When I tell people what I do for work it usually leads to some pretty awkward conversation. It’s not that I do anything embarrassing, like pose nude or clean up other peoples feces, like that guy on TV. It’s more like the kind of job that troubles your conscience:  Could you work for a company that takes in stolen goods, and sells them back to people at a higher price?  Well, I do exactly that.

I work at a place called CEX, The Complete Electronic Exchange. It’s a company that buys and sells used electronics. It’s basically an uptight pawnshop since we don’t buy in everything a regular pawnshop would. And it just so happens to be located in one of the most busiest, dirtiest, and sketchiest parts of the city: Downtown Crossing. If you’re familiar with the territory, it’s the shopping district of Boston. The low-class kind.

The streets of Downtown Crossing get littered with people of all types–high school kids, college kids, tourists, and businessmen and women, alcoholics, homeless people, drug dealers and whores; the perfect shopping district. When I first arrived in Boston, I would spend tons of time in Downtown Crossing doing just that, shopping. There’s something for everyone there, even those looking to score an easy buck, which is where my job comes into play.

CEX was started in Europe, by a guy named Bob, a pretty sketchy guy himself. If you saw this guy you would never guess that he was intelligent or a millionaire for that matter. But CEX was the first company of it’s kind, and does extremely well in cities around Europe. Bob thought it would be a great idea to move one into America and see how well it would do. Well, it’s a great idea; it’s just in a bad part of town. Like I said, I work for a company that buys stolen items and sells them back out to people for a higher price than what we bought the item for.  This is something that our clientele have a problem understanding.

In order for any company which buys used electronics to make a living, especially these day, and if they’re giving out cash (which we do) they have to sell those items back out at a higher price. Normally it wouldn’t be hard for anyone who knows how things work to understand such a simple thing, but when you’re dealing with the kind of people I deal with, you start to think a little different.

The majority of the time the items we get in are stolen. We have regular crowds of people who come in to sell the newest and most recent thing they’ve lifted off of someone else. Now, sometimes it’s not so bad. We get cab drivers in every so often who claim that someone left their cell phone in the back of the cab, and no one has come back to claim it. We also get college students whose parents buy them electronics or movies that they just don’t care to own, and they’re looking for some cash so they can buy something worth having. But for the majority of our merchandise that isn’t the case.

One night before our store closed, a crack head came to my register trying to sell her used Mac-Book Pro.

“Hello, how are you tonight?”  I said to her.

“I’m good,”  she said.  ”Are you guys still giving out cash she asked?”

“Yeah, we’re still giving out cash.”

“Okay, good. I really need to sell my computer. I live in an apartment and my rent is due and if I don’t pay on time they’re going to kick me out.”

“Oh! Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but unfortunately if your trying to sell that laptop there’s no way we’ll be able to give you cash for it tonight, sense it’ll take 2 hours to test, and we close in like, 30 minutes.”

“Oh, but it works, everything’s fine with it and I have all the stuff that comes with it, see?”

“I don’t deny that it works, or anything, but its still going to have to be tested and there just isn’t enough time.”

“Oh, but what am I supposed to do? I may get kicked out of my apartment tonight if I don’t pay my rent.”

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Could I just make a phone call please? Could you hold on?”

“Yeah, no problem, take your time.”

While she was on the phone, calling whoever, I overheard her talking about how she broke into someone’s car and stole money from their overhead mirror. I decided to keep listening to see where the rest of the conversation went, but it was long after that that she ended her phone call.

“Okay, so there’s no way I’ll get the cash tonight?”  she asked.

“No, I’m sorry.  We just don’t have enough time to test it.  We close pretty soon.”

“It’s okay.   I’m just going through a lot of things tonight. You know, I’m almost 43 years old and I don’t have my life in order yet. You know, I just lost a baby.  I had a miscarriage,” she said.

“ Oh… well, I’m sorry to hear that. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.  I just wish I was better prepared at these kinds of things. Well, could you at least tell me how much I’ll get for it?”  she asked eagerly.

