Hey, where have you been? You've been missing in action for quite a while. I hope all's well and welcome back. Chi Jaama Joe Sambou >From: Malamin Johnson <[log in to unmask]> >Reply-To: The Gambia and related-issues mailing list ><[log in to unmask]> >To: [log in to unmask] >Subject: Two Jobs and a Sense of Hope >Date: Fri, 24 Jan 2003 20:02:41 +0000 > >Two Jobs and a Sense of Hope >A Young Man From Mali Discovers a Tough Life on a Time Clock > >By Anne Hull >Washington Post Staff Writer >Wednesday, December 11, 2002; Page A01 >Last of four articles >Atlanta -- The toilet is stuffed with paper and flooded. Adama Camara >retrieves the mush from the water. He's assigned to clean the men's >restrooms on Concourse A of Hartsfield Atlanta International Airport. >Swabbing the floor, he's always careful not to let the strings of the mop >touch the wingtips and loafers around him. He puts in new paper towels. He >wipes down the latrines and then mucks out the stalls. >Adama does not complain. He will only say, "The people stink." >He speaks four languages but works quietly. He's often mistaken for a black >man in the Deep South's sense instead of a newly arrived immigrant from >west >Africa. One day he's scouring the men's bathroom across from Gate A-19 when >a black American walks up. The stranger looks at him and asks, as if to >shake Adama awake, "Man, why do you work in here? This is nasty." >It took Adama a while to figure out what the man meant, why he was so >bothered. >Displayed under glass at the Atlanta airport is Martin Luther King Jr.'s >preacher robe, his watch and his handwritten letters with words scratched >out, the words begging for a new day to dawn. >Here it is almost 40 years later and a young black man is scrubbing toilets >in the gateway to the South. >For Adama, an immigrant from the threadbare country of Mali, cleaning >bathrooms for $6.23 an hour is better than marching off to the diamond >mines >of Sierra Leone. >"You've never tasted collard greens?" This question has been asked of Adama >many times, and the asker is always shocked, as if Adama has failed a test. >When Adama came to Atlanta, part of the past decade's wave of immigration >to >the South, he was swept into a narrative he was unprepared for. He stepped >off the Greyhound with just one suitcase but with two centuries of baggage. >He didn't realize that his job emptying garbage cans was full of symbolism. >It wouldn't occur to him to be angry. He has no antenna for racial slights. >One afternoon, a black American co-worker of Adama is sitting in a >motorized >cart parked on the busy concourse. A white man comes rushing up and >gestures >to the car. "Where do these things get dispatched?" >"Dispatched?" the worker says. >The man's face falls. "I'll use another word," he says, condescendingly. >Adama is unbothered by such exchanges. "No problem," he'll say, which can >irritate his co-workers, who have suffered such exchanges for years. >With a workforce of 44,800, Hartsfield Atlanta International Airport is the >largest employment center in Georgia. Such a huge job bank is not lost on >the flood of new immigrants. But after the terrorism of 9/11, the airport >adopted tighter security measures, and anyone without the right documents >couldn't get security badges. Many Latinos vanished. Africans are filling >the void. >Africans make up only 2 percent of the 4.1 million people in metro Atlanta, >but their numbers are increasing. They come from Ethiopia and Nigeria, >Somalia, Mali and Sierra Leone, all parts of the continent affected by war, >famine or political upheaval. They are wresting the airport taxi business >away from American cabbies, many of them black. They're working fast food >and customer service. Some are hesitant to share details of their past. "I >ran from a dictator," says an African wheelchair pusher. Most are young and >just desperate for work. >Adama's home of Mali in west Africa has been tormented by drought and >dictatorship. Mali was once a kingdom on the gold route and later a French >colony known as French Sudan. Democratic since 1991, Mali is an >impoverished >country of 10 million people. >Adama is from the capital city of Bamako. But if asked he will say Nara, >because the custom is to claim the village or city where your father was >born. In Bamako, Adama lived in a cement house with his father, his >father's >two wives and their 13 children. No phone, sporadic electricity and not >much >of a future. >In 1999, at age 19, with a high school education, Adama left Mali for New >York. He had relatives in Brooklyn. He worked at a car wash during the >winter, earning $3.75 an hour. He was called "nigger" for the first time, >by >a black customer who didn't like the way Adama buffed his car. In the >spring, Adama took a bus to Atlanta. He had remembered it from watching the >1996 Olympics, and it seemed like a place where his