with a pocket on my breast was silly.

My third shift: the manager told me that he needed a hug because the song on the radio reminded him of his ex-girlfriend. When I refused, he made up a story about customers complaining about my attitude and threatened to fire me.

My fourth shift: the manager told me to smile more and loosen up. I was supposed to be joking around with him more. Also, my white shirt was wrinkled.

My fifth shift: the manager was waiting for me to arrive to work and wanted me to wash all the dirty tables and pick up the trash under them because he was expanding the role of hostess. He watched me with his arms crossed the entire time.

I wasn't sleeping well. The inside of my mouth hurt from biting it. I developed chronic hiccups. I didn't have anyone to talk to about this. I felt like I was going crazy. I felt like this was somehow my fault. I was taught to respect men unconditionally because they are the natural authority. This was my first "real" job. I was fifteen.

At the time, my parents viewed any harassment/rape/molestation to be the victim's fault. I heard them talk about situations like this all the time. I was anxious that I would be blamed for causing this unwanted attention and being labeled by them as a "flirt" or a "slut" or being told "we told you so" about the job I chose. So I said nothing to them. My anxieties about what might happen to me if I continued working there increased as the rest of the male staff followed the managers example in their treatment of female coworkers.

I did not feel safe.

My white shirt felt dirty.

I decided to write.

I dedicated a page in one of my high school notebooks to document and date the specific examples of what this manager was saying and doing to me that made me feel so uncomfortable and dirty.

When I had a full page of dates and specific examples I decided that was enough.

I came in before my shift started on a day that I knew the General Manager would be in the office and I brought my notebook. I handed it to him and told him how uncomfortable I was working my shifts at the restaurant. I told him that I didn't want to be scheduled on the same days as the other manager.

Turns out: I WAS NOT THE FIRST COMPLAINT.

The manager was fired.

He became a manager at a different restaurant in town.

To this day, I don't like wearing white, button-down, collared shirts.

They will always look dirty to me.