“ Yeah, no problem, give me a minute… Would you like cash or store credit?”  I asked, not expecting her reply.

“ CRACK!”  she said out loud.

“ Um…”

“ No, cash, I mean, cash please.”

After that, I figured that this was nothing more than her attempt to score some cash for her next big fix. So, if you ever lose your ipod or cell phone, fill out a police report and come into CEX. The chance that we will have it is pretty high.

Emon Waller was born in Malibu, California, but grew up in Naples, Florida.  Music, literature, fashion, and art are his passions.  He currently studies at Berklee.

Alexander Muri (The Commute) is a photographer and is also currently enrolled at Berklee.  He notes, “Music has played a role in my entire life, but along with performing and learning with friends, I love to express myself through photography. They often go well together–more than one might think!”

by Kiel Gulick

My first boss was an old slob, round in the middle, with a bald spot the size of a grapefruit on the back of his head. His name was Mike Palermo and the only job I could have seen him in was the one he had, maintenance. He sure-as-hell fit the bill – a real blue-collar kind of guy.

With the smell of his morning beer issuing from his gaping, toothless mouth, he would pontificate from the driver’s seat of the company’s beat-up blue pickup as we made our rounds. I sat in the passenger’s seat, attentive, while he lectured me on the strengths and weaknesses of the Steeler’s offensive line or the difference between Jack Daniels and Jim Beam. He talked to me about his wife and how they didn’t do it enough. He swore that after you got a girl’s bra off for the first time it would never be that good again. “All down hill,” he said. Everyday was educational with Mike.

One afternoon in the truck, he turned to me and said, “Where do you see yourself, kid? I mean, years from now. What do you want to be?”

The question had caught me off guard. “I don’t know.” I said. “I guess I just want to be happy.”

Mike paused for a moment. He stared straight ahead, gripping the wheel. Then he smiled. “Jesus, kid. You’re all right.”

We drove the rest of the afternoon in silence. At the end of the day, we parked in the grass next to the maintenance shed but Mike didn’t make a move to get out of the truck. He just sat there, quiet, the sun beating down on his legs through the windshield, the engine idling.  Then he cleared his throat. “Promise me something, kid.” He put his hand on my shoulder, just like a father. “Promise you won’t turn out like me.”

Kiel Gulick (The Promise) is currently enrolled at Berklee.  He wrote this story in the Summer Fiction Workshop.

Alexander Muri (The Commute) is a photographer and is also currently enrolled at Berklee.  He notes, “Music has played a role in my entire life, but along with performing and learning with friends, I love to express myself through photography. They often go well together–more than one might think!”

“I don’t want that table.” My colleague said to me. “They’re Canadians. You can take them if you want.”

Before I walked up to the new table to great the customers, I wondered briefly at how she’d instantly judged our customers’ nationality, but it didn’t seem like an important issue then. I had so many other things to worry about: what was the special of the day? What wine was I going to recommend? Was the catch of the day salmon or tilapia? I was in Houston; a rookie waitress in a casual fine dining restaurant, and I had no idea that I’d just been introduced to Jim Crow.

Since the time the civil rights movement first started, restaurants and diners have often been the sites of demonstrations. Novelists and activists frequently make references to the restaurant business in relation with racism. In  “Letter From Birmingham Jail” Dr. King writes, “The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jet-like speed toward gaining political independence, but we still creep at horse-and-buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter.” Also, in “Notes of a Native Son,” James Baldwin describes how he repeatedly visited a segregated restaurant determined that he be served. Not to mention the climax of the first part of the same essay where Baldwin discovers an uncontrollable rage inside himself as a young waitress refuses to give him any service, and as a result comes terribly close to being lynched by a gang of white people. Restaurants seem to be place of choice for racism to brew.

