"The Help" and the Hierarchy: What Classism Taught Me About People

I've been sitting with something heavy today — not for the first time, and probably not the last. It's the weight of classism, and how it quietly shapes our relationships, our workplaces, and our worth in the eyes of others.

Don't get me wrong — I know racism is real, alive, and deadly in this country. But I believe the deepest, most insidious divide in America is the one between the rich and the poor. Between those who do the "respectable" work and those who do the "dirty" work. Between who's seen and who's invisible.

I treat every person with respect — not because of what they do, but because of who I am.

Let me tell you a story.

There was a time I worked as a volunteer manager. It was a respected position, I wore the badge, I had the meetings, I was seen. Then I made what should have been a celebrated move: I accepted a job as a custodial supervisor — not because I was demoted or desperate, but because it came with a substantial pay raise. It was a smart move. A necessary move. A move rooted in the reality of needing more money to survive, like so many of us do.

The first time one of my former volunteers saw me pushing a janitor's cart, she ran up to me in a panic. "Do you need me to find a janitor for you so they can put that thing away?" she asked. I laughed and said, "No, this is my job now. I'm the supervisor. I was just checking that the cart was restocked properly for the next shift."

Her face twisted in disgust. "Why would you want to be a janitor?"

I answered honestly: "For more money."

She made another face — that scrunched-up, can't-believe-you-would-sink-so-low look — and walked away. We stopped finding reasons to talk after that.

People are polite to status. To titles. To roles they value. And when you're perceived as "the help"? You vanish to them.

That was the first crack.

Then came the cold shoulders. Coworkers who used to greet me with warmth suddenly stopped saying good morning. They looked right past me, like I'd stopped existing. Like I might splash mop water on their khakis if they made eye contact.

That experience didn't just hurt — it opened my eyes.

People aren't kind. Not really. They're kind to people they think are at their level, or higher. People are polite to status. To titles. To roles they value. And when you're perceived as "the help"? You vanish to them.

And you know what? That realization became a filter for my life. I stopped trying to win people over. I stopped giving the benefit of the doubt. Because I've seen — personally, painfully — how they treat the people they think are beneath them. Cranky Cricket doesn't seem so cranky now, does she? I am not cranky, I am awake to all of the bullshit.

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So now, I move through life a little more guarded. I don't chase friendships. I don't seek approval. I've been on both sides of the service cart, and I know the truth:

If someone can't look you in the eye while you're holding a mop, they don't deserve your attention when you're holding a mic, a title, or your head high.

I treat every person with respect — not because of what they do, but because of who I am.

And I will never forget who made me feel invisible. Because their silence said more than their smiles ever did.