hands would thaw. >Adama landed on Buford Highway, the heart of immigrant Atlanta, crashing at >a cousin's apartment. On his second day, he saw a group of Mexican men >standing on Buford Highway and joined them to wait for pick-up work. Next, >he got a job at a car wash, where the boss made the immigrant workers clock >off during slow spells and clock back on when business picked up. Finally, >Adama heard that Africans were getting hired at the airport. >Now the airport is his whole existence. He has two-full time jobs on >Concourse A. He begins at 6:30 a.m. as a janitor for Initial Contract >Services. From 3 to 11, he works at the Budweiser Brew House and Smoking >Lounge, where he is a member of the utility crew. >His 16-hour work days are numbingly boring and physically grueling. He >sleeps four or five hours most nights and takes 300 milligrams of Motrin >for >his aches. In seven months of working two jobs, he has never called in >sick. >"On my day off, I have tea," he says, which means that when he has the >morning off, he walks to Publix to buy a baguette and returns to his >sparsely furnished apartment and boils water. He drinks his tea from a >small >glass tumbler, Arabic-style, with lots of sugar. >He is 6 feet 3 with dark skin and a round scar on his right cheek. He walks >in a forward-leaning way. He wears a leather choker threaded with an >African >shell. His English is lilting and accented by French. His smile is so wide >it consumes his face. The young women who work at the airport volunteer >their phone numbers, and he ducks his head shyly, without bravado, and they >find this totally exotic. >On Buford Highway, he shares an apartment with three other Malians. Adama's >bedroom is military neat. He sleeps on the floor because that's what he did >in Africa. A large digital clock is beside him. When the alarm goes off and >he is nauseated with fatigue, he fixes one thought in his mind. "I think >about the American dollar," he says. He splashes water on his face, says >his >morning prayers and then throws himself into the blades of another day on >Concourse A. >The Atlanta airport is the busiest in the world, with 220,000 fliers >arriving, departing and connecting each day. Adama is right: The people >stink. They ball up dirty diapers, leave blood in the sink and use >Starbucks >cups as spittoons. >Ron Willis is a corporate vice president of Initial Contract Services, the >cleaning company hired to oversee most of the 5.7 million square feet of >the >Atlanta airport terminal complex. To Willis, a strapping Southerner who >loves University of Georgia football, cleaning is math, and math is profit. >Twenty years ago, it took an hour to clean 2,500 square feet of commercial >space. Now, 5,000 square feet can be cleaned in an hour. Riding vacuums and >trash compactors have become more efficient, but the main reason is that >people are working faster. They have to. Flights are departing earlier in >the morning and landing later at night than ever, shortening the window of >cleaning time for the overnight crew. >"Think of America in the last 20 years," says Willis, his voice rising with >passion. "We've improved in the world because of our productivity." At ICS, >the janitorial crew has gone from what Willis calls "traditional" -- mostly >single black women -- to 70 percent immigrant. >"Adama's from Mali," Adama's black American supervisor says one morning to >a >higher-up boss, who is white. >"It's a town called who?" the boss asks. >Adama is assigned the two busiest men's bathrooms on Concourse A. This is >Delta territory, with monstrous ebbing and flowing of crowds. It takes >Adama >15 minutes to clean a bathroom. He cleans each of his two bathrooms 12 or >13 >times a shift. >Clocking in at dawn, Adama walks through the airport, which still has its >night calm. The wide concourse gleams from a fresh cleaning. Yawning >passengers are just starting to arrive. Adama passes the Cinnabon, wafting >sweet and floury, but he is oblivious, silent, beaten back by exhaustion >from his late job. >By mid-morning, he emerges from one of his bathrooms and the concourse is >thick with travelers. Adama steers his cart carefully. His khakis are >splattered with toilet water and sink water. He bumps into Lucille, a >gray-haired Initial worker who's pushing her own yellow Rubbermaid bag on >wheels. "Roll on my foot so I can go home," she says to him, and he smiles. >A man walks up to a trash can between them, leans over and spits. >Adama goes off to clean Gate A-19. He sweeps around the feet of a man >eating >a Twix bar. When it's time for his 15-minute break, Adama takes off his >plastic gloves and walks down to the Initial office. It's behind one of the >scuffed, unmarked doors that line the concourse. Inside are lockers, two >vending machines, a desk, some chairs. Mostly it is a refuge from the >public. Two janitors are talking