The restaurant I worked in was not an exception. A few weeks after the scene I recounted in the beginning, I gradually came to realize that the term “Canadian” didn’t have anything to do with Canada; it was a code word that referred to black people. To say the least, I was in a state of disbelief when I first found this out. This was the first time I’d seen someone express hostile or negative feelings towards another person for such and unreasonable thing as skin color. Of course, all this “Canadian” talk was only in the kitchen, and no obvious sign of racism could be detected in the main dining room. Maybe customers would acknowledge that their waiter/waitress seemed a little slow or reluctant, but it could only be recounted as “a lethargic waiter” and not “a racist.” What bothered me even more, was that I learned from other wait staff that the term “Canadian” was not unique to our restaurant, and that it was a common restaurant lingo (at least in the Houston area). It was disturbing to think that racism was prowling so close to every dinner table, and how little people realized this.

Racism in the restaurant is subtle. No one acknowledges that black people aren’t served fairly because of their skin color. The standard excuse is, that “Canadians” are very demanding, disrespectful of waiters, and poor tippers. If that indeed were the description for “Canadian,” it wouldn’t be as disturbing. After all, almost every working human complains about bad clientele, and since a lot of the waiters depended on their tips to pay the rent, the bitterness towards a poor tipper is understandable. But, demanding, disrespectful, poor-tipping white people were never called “Canadians,” and no waiter would express hesitation to wait on a white person. There actually was an ellipse and then a parenthesis after that excuse, and it looked like this: “They’re demanding, disrespectful, and tip poorly…(and they’re black).”

As much as I felt my co-workers trying to brainwash me about “Canadians”, I tried to be pleasant to my black customers. Our restaurant didn’t have a large African-American clientele to start with, but as I became more experienced and waited on more customers of all age, sex, and race, to my horror I found that I was becoming hesitant to wait on black people, too. I’d been raised under the principle that all people are equal and should be treated fairly, so the change in my own attitude was shocking. I felt as if I was a traitor to everything I stood for, and I felt depressed and less confident about myself after seeing that what I thought was such a fundamental and obvious opinion of mine was prone to change.

But, as sad as I was, at that time I felt like there was a difference between people and between races. My black customers did have a tendency to tip poorly. To be fair, there were only few people I encountered who were rude enough to leave a five dollar bill for an over hundred dollar tab. But, being the upscale casual restaurant that my employer was, and after the effort I put into my job, I was used to receiving 20% tips. Thus, 15% percent didn’t make me happy, and 10% seemed outrageous. After a few frustrating incidents of receiving an insulting tip, the “Canadian” stereotype began to form in my mind. The peculiar fact that even the black and Hispanic wait staff acknowledged the “Canadians” created some comfort in me. Even people who knew how it felt to be discriminated saw the same difference that I had seen, and this made my thoughts seem less racist. I was never hostile towards my black customers, nor did I treat them any different from my white customers. But, there was no denying the fact that I was making judgments and preconceptions based on the color of my guests’ skin. That was enough: I was a potential racist, if not one already.

Now that I no longer wait tables, I look back to that time with shame. That summer was a difficult time for me; I underwent many changes in my life, and I was emotionally very unstable. But, whatever reason there is, whatever happened to me during that time, there is no excuse to being a racist. I especially lament my thoughts and actions because I know perfectly well what it feels like to be discriminated. I grew up in Japan where most people acknowledged me as a Caucasian, a racial minority there. I know how it feels to be tagged with difference; how my actions seem to stand out more just because I am different, and how my opinions and differences seem to be blamed on my racial difference. I experienced the same kind of hurt and rage that James Baldwin and Dr. King write about. At times when I wish someone around me could experience what I experience and feel sorry, I quickly deny the thought thinking that I would never want someone dear to me to feel such sadness and solitude. Yet, I had been a candidate of causing the same grief to someone else. It is embarrassing to admit such a thing.

Ironically, I think the term “Canadian” is very appropriate. Racism in the US seems to be the equivalent of nationalism in other countries.  Racists treat black people like “outsiders” in Dr. King’s words. I feel this way because as an “outsider” in Japan, I felt the same things which I read and heard that black people experience in the US. However, unlike nationalism, racism is not about people unable to accept the idea of assimilating and changing; racism is about differentiating and denying a part of the country that is already there, which gives it an ugly twist.

