How I met the ghetto (or, Wage Slavery in Orem)

The Plan has gotten old recently. The one about graduating high school (check), serving a mission (holy cow, check), marrying, graduating college, and living happily ever after. Somewhere in between my umpteenth A- grade and my thousandth roommate, the shiny promise of the premeditated life has become dull.

That all changed when I met Josh in a warehouse in Orem.

Recently, I had a conversation with myself. It went like this:

Rachael: You should really get a job, sis.

Rachael: That would require job searching...why not just be a bum on Cami's couch instead?

Rachael: That is tempting, but Cami might not be kosher with that. Also, if you get a job, you will have, drumroll please, A Purpose.

Rachael: Well, I already applied to like, six legitimate jobs. All that's left is Taco Bell.

Rachael: So? Spread your wings. Earn some cash. Be independent.

Rachael: Or I could call my home teacher and see if his temp job company is hiring.

Rachael: Atta girl.

It turns out that his temp job company was hiring. Three days later, I arrived all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at a warehouse in north Orem. According to my home teacher, I would be filling boxes with cosmetics. A fantastic place to start having A Purpose.

I would really love to market for [I probably shouldn't name them] Cosmetics.
"We use American wage slavery to competitively buy your loyalty"

There were about nine things that shocked me about the job right off that bat, as soon as I got there. Thing Number One's name was Josh. (Okay. Names and a few details have been changed. But this guy is real.) Things number two-through-seven were people a lot like Josh, although his story was by far the most riveting. Number eight was the realization that I was, indeed, spending hours and hours (and hours) of my life putting cosmetics in little boxes, voluntarily, on purpose, for money.

Number nine was the realization that my life has been blessed far, far beyond what I have ever appreciated. I am basically Life Royalty.

I step inside the warehouse. So. Hello, my name is Rachael, nice to meet you everyone, okay I'll sit down right here, what are we doing right now in this dark little room? Oh, constructing miniscule cardboard boxes, into which miniscule thirty-dollar samples of eyeliner are being placed? Okay. Sounds good.

About two hours into my first shift, I got to know my partner Josh a little better.

I try to be non-judgmental when I see men my age with heavy tattoos and baggy clothes. Josh was one of those people, and I told myself that he was probably the most wonderful person alive. I said to him, "So tell me about yourself, Josh. I see you've got a wedding ring on. How long have you been married?"

Josh seemed pretty pleased to answer this question. "Two years. My wife and I met at an NA meeting, and we've been together since."

Confused pause.

"So, what's an NA meeting?" I asked.

Sorry, guys. #sheltered

"Narcotics Anonymous." Oh. Okay. That. I was just about ready to stamp a big Nothing In Common sign on our relationship, but Josh kept going.

"We promised each other that we'd stay sober for each other. Every day, I come home clean, and it's because of my wife and kid," he continued. I was kind of wowed by that. "Is that hard?" I asked. "Yep. I crave every single day," he responded.

That seriously impressed me.

More details followed. When I shared that I had served a mission in Los Angeles, he asked if I was familiar with Compton and Watts. I was sort of like, yeah, I did go there once, but I later found out that it was against the rules for sister missionaries to visit that area...Okay, well, that's where Josh grew up. Not only that, but he grew up without parents. His mom was murdered by her boyfriend when Josh was just four years old. His dad was who-knows-where. Josh fathered his first child when he was fourteen, and the baby mama was sixteen. A few years later, the baby died in in a house fire at a friend's house. "It's kind of a heavy thing," Josh said matter-of-factly, "for a fourteen-year-old to have a kid. It was hard."

Tattoo-parlor jobs, some stints in jail, something about AK-47s, lots of beer cans and one beautiful new baby later, Josh was supporting his family of three. He worked full time (and probably overtime) at who knows how many seven-dollars-an-hour jobs. He spoke in glowing terms about his new family, and I honestly believe that he's one of the hardest workers I've ever met.

It seemed like everyone else at that job had similar stories. "My four-year old has a fever today. It's [swear-word] messed up that I can't be with him," said an eighteen-year-old girl.

"I never see my son, Ringo, and my wife any more. I'm at work almost all of the time, and when I'm not, I'm [swear-word] sleeping," said one muscly kid who was a year older than me.

"My girlfriend an I decided not to get married until I'm twenty-five at least. We don't want to have to deal with any [swear-word] kids until then."

"I lost my virginity in high school to a thirty-six year old woman."

"I lost mine to a thirty-three year old man."

As the conversation went around the table, I just sat there silently, staring at the little cardboard boxes we were folding. I badly, badly wanted to go back in time and hug four-year-old Josh. Or better yet, take out the piece-of-crap boyfriend who had murdered his mom. Although the boyfriend had probably had a piece-of-crap life, too.

Mostly, I just wanted to be a mom, really, really badly. I wanted to be a great mom, and I wanted Christ to give me a big hug and tell me that everything was going to be okay in these people's lives.

They didn't end up folding boxes for a living because they're not hard workers. Believe me, I've had a wide range of jobs in my short lifetime, and box folding is among the hardest. It's not because they're selfish. It's not because they're stupid. Somewhere along the line, no one taught them how to solve arguments with nice words; no one taught them to love reading; no one taught them to confidently expect to come home to two unconditionally affectionate parents every day.

It made me sick, heavy, and kind of sorrowful.

Guys, we don't know what we have. We seriously have no idea. And thank heavens for that, too; no one should have to live a life with those kinds of disadvantages.

I'm really grateful for my short-lived temp job. To be honest, I'm no longer looking at people with tattoos and baggy clothes as "others," or as "people I should be nice to." I look at them and I see role models—hard-working, somewhat war-torn brothers and sisters, ones who weren't lucky enough to get born in a palace and with a tiara, like I did.

And as for The Plan...it's back on track. I'm gonna finish college, guys, if I wasn't sure enough before. I'm going to gratefully do my homework. I'm going to be enthused about working hard. And I want to be a wife and mom. I want to give kids a great start in life. I want to be Christ's servant. And I want to be a good one. God's children deserve it.