about bottled water, a concept that still >astounds. >"I throw it away all day long," says a worker named Banita. "Water, water, >my, they waste it." >Another employee named Pamela reports how a man yelled at her earlier in >the >morning for tossing the remains of his food in the garbage. "One little >crumb," Pamela says, shaking her head. >They are the invisible, and it bothers them. >"These people, they walk on the concourse; they don't see you; they don't >move," Banita says. Adama silently eats his Chick-fil-A biscuit. He checks >the time. One minute left on break. He crumples his wrappers and returns to >the concourse. He likes his co-workers but feels no solidarity at living in >history's shadow together. "We are different," he says, diplomatic enough >to >say this in private. >Most of the Americans think the Africans are arrogant. "They want to be >authoritative," says a janitor named Viola. "You are supposed to look up to >them. They say, 'no problem,' but they still got this attitude. Now, that's >a problem." >Viola glances toward Adama, who is rolling his cart into a gate area. >"Adama, though, he sweet." >The plane to Boston has just left the gate. Newspapers are everywhere. >Fried >rice is scattered on the floor. A Seattle's Best Coffee has spilled and >Adama bends over the mess. CNN drones overhead. "In terms of tech, the chip >sector is a mixed bag today." Two fast-food workers on break discuss >employment options. Wall Street Deli is holding a job fair. >Quitting time is 2:25, but by 2:15, most of the Initial workers are in the >office staring down the time clock, their purses wrapped around their >wrists >and their bags bundled for the fleeing. Adama is still out there cleaning. >After he clocks out, he returns to the men's bathroom he has just cleaned. >He goes into a stall with his backpack and strips out of his blue Initial >T-shirt. He puts on a green polo with a logo from the Budweiser Brew House >and Smoking Lounge. That job starts in 28 minutes. >"Adama, number eight, Bud Lite!" >The Budweiser Brew House and Smoking Lounge is an escalator ride up from >Concourse A. Adama works on the utility staff, changing kegs, washing >glasses and busing tables. Set among Anheuser-Busch and St. Louis Cardinals >souvenirs, there's a lively bar, nachos, good music and an endless supply >of >ashtrays, all of which Adama wipes out a hundred times a shift. A strange >atmosphere for a Muslim. But familiar. >He takes a mop into the men's room. "There is pee on the floor," he says. >"Sometimes when you drink, you don't know what you do." >A blonde lights a Marlboro Gold as the bartender slides her a Cape Cod. A >big man talks on a cell phone while wolfing two chili dogs. Some guys on >stools order another round of Sam Adams. >The majority of the bartenders and servers are black American. The majority >of the utility staff is African. Adama's two closest friends work here, >Yacouba Goita and Malick Diallo, both from Mali. Their sense of duty is out >of proportion with their lowly tasks. They act like maitre d's, not >busboys. >They patrol the tables, speaking in Bambara, Mandingo or French, their >white >rags through their belt loops. >A boss lays a hat on Adama's head that says "Budweiser King of Beers." The >sound system blasts Grace Jones's "Pull Up to the Bumper" as rain pelts the >tarmac outside. The back walls are all glass and jets circle like shark >fins. Bad weather means flight delays. The bar is hopping. "Adama, white >zinfandel," the bartender shouts and Adama turns for the stock room. He has >tried to explain to his father what he does, but how do you explain this? >By >10 p.m., he has been working for nearly 15 hours. His back and arms throb >from bending over a low sink to wash beer glasses. His clothes and skin >smell like ashes. >Last call at the Brew House. Adama mops out the place. Getting back to >Buford Highway where he lives requires a train ride and then a bus ride >that >take an hour. It's nearly 1 a.m. when he lies down on his lion blanket on >the floor, the alarm clock set for 5:05 a.m. >"Dynasty" is the curse of Adama's life. With reruns of the TV show >broadcast >in Mali, Adama's family thinks he is living high in America. In reality, he >earns $1,800 a month after taxes. He saves $800 and sends $300 back to >Mali, >where he's essentially supporting a family of 17. >Lately, family members have been calling more frequently with their wish >lists. He is a human hotline in the land of plenty. One morning he's >cleaning the men's bathroom across from Gate A-19 when his cell phone >rings. >"Alo?" he says. It's his brother calling from Mali. Daddy says send more >money. >Africa occupies a unique psychic space in Atlanta, a city known as the >black >capital of the South and home to the nation's fastest-growing black middle >class. At the airport, the underground walkway to Concourse A features a >permanent