Once upon a time, I was a Pod–goer like you.
As a suburban–bred freshman, I was eager to prove to my parents I was a sophisticated city dweller. I made reservations at the nearby, hip sushi restaurant to show them how upscale University City could be. I scoffed at the prices, but ordered whatever my heart desired because my parents were paying, and I’d be damned if I didn’t get my fill of non–Commons food.
Then, I started working there.
I began hostessing at Pod following a futile work–study search, though the choice was also born of genuine interest: Making some money at the betchiest restaurant on campus? Does this make me socially relevant? Sure! Why not?
While I was grateful for the opportunity to help my parents out, working at Pod was an unmitigated disaster, and I eventually quit. While this was in part the fault of long hours and poor remuneration, the greatest offenders were my very own classmates.
Working at Pod made me despise Penn students in a way only Princeton rivals. (Just kidding, none of them actually care.)
I was once working the closing shift on the Friday of parents’ weekend. Scores of tables had been reserved for a later event, meaning the dining area looked deceptively empty for 8pm. A horde of Penn students, reeking of cigarettes and alcohol, tumbled in. They asked for a walk–in table, otherwise known as The Impossible. In my cooing hostess voice, I replied that their table wouldn’t be ready for another 45 minutes.
I turned away to answer a phone and felt one of the group members grab my elbow. He pulled me aside and whispered, “Look, I see empty tables right now. I don’t understand why I’m not being seated.” He slipped four single–dollar bills into my hand.
My fellow Pod employees were largely Drexel and Temple students who didn’t love us Quakers either. Their understanding of Penn was restricted to the sample of students frequenting Pod, the students who could afford $30 takeout and still leave paltry tips. I grew ashamed when peers walked into the restaurant. Once, a group of Whartonites and their mentor refused to acknowledge me as I led them to their table. On other occasions, my sorority sisters would teeter in, wearing high heels and cut–out dresses, gawking,“You work here? That’s so cute!” I laughed it off to my fellow employees: "Oh, those silly classmates of mine with their wealth and frivolity!" Inwardly, I cursed their poor reflection on an institution I’d worked so hard to attend.
It’s fine to go out and enjoy a nice meal with friends, but it’s not fine to forget the people serving you might be in your classes. And even if they're not—even if they’ve never gone to school—their job doesn’t imply inferiority.
Despite my complaints, I miss working at Pod. Not because my heart is set on taking group photos in light–up pods, but because I want to make a good name for Penn students. Because I want to prove to my fellow employees that we are grounded people and some of us need to work for our education.
Yes, we should all be able to enjoy gourmet sushi in mood lighting. But we also need to acknowledge our responsibility as students of higher education to be respectful, conscientious citizens. If working at Pod taught me anything, it’s that my status as an Ivy League student doesn’t earn me, or anyone else, a pass on being respectful. Character is never born from status.
I’m no longer a Pod–goer, as being waited on by former coworkers is spectacularly awkward. But for those of you who are Pod-goers, remember to act in a way you want to reflect your school, your classmates and yourself.
And for god’s sake, if you’re going to bribe, make it more than $4.
Read "Behind the Counter, Behind the Tray" about student employees.
