Today, Mum remarked, So, youre a cleaner, and a hint of contempt slipped into her tone. I kept quietnot because I had nothing to say, but because I decided to let it stand. If she calls it a cleaner, then thats what it is.
Honestly, when I think about it, my duties are limited to washing up, descaling the coffee machine, making sure the office pantry has sugar and tea, and preventing tea bags and rubbish from piling up. I dont mop the floors or empty the toilets. Does that change the label? For Mum, certainly not. In her mind, the moment you tidy anything, you become a cleaner. Period.
To be frank, if I hadnt moved to Scotland, I probably would still feel that vague, lingering disgust toward the rolean unspoken, stubborn belief that cleaning is somehow beneath me. Its a notion Ive carried since childhood: that its not respectable, that educated people dont do that. Only living in a different system began to sort those ideas out.
One day I realised, yes, I could be a cleaner and still hold two university degrees, still run a practice where an hour of my advice once fetched £112. In this new reality I dont speak the local language fluently, but I understand cleaning, and that understanding becomes my bridge.
I remember my mentor telling me, Feel itits feminine, grounding, not something to be ashamed of. It clicked. At home I never feel embarrassed when I dust a shelf or load the dishwasher. Why should I suddenly feel shame when Im outside my own house?
What amazes me most is how people here treat the job. In Scotland a manager will greet the cleaner, ask how shes faring, sit down for lunch with her, inquire after her family back in England, and compliment the spotless kitchen. I stand there thinking, Thats respectno judgment attached.
I dont feel shortchanged; instead, I feel like Im at the beginning of a fresh path, and that gives me strength. Theres also a quiet pride swelling inside me. After all, if it werent for me, who would hand you that clean mug for your cappuccino?