What is to be done about racism? How can all of us go to a restaurant and be received, treated, and served equally? Ever since I left the restaurant, I have been thinking about this issue, and I have been unsuccessful in finding a shorthand conclusion. Nowadays when it is treated as a taboo in society, racism is stealthy and lingers in places where it can’t be easily detected. The restaurant is one place I stumbled upon it, but who knows where else it might be. One thing I did think of is that racism should be taught from a different angle in education. A lot of my friends and young people from my generation don’t acknowledge that racism is still lingering out there. I didn’t either until I saw it right in front of my eyes. Many young people voice doubts about devoting so much time to studying about racism. I think that what we learn in school now, the historical approach to racism, is very important to understand the roots of it, but I also think we need a more up-to-date approach so that students can understand that it still presides, and are alerted of places it could be prowling.

Although I deeply regret the racist I found inside myself, my encounter with racism was a very interesting experience. In the long run, it has made me think about racism and how we can move towards terminating it, with a seriousness I never had before. I also feel a deeper respect towards people like Dr. King or Mahatma Gandhi, who spoke up in the presence of injustice, since now I have a better understanding of how easy it is to mope about and flow with it, and how difficult it is to speak up.

Courtney Swain currently studies at Berklee.

A sonnet is a form of rails and bars

And not much like the gossamer spider’s web

A foursquare scaffold toward the circling stars

An angled answer to high tide and ebb

For Nature never tamely interweaves

In calm susurrus of alternative

But storms and swirls ‘till rampant Chaos grieves

The blows that she lacks time and task to give

While should the poet spend force, force to show

No blood is shed;—yet forcéd falls his lay,

His every effort effortless to go

Succeeding mere exertions to convey.

We cannot mimic Nature, do our all;

‘Tis artifice that is most natural.

******************************

I pick up pen and, weeping, start to write

The ink is blood of wounds I must display

That seneschal, awake all through the night

Has patient watched my tears fall for this day

When tears will tell their tale and take their toll

Tell all, ‘till all their trial and toil be done

That soft report that echoes in the soul

Yet leaves me unconsoled, consoling none

For when I’ve squared the circle of my pain

I find myself no closer to the cure

By flowered words, truth is deflowered again

I’ve written, to be sure, or—be unsure?

Art is dishonored, used as heartache’s whore

And life dishonored too, by one line more

******************************

We think that feeling must be where we start

Wise Aristotle’s first primeval Source

Of movement, moving mind and mouth and heart

So speak our feeling—wind up feeling worse!

What cart is this we’ve put before what horse?

Does passion lie? Or truth lie somewhere else?

Where does love run when love has run its course?

Has honesty, or poetry, played false?

Perhaps the fault lies neither in our stars

Nor in ourselves, but in this Fallacy—

That strong emotions, and emotions’ scars

Set us in motion; when the truth may be

That motion pulls emotion in its wake;

We move, and moving, love the step we take.

Mark Simos is Assistant Professor of Songwriting.

He notes of this work:  ”This trio of sonnets, tossed off in a playful imitation of the style of the Metaphysical Poets, was inspired by discussions with students in various songwriting and lyric writing classes in the past few years. Though these may read as poems about poem-making, they concern questions that plague contemporary songwriters and musicians as well: Is structure inherently ‘cool’ and artificial? What is the role of our emotions as inspiration for our creative work? Does artistic authenticity depend on the depth of our feelings in the moment inspiration strikes? Can a work of art express thought as well as feeling, and still be affective and not didactic? The last sonnet alludes to the idea that “motion creates emotion”, a ‘meme’ I associate particularly with conversations with Pat Pattison. (I can’t say for sure who first came up with it—especially after a quick Google search showed it in use by cold call marketing trainers and aerobics instructors among others! But I’d like to acknowledge Pat and my fellow teachers in the Songwriting Department for many provocative discussions on these questions.)