Talking Stick - January/February 2018 - 41

To better understand the lives of custodians, the author
walked many miles in their shoes.

includes a desktop computer, a laptop computer, an
oversized flat-screen TV, and a musical keyboard. I
estimate that there is nearly $4,000 of equipment in
this space. The extension cords plugged into every
visible electric receptacle would horrify a fire marshal.
Somehow Kichelle devises creative solutions to
clean around these hazards. As we pack up, Kichelle
announces that it is time for a break.
	 In my world as a professor, I determine when it is
appropriate to take a break. When relaxing, I neither
proceed to a designated space nor worry about
how others will interpret my inaction. Nor do my
supervisors designate an official starting and ending
time for the respite. If I need a break, I identify an
appropriate time and take it. I don't apologize for
periodic escapes from work responsibilities. Watching
Kichelle prepare for a break reminds me that, as a
custodian, preparing to relax is anything but relaxing.
Knowing when a break begins and ends is easy;
managers set these parameters, and most custodians
comply. Yet for custodians like Kichelle and Ajla,
it is important to relax in private. Custodians who
showcase their sanctioned leisure activities in public
spaces can inadvertently reinforce stereotypes that
custodians seldom work or frequently slack off. Today
Kichelle, Diane, and I move to a locked lounge. Since
the door has a key-card device, any click signals that
a visitor is entering, which is an invaluable mode of
early warning.
	 Kichelle and Diane engage in a humorous "Can
you top this?" exchange of noteworthy morning
adventures. Kichelle turns the television station to
Family Feud. We collectively guess and critique
the most popular responses to questions the game
host poses, which, for me, is both enjoyable and
humbling.

	 Cleaning another suite is the next task. This
space is cleaner and less cluttered, yet the cleaning
routines are almost identical to the one we deployed
in the previous suite. I begin to memorize bathroom
routines: Remove items from around the toilet, flush
and add cleaning solution, clean the exterior of the
toilet, clean the toilet seat, clean the inside of the
toilet bowl, wipe drips and spills. While there is less
clutter, the two women chatting in the hallway and
the one woman occupying the bathroom create a
traffic jam that Kichelle artfully works around as she
chats with them. In approximately 20 minutes this
makeover is complete, much quicker and easier than
the previous one.
	 After lunch we enter our first men's suite, which
stinks. The building's high-tech climate-controlled
ventilation system is no match for the room's
disgusting locker-room odors; my only recourse is
to breathe through my mouth. The contents of the
various suite rooms visible from the hallway remind
me of American collegians' unswerving allegiance to
materialism. The abundance of possessions that I can
see - gaming consoles, a state-of-the-art television,
top-of-the-line basketball sneakers - symbolically
conveys residents' economic privilege and what
counts as entertainment and physical comfort. It's our
third suite of the day, and again we closely follow the
identical cleaning script we performed earlier. From
my vantage point, housekeeping is like being caught
in a revolving door. I am ready to mix things up to
combat boredom, but Kichelle is not. I acquiesce,
and we do it again.
This excerpt was taken from Peter Magolda's The
Lives of Campus Custodians (Stylus Publishing)

JANUARY + FEBRUARY 2018

41
Talking Stick - January/February 2018

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