exhibit of art from Zimbabwe. Adama rides the escalator past the >photos of wild hippos and giraffes, untouched by the gesture to the >motherland. "In Mali, the animals are in the zoo," he says. >The cultural disconnect works both ways. Schree Potts-Ramsey is the >operations manager of the Budweiser Brew House and Smoking Lounge. Two >years >ago, when she hired her first African employee, Potts-Ramsey, a black >American, didn't know what to expect. "Have you ever seen 'Coming to >America'?" she says, referring to the Eddie Murphy movie about a >fez-wearing >African prince who visits America. "Okay, I'm thinking that, and >elephants." >As Potts-Ramsey hired more Africans, it fell to her to give them a crash >course on American customs. They may speak four languages and know obscure >facts about the 53 countries in Africa, but someone had to tell them about >deodorant. >"No, sweetie, not once a week, once a day," Potts-Ramsey explained. And >women? "Never dinner on a first date. Always lunch or brunch." >What is brunch? they wanted to know. >They are always setting out to explore America. Once they asked for >directions to Indianapolis. They claimed they were going on their day off. >"Yeah, right," Potts-Ramsey said. The next time they clocked in for work, >they presented her with a coffee mug that said "Indianapolis." >A few of the black American employees complain to Potts-Ramsey about hiring >so many Africans, citing their weak English. History may have split them up >centuries ago, but there is no natural cleaving back together here at the >Brew House. >Attempts are made. One afternoon, an American waitress named Yvonne says to >a Nigerian employee, "Did you hear about that lady from Africa who they >tried to bury up to her neck and then stone her?" >"No, I didn't hear about that," the Nigerian says. >"Well, Oprah's gonna help her," Yvonne says. >Potts-Ramsey is a more revered figure than Oprah in some parts of Mali. Her >photo hangs in several houses, sent home by the Brew House Africans. They >are grateful that she gave them $8.75-an-hour jobs and coached them through >life here. One Saturday, she was at home in the suburbs when the doorbell >rang. There were Yacouba and Malick. "We are here to clean," Yacouba >announced. They even took down the ceiling fans and cleaned the blades. >The next day, the doorbell rang again. This time, Yacouba and Malick were >dressed in African garb, brilliantly colored grande boubous and silk hats. >"Where y'all goin', all like that?" Ramsey asked. They were accompanied by >15 platters. "We have prepared dinner for you," Yacouba said. >Adama has "the grip." Aching, fever, soreness everywhere. He is exhausted. >His one-hour commute to the airport from Buford Highway adds an extra two >hours to his double-shift workday. He decides he must leave the immigrant >life of Buford Highway and move closer to the airport. >He settles on a black neighborhood on the perimeter of the airport in the >city of College Park. The move takes him deeper into the experience of >being >a black man in America. He's walking home from the bus stop one night when >a >white police officer stops him. Where are you going? Where are you coming >from? Show me your I.D. >Adama isn't scared or angered by the incident; he is more unnerved by the >occasional sound of gunshots. His apartment complex has steel bars and >dyed-red bark thrown on the ground instead of grass. Jets scream overhead. >Adama lives with two other Malians who split the $650 monthly rent. Across >the street, a Nigerian runs a convenience store called Quick and Cheap with >bullet-proof glass and gouging prices: $1.29 for the can of peas Adama >buys. >Adama is so careful with money that he examines a pack of Wrigley's before >buying it. But he wants to buy a car. With a car, he would be able to take >a >girl to dinner instead of meeting her at Plane Delicious at the airport >food >court. >Raiding his savings account, he buys a 1994 Mazda. The car conks out while >he's driving home from work. The problem is grave, he learns the next day, >when a shade tree mechanic from the Ivory Coast comes over with Yacouba and >Malick to diagnose the car. It's the engine. No one told Adama that a car >engine requires oil. >The mechanic advises that a used engine will cost $800. Adama goes upstairs >to his roachy apartment. Condoleezza Rice is on TV. Adama turns off the >sound and plays his music. He is homesick. He looks out the window and sees >run-down apartments identical to his own. He puts his head in his hands. >He calls Yacouba and says he's catching the train up to Buford Highway. >Yacouba, who has recently discovered bowling, goes to the Asian market and >buys a frozen lamb's head. Soup is on the way. Malick comes over. They all >watch the news in French on satellite TV. They pop in bootleg dance videos >from home, the bouncing sounds of Salif Keita competing