Picture this: last night, I became a volunteer fast food worker at an event…an order-fetcher, and all-around chaos coordinator in a kitchen making fried foods and spiked drinks. It was a trial run in the illustrious fast-food industry, a few hours in someone else’s shoes, where I just thought I’d get in, do my good deed earning some funds for an organization, and get out unscathed. But nope. Instead, it was Kitchen Nightmares: Volunteer Edition, complete with disorganization, a broken order buzzer system, and enough orders flying around to make Gordon Ramsay faint.
Let’s set the scene: imagine you’re standing at the counter. The clock is ticking, the crowd is growing, and a line of people is tapping their feet, shooting you the kind of death stares usually reserved for someone who stole the last parking spot. Meanwhile, I’m frantically calling out orders like I’m at a livestock auction, trying to avoid eye contact with the mob forming outside the pickup window.
Enter the star of the night: a smiley teenage kid working alongside me, who honestly had the poise of a Navy SEAL in battle mode. This kid was fetching, clearing, and calling orders like a champ. Meanwhile, I’m looking like a mid-level disaster, doing my best impression of a line cook who just woke up in a kitchen with no idea how I got there. But I felt I was doing my best and not giving up.
The system, on the other hand, had about as much coherence as a slasher movie plot. The buzzers were mismatched with orders, the screens weren’t updating fast enough, and the whole setup was designed to ruin a person’s night. When the supervisors finally materialized, they weren’t there to offer a pat on the back. No, they arrived on a blame-finding mission, peering around and zeroing in on anyone who looked like they hadn’t been to culinary school. Which, spoiler alert, was me—the volunteer.
As they began pointing fingers, subtly (and not-so-subtly) implying this backlog was a me and the teenage kid problem, I decided it was time to put down my tater tot scooper and pick up my voice.
Listen, I’m just a volunteer,” I told them, “and honestly, this kid’s the only reason things are still moving. The orders have been stacked up because the system is buggy and can’t handle the rush. That’s not on us, I have nothing to prove here as I’ll never see any of you again probably so take it or leave my advice here but it’s not on me or this kid, your system sucks and you need to figure out how to fix it.”
I could tell by their faces they thought I was just being a proud volunteer who couldn’t take a hint. And in that moment, I realized: I really don’t care if they think I’m some know-it-all who can’t handle a little “feedback.”
Lately, I’ve bought into the idea of having “the courage to be disliked.” Call it a midlife revelation or maybe just the fallout of one too many moments gone by where I was stepped on or I watched people get stepped on, but I’m done trying to fit the mold. You can like me, hate me, or call me names. I’m here to do what’s right and back people who deserve it. I’m done hiding my views because I don’t want to be the social pariah who votes for the wrong team. No, I’m going to support the causes I believe in.
Next time, maybe I’ll volunteer at a library instead. At least there, the only thing I’ll have to clear is the noise (shh).
