Disclaimer: So this is unedited fast rambling as I ignore my current job responsibilities and reflect on the good things at work:

My company prides itself on its diversity. Our news rooms span the globe, and our headquarters make up at least 50 countries worldwide. We are probably one of the most unique microcosms of melting pot ideology that I have ever experienced, wrapped around that one common goal that binds us, make money, money, money…for us and most importantly for well….I will leave that one as a no – brainer.

When people visit my office, the end result is often a state of disbelief and amazement. Even I am still impressed with the genius design, the different types of people, the culture itself. Perhaps its the all glass building reminiscent of a giant 19 loft, contemporary art strategically placed on bare white walls, expensive and rare tropical fish in tanks that you can dip your hands in (literally with risks of losing fingers), million dollar floral arrangements updated daily, the occasional famous actor/actress, Charlie Rose making breakfast, former mayor Ed Koch (God only knows why) making his slow drag down the hallway , George Clooney…a regular (not really sure why), chic young people in expensive suits, “nerds” in jeans, our Mayor, people from every corner of the earth with accents filling the room like a melodic hum of corporate banter, panoramic New York City views, and last but not least….a kitchen with unlimited snacks, food, fruit, juice, tea, soda, 25 microwaves, 16 refridgerators, 17 toasters, hot chocolate machines, espresso machines, make-your-own peanut butter, soup, salad, cookies (fresh baked), KASHI (tastes like shit…and all of you people who have convinced yourselves otherwise need help), soy milk (I give this an A++)….ALL FREE of charge. That’s enough to make anyone go bonkers and wish that they also worked in the luckiest place on earth….well depending on your dietary outlook.

Diversity, respect, initiative. We’ve got it on the surface. I’ve benefited. If I want to learn how to say the words “mergers” and “acquisitions” in Arabic, Italian, French, Hindi, I can in a second. How’s that for cultural exchanges??! But the people that make this possible, the other hardworking people that keep our microcosm of exotic beauties in tailored suits spinning on its axis is where the true diversity is. For the people that keep the ball rolling are rarely recognized, and marginally ignored because well…perhaps its because of a screwed up class establishment that my microcosm is so used to, or perhaps it’s the way they look, underappreciated beauty that does not fit that western standard. So I am writing this blog in honor of all of the people at work, that make my life enjoyable. I love you all.

1. The sweeper is from some Slavic nation that I can’t seem to pin point. She is about 45 years old, maybe 5’7”, pale with deep set brown eyes. Everyday without fail she graces the floor with her broom at 2:00. She is really supposed to sweep at five, after people start clearing out. I absolutely hate sweeping, so when I see her, I have to admit, I am a little intrigued. She sweeps with a fervor that I have never seen before. Even my obsessive compulsive cleaner mother couldn’t touch her skills with a ten foot poll. My girl has skills, and the amount of square footage that she has to cover is enough to give anyone a headache. But sure enough, she sweeps fast and nervously around all the “VIPs” and white collar executives, and even takes some abuse at times when she gets a bit too close for comfort. I don’t know…there is definitely something wrong with homegirl sweeping over people’s feet while they are sitting at their desks (myself included), but I think its endearing. She works hard, and I am inspired by her. And ever since I said hello…we talk and she smiles, and I am feeling a little less divided.

2. I would not be happy if ___________( insert fake Latina name here) got deported. She doesn’t know that I know she is not legal. I could be wrong, but there is something fishy about the fact that every time I invite her to go to the DR or ask her if she’s going to visit back home, she gets nervous, or screams No Puedo Mami. (I cant mama). She is a cool mid fifties mamasita. She reminds me of my family in Brazil, the cousin who cleans the houses of stars like Caetano Veloso and Carlinhos Brown just to make a decent living. They are hardworking women to be admired, and mamasita at work is always chic and dressed up in the bathroom. She stands there counting down the minutes until she comes alive and steps outside of the glass bubble. Every morning without fail I go straight to the bathroom to chat. She tells me about her daughter in college and her boyfriend that she doesn’t like. She tells me about when she first came here, and I sit there on the sink, reminiscent of the sisterhood that I feel when Im in Brasil, when I am with down to earth reality. She is wisdom in a short curvy busty frame.

3. The snack-a-holic is not a person, but a movement. It’s a group of people, smart people, that have worked their way up to their dream and are still climbing. These people have come from the poorest places on earth, villages of hardworking and economically oppressed people, recruited by the hundreds to share their brilliance and amazing talents and to rock an awesome paycheck. You can tell by their reaction to the kitchen that food has never been so precious. God Bless them and the controversy they bring to our unprecedented snacking privileges. At first we thought that my company was no longer stocking certain items on the shelves. My favorite chips, her favorite soft drink, toast for breakfast, bagels, celerysticks disappearing as fast a ghost in the night. By the time I reached work, 8 am, relatively early, there was systematically nothing left. Not even a crumb. No one knew what was going on, until the shit hit the fan. While most of us leave at 5 pm, these tech nerds stay late and come in at the crack of dawn, tupperwares and plastic bags in hand ready to stock up for the next millennium. Yeap that’s right. The ultimate foodies grocery shopping at work. A dream only afforded by a billion dollar company. Now this is what I call diverse and innovative. This is what I call what is due. While everyone else became livid as word got out, I found it a sign of the times. A place where American consumption meets the realities of the experiences of the less fortunate. It’s a wake up call to all of us who take that free food for granted. I thank my coworkers for reminding us. For awhile I basked in the irony and I supported their pursuits. But I also urge them to realize now they they now make double and triple my salary so perhaps the adjustment period is over and they can put the chips back. But I love them just the same.

4. I save the best for last. The fruit man by far can warm any soul with his aloof smile. He is cute and ageless, but something tells me that he is a floating in another realm of consciousness or planet. I’d like to think that he likes me, or thinks of me as a pal, in solidarity with the cool down to earth folks. I heard he was from Taiwan. Some Taiwanese coworkers of mine swore on it, but still no one has yet to confirm that he can in fact speak at all. I’ve actually never heard him or seen fruit man without that giant table on wheels covering his 5’3” frame. All that I’ve ever seen is his face floating behind a table covered with bananas, apples, and oranges, and the occasional exotic plum, kumkwat, or even cherimoya. He is strong, and moves that table so fast that you’d better watch out. I myself have gotten hit by those pointy end corners, once a smack in the rib, and another time in the rear. (Contrary to popular opinion, fruit man did not do this on purpose). I appreciate his enthusiasm and pride in his work. Never have my eyes seen a rotten or browning fruit, and never have my eyes seen his face without that look of shock and joy rolled into one. I wonder all the time what he is thinking, but he moves so goddamn fast, I can’t even ask him. Occasionally I run into him moving swiftly around a corner, or coming out of an elevator. He slams right into me, stops like a deer in headlights, and starts to chuckle. He even smells like fruit. But sooner than 30 seconds he scatters off seemingly afraid. I think I can conclude that he is deaf.