with the accordions >from the Mexican apartment next door. Ten miles from Turner Field, the tiny >seeds of Mali. >When it gets late, Yacouba makes a pallet for Adama on the floor and hands >him an alarm clock. >"He is lonely where he lives now," Yacouba says. >In Mali, Adama knew one white person, a Mormon missionary. That's one more >than he knows in Atlanta, after 14 months of living here. >His neighborhood, with its gospel roller rink, neckbone specials, fish >houses and tabernacle churches, begins to feel more familiar. He recently >saw two skinny boys from Togo kicking a can down the sidewalk. >"More Africans be staying over here now," Adama says, the schoolhouse >English he learned in Mali giving way to the local blend. >Adama begins dating an black American woman named Machika Lowe, who's 23 >and >works at the Oscar Mayer Hot Dog Construction Company at the airport. "You >want to go to a '70s party with me tonight?" Machika calls to ask on a >Saturday night. Adama has no clue what she's talking about but somehow >their >relationship works. He takes her to Buford Highway and treats her to an >African hair braiding. >Ask Yacouba what his future holds and a look of total peacefulness crosses >his round face. "We are going home," he says. Adama? He's not so sure. >Maybe >he will save enough money to open an African merchandise kiosk in >Underground Atlanta. One thing is certain. He wants only one wife. In >America, how could you ever afford two? >Instead of the '70s party, he sleeps for 12 hours and arrives at the >airport >the next day at dawn. Sunday mornings on Concourse A have their own gentle >rhythms. Master Shine the shoe shine man plays gospel music. Can we get >some >church in here? Shirley Caesar sings. >A janitor who works with Adama rolls his cart of trash by and tips his >chin. >"Hey, doctor," he says. Adama knows every inch of this place, dirty or >clean. He's taking classes at the airport to apply for a job as a >$10-an-hour customer service assistant. But for now he bends over a garbage >can slimed with Manchu Wok noodles. Just as he removes the bag to put in a >new one, a man dumps a plate of food into the unlined can. Adama picks it >out by hand. >The world of garbage is unrelenting, but pride is still eked out wherever >possible. One of Adama's colleagues comes to work with a set of French wrap >nails and a beauty parlor 'do. In the Initial break room, a supervisor >tries >to advise another woman on what kind of car to buy. She's tired of the bus. >He suggests an economical Kia. "I won't ride in a Kia," she says. >By the time Adama clocks off, Concourse A is knotted with travelers and >strollers and rolling luggage. It's Sunday and that means no second job at >the Brew House. Adama disappears into the men's room and comes out wearing >a >T-shirt that says "Dirty Dirty," a reference to the rap genre known as the >Dirty South. He walks through the terminal and then up the MARTA train >platform, where he boards a car. Except for two Dutch tourists with >backpacks, everyone has on a stained uniform. The 3 o'clock shift workers >have punched out. Adama sits next to a contingent from Popeyes. >After one stop he gets off at College Park and waits for the bus. A young >man with a gold tooth gives him a nod. "I like your shirt, man," he says. >"Thank you, man," Adama says, giving a smile that is unreturned. >The day is wan and pale. Summer is gone but there is no fall, only a lack >of >color and heat. On the bus to Flat Shoals, Adama sits under a Church's >Chicken ad. Three pieces and a biscuit for $1.99. Someone has scrawled on >the seat in front of him, DA SOUTH. >The bus passes pines and red clay, and rumbles over railroad tracks. The >windows are open. A breeze blows across the silent passengers, anesthetized >by fatigue. Adama closes his eyes and falls asleep. >© 2002 The Washington Post Company > > > > >_________________________________________________________________ >Protect your PC - get McAfee.com VirusScan Online >http://clinic.mcafee.com/clinic/ibuy/campaign.asp?cid=3963 > >~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ > >To unsubscribe/subscribe or view archives of postings, go to the Gambia-L >Web interface >at: http://maelstrom.stjohns.edu/archives/gambia-l.html >To contact the List Management, please send an e-mail to: >[log in to unmask] > >~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ _________________________________________________________________ MSN 8 with e-mail virus protection service: 2 months FREE* http://join.msn.com/?page=features/virus ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ To unsubscribe/subscribe or view archives of postings, go to the Gambia-L Web interface at: http://maelstrom.stjohns.edu/archives/gambia-l.html To contact the List Management, please send an e-mail to: [log in to unmask] ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~