In which, it's not that bad

The positive has gone unaccentuated for too long on this blog. While I reserve the right to complain about about my boss and write confusing (confused?) bad poetry about misunderstandings between me and the people I work for, I have to say that my experiences are not overwhelmingly negative- in fact they are mostly positive.

I am an immigrant. I must work.

I love my work. I see every possible different kind of people every day. I manufacture a high-quality product. I like people, and I am able to provide a valuable service to many dozens of people daily. I enjoy this. I enjoy working in a relic of a Jazz Age building and polishing the surface of things until they reflect light. I like to like people, and I like for them to like me. The disdainful ones I like, if only because I feel badly for them and hope they may feel better soon. Also, I like the people who are happy to say nothing more than "thank you" when they arrive at their designated floor. I like the people who like to make prosaic pronunciations about the weather while they ride the elevator. I like the Spanish nannies and housekeepers who seem so weary sometimes, some of whose children will one day live in buildings like this, some of whose children already live in buildings like this. I like the people who wear their sunglasses indoors and affect a world-weariness that leaves me unafraid to slouch a bit. I like the suited lawyers and financiers whose deeply felt importance and bearing makes me stand a little straighter as I go about my business. I like the Carribean nannies whose lilting accents are like tunes, and whose sometimes anxious smiles belie a faith full of Armegeddon and Jehovah's fire. I like the old money people, whose finely wrought accents and intonation are same with the intricate molding in the elevator, who do not pretend to be able to relate, and so do not try, and instead just accept, gracious and aloof. I like the young couples who have just moved into their dream New York apartment and are still in awe a bit at their good fortune, who are anxious not to seem snobbish, like those "other people". I like the people who do not bother to ask "how are you?" if they don't mean it, equally as I like the people who ask "how are you?" simply because it is a pleasant thing to do; I like neither as much as the people who ask "how are you?" because they want to know, but to these I never tell the truth, because I, too, must maintain distance. I like the childless married couple, who mean it every time they ask "how are you?", whose uncalled-for kindness makes a difference. I like the woman who was unafraid that I would be insulted when she offered me her left-over chili which had been in the fridge three days because she hates to waste food- it was delicious. I like the economics professor who was the terror of all the doormen and the one none of the other apartment owners were as bad as; he recycles his soup-stained copies of right-wing journals by giving them to me to criticize on my own time. I like the old lady who lives on a lower floor and has for all her life, who must pinch pennies, and who must live on less than I do to afford to live here; she can't imagine living anywhere else; her Christmas bonus of 5 dollars is worth as much to me as any other. I like the children, who are not in on the game or the joke, allowing all of us to act naturally. I like the high-school aged young people, not yet formed, who will later be away at school, seen only between semesters, enthusiastic, who will all turn out all right. I like the senior doormen, with whom I work, who have known these children since they were brought home from the hospital, and who feel an avuncular affection towards them. I like the porters, who work in the back, because they couldn't stand to wear this ridiculous uniform, who are men who work for a living, and who lower their heads for no one. I like the immigrant doormen, whose American Dream this is. They each must have some deep secret hope that cannot be communicated in English or perhaps any other language.