Written by Alex Danielle Guerrero

Our kind is a peculiar one. We exist in a line not all could fathom crossing. Are we animals? Places? Things? I’m not sure. I just know we are different from humans.

Humans are called by their names. Each syllable spoken with care and reverence. Our kind is called by our job titles. We do not have names until our titles can buy us a house and car. Unfortunately, most of our titles can’t do that. We’re usually remembered by the mistakes we did in our work. “This nurse didn’t adjust the AC for us.” “Oh, that doctor? She’s snobby as hell.” “That janitor kinda smells.” There are some who are called by their physical characteristics. “Fatso,” “aging,” “bald,” “crippled,” and the list goes on. I guess this is the reason some of us are obsessed with loading abbreviated titles on our signature lines. It doesn’t matter if they appear unnecessary sometimes. Our titles are our only source of public respect.

Humans get paid for their service. They are rewarded with money that will sustain their lives for a month. Some are lucky enough to have salaries that could last them a year. Our kind is paid with words. Words of appreciation, sometimes even of frustration. On rough days we get yelled at, sneered at, and even ignored. Of course, the kind words feel good. We just wish they could also feed us.

Humans get people concerned about them. Their feelings, thoughts, and wellness are well-considered. They feel unsafe in their work? People will scramble to immediately get them somewhere more comfortable. Our kind is not worthy of such attention. We are forced to work in conditions no sane human would ever want. We receive low hazard pay for very hazardous work settings. The length of our work hours is triple the number of the average human waking hours. People say we should accept it because our kind signed up for this. The jobs we chose automatically entailed these. They are partly true. Though I can’t help but wonder if it needs to be this way.

Our kind is not human. We are places. We are places for humans to vent their frustration on. We are places for them to honor with fake empathy to make themselves look good. They collectively call us by our job titles for that’s our only notable value to them. Like trash scattered in parks, our names will only be worth remembering if we caused an inconvenience.

Our kind is not human. We are animals. We satisfy humans’ needs and wants. We live our days on their beck and call just like their pets. We are test subjects in their own sick experiments. “Is this work setting actually poisonous?” They’ll find the answer to that by having our kind trapped in there. If we pull against our collars, their media will paint us as demanding bastards. Worse, we can also get killed. Untamed animals are deadly threats to humans and they don’t like that.

Our kind is not human. We are commodities. People buy our time and our high tolerance for shitty things. They pay us with minimum wages that couldn’t even last us half a day. We’re punching bags for their verbal abuse. We’re doormats they can easily step on. Like the essential things in their life, our value to humans is measured by how useful we are.

Our kind is a peculiar one. We exist in a line not all could fathom crossing. We can be places, animals, or things. We could also be everything at the same time. Just never humans. Even when we’re born as humans, we couldn’t be like them. Not until we also receive the privileges they receive.