Subservience

Okay, so I’m not going to say which child I had this conversation with, all I’m going to say is that it happened.

Now, the family has a small minivan that they use when transporting the whole family. It has five normal seats (two front, three middle) and then an extra seat that can be removed. The seat in the back has to be accessed from the trunk. For practical reasons, this back seat is my seat. I think it’s a bit funny that I get in and out through the trunk, and it really is the only thing that makes sense. However, when Gerd or Anna isn’t with, I sit up in front. So it’s not like I’m permanently exiled to the back or something.

Yesterday, however, we were driving to the girls gymnastics performance for Christmas. Kilian was sick and so Anna decided to stay at home with him. Grandma Isolde had made the trip in from Linz to see the girls though, so she obviously got to sit shotgun. Gerd was nice enough to pull Kilian’s car seat out and put it in the trunk so that I could sit up front with the girls. On the way there, I didn’t notice this until after I was set up in my usual seat though, so I just sat in the back. On the way home though, I nauturally sat in the middle row. As I climbed in I had the following conversation with the girl sitting next to me:

Child: “You can’t sit there.”
Me: “Normally not, but since Kilian can’t come your Dad put his seat in the back.”
Child: “But you can’t sit there. You have to sit in the back.”
Me: “Why?”
Child: “Because I have to put my bag there.”
Me: “Don’t talk nonsense. Sit down and I’ll buckle you up.”
Child: “You can’t sit there!”

At this point Gerd intervened and told her to sit down. The girl remained angry for the rest of the ride home and wouldn’t talk to me, unless I spoke loudly enough that Gerd would hear and force her to answer. But the feeling still stayed with me. At that point in time, this child felt as though her paper sack of peanuts was more deserving of the place next to her than I was. Really honestly thought that. And she’s the exception in the family, but it’s still striking.

Which kind of touches on a central awkwardness of this situation. I am essentially a servant, as much as we like to avoid that word these days. I live with a family and my job is to help them. Granted, I am a very well treated servant, and am very much treated like an equal, but when it comes down to it, the families needs and desires come before mine and if I’m not willing to acknowledge that term and condition, I’m not only out of a job, I’m out of a place to live.

And that’s a very strange place for a strong-headed, mid-upper class, American feminist to be in. On one hand, I’m ridiculously grateful for this place to live and food to eat and having everything provided in exchange for just watching their kids and helping with the housework, and on the other hand it’s very grating to feel subservient, even in the lightest sense. And it’s also interesting to see how it kind of makes Anna and Gerd uncomfortable as well.

I started running into this last summer as well, when I was working as a janitor at a bulldozer factory (I know, right?). I was working in this plant of union guys who probably did not think of themselves as being very high up on the totem pole of society. But they were skilled labor. And they were unionized. And then here I was cleaning up after them.

There’s this awkward feeling that happens when you’re cleaning up someones trash or mopping their floor while they’re still in the room. There’s this sense of guilt from them and this sense of uncertainty on your part. No one knows whether or not they should talk to one another. And so you just remained completely closed off, awkwardly asking them to get up so you can vacuum under their desk and they respond with a polite apology and then flee to the other side of the room. There’s a fear of acknowledging position of power.

And it raises questions of how we are supposed to handle things like this. The functioning of society seems to be based upon the ranking of people, either by wage or quality of work or permanence. But we behave in a way which tries to deny these facts and somehow seems to exacerbate them, as it did in my job last summer. I never felt more like a servant than when I was mopping around a conversation. But then in this situation, the denial is comforting and makes things go easier. Gaining a sense of security in my position in the house was a big turning point for me. Hearing affirmation that they were not planning on sending me back anytime soon, that they thought I was capable of doing this job, was what finally allowed me to start doing it.

I can’t really think of anyway to conclude this post, as I don’t really know what I’m thinking myself. Any of you got anything?