I’ve always had a bright, bubbly personality and eagerness for the future. As a kid, I often would dangle upside down on random pieces of furniture and think of how my dreams had a price tag attached to them that I could never afford. My childhood consisted of yellow eviction notices and empty stomachs. To clarify, I learned the ins and outs of bankruptcy when I was in pigtails. I had been counting down the years until I was legally allowed to get my first job. I felt like I won the lottery when I discovered that Panda Express had an opportunity to work in a management position that promised a salary triple that of my entire household’s income. I didn’t know it then, but this promise of financial security would cost me my confidence, bubbly personality, and teenage years.
Work taught me that what I did was never enough. Our uniform policy made it seem as if I was working at a five-star Michelin restaurant in the city. At least, that is how I had to treat the job if I wanted to move up the career ladder. 100% polyester slacks. Ironed and wrinkle-free dress pants and shirt. Don’t forget to iron along the sleeves with a fine line to indicate to others that you did your job and pressed your clothes. No stains on your apron. Long black socks with shined no-slip dress shoes that cannot be bought at Walmart. A tight, slicked back bun with no loose baby hairs, which was always a struggle for me because I had curly hair that I had never been taught how to maintain. Don’t forget to wear your white bow hair clip. Now you’re ready to clock in.
The humble street fruit vendor – an honorable symbol paraded to young employees by an owner who never had to deal with that reality.
Andrew Cherng, the founder of Panda Express, is on the record saying he praised the street fruit vendor’s mentality. The humble street fruit vendor – an honorable symbol paraded to young employees by an owner who never had to deal with that reality. You are responsible because you have nobody else. This sick juxtaposition was intended to teach employees an ownership mentality and self-reliance. Being taught the street fruit vendor mentality was something I had to swallow if I had my eyes on a debt-free future.
I was 16 when I first started working at Panda. Moving up required many sacrifices, cuts, and oil burns. As the years passed, I advanced and became a shift leader, but my education went downhill. I barely graduated high school with a borderline criminal attendance record. When it came to spending time with my friends and loved ones, my attendance also plummeted. My phone used to ding with messages like, “Hey, let’s do something tonight!” but by the end, my phone went silent with an occasional “I wish you weren’t working” text.
During my senior year and two-year mark, work completely consumed me. By day, I was just a 17-year-old girl who lived in a wrinkled uniform and loose curls, but by night, I was a perfectionist culinary machine micromanaging every plate for a company that didn’t care about its employees. I passed my cooking and food safety tests, but I failed in every other aspect of my life. I failed all my AP exams. I failed as a student. I failed as a friend. I failed as a sibling. Looking back, I regret not staying to learn about AP psychology. Maybe then, I would’ve noticed the signs of burnout in myself.
My third year at Panda was also the gap year I took off from school to give everything to this investment of mine. The finish line was near. I knew how to do everything, but more importantly, I had the mindset. My boss had me travel two hours from home to finish my three-week management training. I remember arriving at the cheap hotel and how it felt when the door shut and my parents, who had dropped me off, finally left. I was alone but motivated to do what I had to because I had an opportunity that my parents never had.
My training started, and I felt like the rug had been pulled from underneath my feet. I thought I’d be mentored and trained by another manager, but to my surprise, I was all alone. I was suddenly in charge of a restaurant’s operations without management and a skeleton crew that barely kept the store running. I walked in the rain with a heavy backpack filled with our deposit to a bank in a town I didn’t know. I taught myself how to run a four-person kitchen by myself. I have oil scars on my forearm that are still visible today. I would work 12+ shifts with no breaks, and at this point, I learned to live with my growling empty stomach. It was my first time working a 65-hour work week, but now, this time, I didn’t have the relief to go home to a family waiting for me. This time, I would walk home to my empty hotel room only to be alone with my thoughts.
I remember thinking to myself, “Is this a test? Is this what they meant by being a street fruit vendor?”
My journey continued, and on a late Sunday night, I was sitting in the lobby of an empty restaurant finishing up inventory. As I heard the clicks from my keyboard echo and I saw the Chinese neon letter sign flicker, I couldn’t help but think I could be in my first semester of college had I made different choices. Then, breaking through the silence, my phone rang. It was my mom. Her voice familiarly asks,
“Where are you? Have you eaten? Are you okay?”
The silence from the empty restaurant grew louder, and suddenly, I was a little girl in pigtails again. I sobbed on the phone that night and left home a week before my training ended.
My eyes grew wide as the paper unraveled and revealed the statement, “Be willing to admit your mistakes.”
I wish I could say this was the day I quit. I stayed, but now I walked around with my head down, filled with shame and regret. The finish line I once thought was close suddenly dissipated in my hands like a mirage. Five months later, a pivotal Saturday came. My routine 15-hour shift was on the busiest day of the week, and I was in charge that day so my once role model of a boss could enjoy his Saturday hangover. The air that day was thick with tension from customer disputes and internal associate drama. By 6 pm, I had cried three times, and the weight of the day was pressing down on my feet like stones.
Suddenly, a rainbow appeared over my cloudy day. My best friend walked in with a few other friends, most of whom I’d lost touch with.
Over the loud noise and clanging pans, my best friend shouts, “Mel, we knew you’d be here, and we had to come to see you even if it’s on the other side of the line.”
I finished bagging their food and grinned with tears forming in my eyes. I looked at my friend and then at the line of hungry people leading out the door.
“Thank you, but I got to get back to it,.” I replied.
He then took the bags of food and reached inside for a fortune cookie.
He handed it to me and said, “Mel, take it. I think you need this luck more than me.”.
I smiled and waved goodbye.
I stepped to the bathroom for another crying break and ate my fortune cookie. My eyes grew wide as the paper unraveled and revealed the statement, “Be willing to admit your mistakes.” Tears began to form and my face felt tingly from the anxiety that was rushing through my body. I took a deep breath, and I walked out on my last shift. No goodbye cakes or hugs.
My sudden departure inspired my boss to call a meeting with the entire staff to address the issues that made me want to leave in the first place. Uninvited, I showed up to own up to my mistakes in my journey. Initially, I was silent and still walking around with my head down. The clock ticked, two hours had passed, and my boss had not arrived for the scheduled meeting. At this point, we were open, and the air filled with the scent of orange chicken and feelings of animosity. My boss was rambling, giving the same speeches of gratitude and ownership, ignoring the red flags that manifested in our values that ultimately turned innocent people into villains.
I shifted my focus and started staring into space again, something I hadn’t done in a long time. For what felt like forever, my sense of worth depended on my work. I thought that I was not receiving the promotion only because I hadn’t earned it. But as I sat and led the conversation in my boss’ absence, I realized my mistake wasn’t believing the promises they had made me or for working for this company. My mistake was thinking I was only valuable in a work setting. I was terrified of starting over. The thought of it completely clouded my judgment, and I justified putting myself through misery if it meant that maybe one day, all the damage I went through was good damage. By the end of the meeting, I was ready to start over.
The meeting ended, and I approached my boss with a smile. I looked up at him, and the words finally left my mouth, “I quit.”