A Report from the Capital

“Now don’t go getting sentimental!”

I continued chopping — onion, after onion, after onion. It was the first day of MAlt DC, a trip to “explore the ethics of inequality in the capital of one of the wealthiest nations in world history,” as our tag-line (primarily used to fundraise from doting family members and professors) went. The ovens hissed; the voice of a berating chef shrilled from a nearby room. We were in a kitchen beneath a monstrously large homeless shelter just out of view of the grand, lavish halls of Congress. As government white collars chopped bills that primarily benefited the white collar majority, we chopped onions for people that society drove to the margins.

After several hours, we ended our shifts at the same time as the workers. But the next day, we didn’t return immediately to work.

“So y’all go to Midd?” the white CEO asked us. He smiled. “I went to Williams!”

We laughed and listened as he gave us a full description of the kitchen. He took our questions and mulled over them for more than an hour while the workers were on the shift we were also scheduled to be working. The CEO had intervened, so we couldn’t join them until the conversation concluded. The only people in the room — a very public cafeteria — were products of the “Liberal Arts.” We were very aware of that, especially when the CEO stopped speaking when an outsider entered. As soon as they were gone, he smiled amiably. And then he continued as if he never stopped.

That wasn’t the only instance of our privilege leading to exceptional treatment. A few days later, the fact that we were college students earned us a trip — in the middle of our shift—to a “gourmet coffee and bagel shop.” We were a potential source of expansion for the kitchen, since they had a program designed specifically for college campuses. Drinking coffee with yet another white face, every minute felt like its own forever. I thought about the workers, no doubt cutting onions, back at the kitchen.

We started to realize the kitchen hierarchy possessed a racial element. First, the workers were overwhelmingly black — former inmates and patients. They were victims of mass incarceration, the “negative externalities” of policies made just around the corner at the Capitol. They had no choice but to work if they wanted to get back on their feet. Second, the leaders of the business itself were all white. (The only exception was someone who had been promoted from the worker class). There didn’t seem to be any animosity, fortunately, and everyone was directed at the same positive goal. But that didn’t mean the racial element did not exist.

Another dimension of the hierarchy became clear over the next few days. The workers were black, and management was white, but what about the in-between? The middle — which included us — seemed to be split evenly between “required community service” and “volunteer” classes. The former’s presence was mandated, so members were less privileged than us, although they also were white. One was a student at Virginia Tech whose education had been interrupted for a “private reason.” He would be “back on his feet” after another few months. (“Just pretend to work,” he whispered when we finished our task). The volunteers, like us, were much more temporary, but also mostly white. Beyond just us ambassadors of the state of Vermont, there were well-positioned capitalists doing their service, and a Class of 2015 college graduate who was flitting from non-profit to non-profit to “find her passion.”

I thought about that for a while. How can someone who works seven days a week to even have a chance at a job and someone who can live in her parents’ house as a restless volunteer be in such close proximity? How can both the victims and victors of society be so close together ­— not only in the kitchen, but in the city —  where the wealth of Congress lies directly next to the poverty of the kitchen? How can we ignore race when it continues to be a very apparent division? How can the myth of post-racialism continue to persist when reality exists?

Just as we were leaving to return to campus, one of the workers — who we had gotten to know well — smiled at us. She gave one of us her phone number, and asked a few questions.

“You’re in college? Ah, you’ll be fine!”

And then she turned away, vanishing back into the kitchen.