How a Party Made Me Feel Ashamed to Be a Corporate Flight Attendant and How That Was a Good Thing
Oh my God, Claire. You’re sitting at the help table.
I took a big swig of the chilly white wine from the glass in my left hand. My right hand clenched in my lap. The subtle notes of the wine (a light creaminess, green apple, and maybe a titch of tropical fruit?) melted into my palate as the gravity of my realization sank into me.
They view me as ‘the help.’
Moments ago when everyone was standing around the bar, I saw a large group of people in a fancy Miami Beach restaurant turned private event venue. A group of people connected by an employer mingling with cocktails in hand under the expensive, intimate glow of festive decor for the company’s holiday party.
My eyes scanned around the room, noticing a subtle yet major difference. Now, that we were all in our assigned seats an invisible partition had risen from the floor. We were not one group. We were two distinct groups
The brains and the grunts. The elite and the commoners. The people with authentic social ties to my boss and those with contractual, impersonal ones. And for the first time in my life, I was in the latter group. The class system of my new profession and my place in it was now glaringly obvious.
Over the last three months, I’d been spending a lot of time in the air with my employer. With the crazy amount of hours we fly, I felt like I spent more time with him than anyone else in my life. When you spend that much time trapped in a metal tube sky with a person, you learn their habits as if they’re your own. As soon as he boarded, I greeted him with his favorite tea. In flight, I knew the exact moment when he would be ready to switch to coffee. I served his meals around his iPads without disturbing his Zoom calls with the stealth of a ninja and the elegance of a ballerina. A sly thumbs up and a slight twitch up of the corner of his mouth was his nonverbal ‘thank you.’ He’d ask for my input on his outfit, trusting my opinion on whether the black Prada shoes or the brown Louis Vuitton loafers were the better choice.
Our relationship didn’t feel too servant-mastery, like a Queen Charlotte-Brimsley situation, and only on the rare occasion did I get some very subtle Miranda Priestly-Andrea Sachs vibes (which a smile and self-deprecating joke always smoothed over). I understood what was expected of me but I never felt like less… until the holiday party seating chart.
I wanted to leave the party. Unable to think of any socially acceptable excuse, I did what any reasonable person would do: I stayed and got super drunk because the wine was free (not including the cost of my dignity).
Throughout the night, I looked at the other half, the better half of the room. The tables were filled with the special breed of white boy that screams finance bro and arrogant douche in perfect harmony with a dash of lawyer thrown in here and there like a perfectly timed cowbell. The women exchanged fake smiles laced with backhanded compliments designed to cut deeper than the razor edges of their Ozempic-carved cheekbones. The only thing louder than their Mean Girl-esque simpering was the obnoxious details of their outfits, like the five-inch high shoulder pads and excessive buckles that served no other purpose than to scream “I’M WEARING DESIGNER CLOTHING! DON’T YOU THINK I’M IMPORTANT?” I looked down at my simple dark green velvet slip dress. I wondered if I made a Pretty Woman-esque faux pas of picking an outfit I thought was classy but might actually be a little too sexy.
Shit. I should have worn a blazer over this.
There were no designer letters visible on the outside of my dress but I wished a different set of letters was visible — the ones associated with my education. I was probably one of the most educated people in the room and no one had a clue. I had a flipping doctorate but nobody here would address me as Doctor Fernan without thinking it was a joke. On top of the big D, I racked up board certifications during my ten years as a pharmacist to create an alphabet soup behind my last name. At the time, they advanced my career but didn’t make me feel superior. Now that I found myself on the ‘help’ side, it bothered me those people didn’t know. I questioned if leaving pharmacy and becoming a corporate flight attendant was a good choice.
I woke up the next morning with a bitch of a headache. The throbbing vice around my skull was nothing compared to the other horrendous sensation taking over my senses — shame. I felt ashamed to be a flight attendant (with a dash of guilt thrown on top for the ego-driven urge to be such an uppity bitch about my education).
With this new awareness, I started to notice how differently people reacted to me when they found out I was a flight attendant and a pharmacist. The tells were subtle but unmistakable. A slight twitch of the head, sometimes a widening of the eyes, other times a tiny narrowing. The reaction was like when the opponent showed their hand in poker and you thought they were bluffing only to find yourself looking at pocket aces. And I felt triumphant. See! I’m more than you think! Ha!
While the external validation was comforting, it was as cheap and fleeting as Instagram likes. Once the dopamine hit subsided, I was still left grappling with the idea of myself as someone less than. After telling the Help Holiday Table story to my pilots, they offered me a different perspective — our status was a good thing.
“We’re glorified bus drivers,” said Kevin. He’s the pilot on my account whom I’m closest with. Being two Sconnie kids who like silliness and espresso martinis, he quickly became like a big brother to me. “Drive the bus, do your job, and go home and enjoy your life. That’s what matters. Not this.” He finished with a sweeping gesture towards the $65 million jet we work on. “That’s just a bus.”
“You’re right.” I nodded.
Kev’s perspective was the dose of reality I needed. I was getting way too emotionally invested in my job. It’s something I continue to struggle with as a natural caretaker and a tendency to be overly loyal (#virgoproblems). No matter how long I end up working for my boss, how close I think we are, and how much it seems like they care, my loyalty must remain firstly and always to myself. To put myself first, I have to remember my role: I was hired to be the help.
And I’m not the only flight attendant who feels this way.
“I am their servant,” Kami said firmly and with conviction despite the chorus of protests from all the pilots. I was on a contract trip for a finance company’s golf outing in Portugal. My crew was flying the East Coast C.E.O. Kami and her pilots were the West Coast crew. Our crews had convened to break bread and drink copious amounts of Portuguese wine.
“That’s not true! You’re not a servant!” one of the pilots shook his head.
“Claire, what do you think?” another pilot asked.
“I think she’s right. I wouldn’t use that word.” I twirled my glass in the air, finishing with a slight tip of the glass to emphasize my point. “But I would say I’m the help. Definitely.”
“C’mon! No way. You guys are more than that. Don’t demean yourselves like that.”
“I am their servant.” Kami took a long drink of maroon wine to signal the debate was over for her.
“Just because we’re the help, doesn’t mean we can’t take pride in what we do. Or enjoy it.” I shrugged as I delivered my closing argument.
On days when I’m frustrated and feeling low, I like to think about a story about a janitor to give me perspective. One day back in 1962, JFK was visiting NASA. As he toured the facility, he came across the janitor with a broom in the hallways. The president asked the janitor what he was doing.
“Well, Mr. President. I’m helping put a man on the moon.”
In the end, it doesn’t matter what our principals and passengers think of us. How we view and feel about ourselves is what truly defines us. If you feel like what you do is sending a man to the moon, then it sure as fuck is. And you can use any word that feels right to you.
