What do you do? Chances are, someone has asked you this question. People ask me this question when I least expect it. I do not mind it, as some say it is a “conversation starter,” a way to know people. It’s mostly true, but I mind the context in which it is asked, how we arrive at it. Otherwise—it’s just meddling. Before I grumble about my experiences, I did a little research to hear other people’s opinions—feelings and perspectives. I must admit, it was nice to hear from different voices and from those who shared my sentiments. Some of the comments were, “Breaking the ice,” “Networking,” “Conversation starter,” “It’s fine, it’s how I landed my job,” “Look at it in positively, sometimes people get jobs through others,” “It’s equivalent to our culture asking you where you come from,” and the list went on.  Others said, “They want to place you,” “Labeling,” “Attitude used by people who think they have better jobs,” “An intimidation,” “It’s an American thing,” “Be proud of what you do and it won’t bother you,” “Sometimes when you look nice, people want to find a way to wreck it, to put you down in another aspect,” “Socio-economic status,” etc.

I am not too naïve and utterly oblivious that this question can yield life-changing experiences. People can and have climbed the career ladder, changed career paths, started businesses, and more, through others. I have had this experience through friends, friends who care about lifting others. I also know friends who recommended to friends to try different fields, yielding fruitful results. Others ask this question to know one’s interests, as people tend to take jobs that align with their passion. So, yes, answers to this question can open different doors and give ideas about one’s attributes, but it’s never a representative of one’s fundamental quality as some may perceive it. Many people enter job fields for income brackets.

I believe this question is common among people obsessed with the hierarchical concept; the socio-economic standard is their key idea of establishing a conversation. It is in our nature to compartmentalize people—to see if they fit in our social circle; if we want to social-media with them, go to church with them, even shop at the same grocery store with them. I’ve had these experiences many times. Each time I was asked this question and I said that I was a nanny—the tone and the body language morphed completely. If it is “an ice breaker,” which should usher a topic of conversation to at least five minutes of discussion, I do not recall many people asking me to say more about being a nanny. I could have talked about how fun it was to work with kids;  how for a long time I told a child not to lie to me when I was not looking because I had a special eye at the back of my head—how I told children that when they lied, their noses wiggled, and they held their noses to prove their innocence, and how I got away with it until one time I said, “Remember I can still see you even when I’m not looking,” and the child said, “Caren, you do not have eyes at the back of your head, and you cannot read my mind.” I stopped cold. I could have talked about how bright children are and how manipulative and pushy they can be. I could have talked about how working with children is the best way to test the possibility of criminal traits. I could have talked about how even on my worst days—there would be moments of laughs.

It hardly happened to me. Once I revealed my profession, the conversation changed, took a nosedive. My best and most memorable “What do you do?” moment happened after church service as people dispersed—some saying goodbye and others starting different conversations. As I was preparing to leave, a church member turned around to greet me.

“How are you? My name is Baraz [not his real name].”

“I’m Caren,” I answered as we shook hands. “It is nice to meet you.”

“You work at the World Bank?” He asked.

Amused—I smiled before answering the question. I wondered what made the man assume that I worked at the World Bank. Maybe it was my elegance. I’m known for it. Really.  

“No, I’m a nanny,” I answered.

“Oh,” he remarked.  

“Caren is also in college, studying to be a teacher,” Carol, a lady I had been talking to before the man joined in, jumped in gracefully to rescue me from the awkward conversation.

“I see,” he said. “Where do you go to school?”

“Montgomery College,” I answered.

I don’t recall his response after that, but taking a plunge from the World Bank, to being a nanny, and to a community college was clearly a remarkable disappointment to him. After that bizarre moment, the conversation did not amount to much. He bade us goodbye and moved on.

Each time I saw that man and said hello to him, he respond with little interest, even though I always greeted him by his name. He would feign a smile and move on.

“Be proud of what you do and it won’t bother you,” someone had said that on my research post. If I hadn’t been proud of being a nanny, I wouldn’t have spoken about it candidly. Yes, there was a stage and time when I wasn’t proud of being a nanny. It was a mélange of sentiment that stemmed from immaturity, fear of people’s perception on domestic workers, family pressure to succeed, and lack of self-awareness.

I didn’t come from a wealthy family, but we were comfortable given my village’s socioeconomic standard. Along with our cousins who often lived with us, we were many enough to take care of our household chores, so I did not grow up with maids. My parents—who both worked, hired workers, field workers, so that placed us in a different class. My older and married sisters had maids that took care of the households, and having lived with my sisters, occasionally, I got to live around their maids but never imagined I would be one.

Domestic workers are collectively looked down upon worldwide, viewed as low achievers. Immigrants also leave their countries with high expectations of “The Melting Pot.” We come with plans and seeds that we expect to plant and bloom in this fertile land in just a few months. Some do, but others are met with shockwaves. We find ourselves in a tangle, no experience, lack of proper work document, etc. My family members never knew what I did for a long time, and many immigrants echo this stance. We work and provide financial assistance—but we don’t reveal what we do for fear of disparagement from the people we leave behind. Humans criticize; we put labels on everything. After leaving the country of origin, the pressure driving the expectation that one must do better in a foreign land is piercing. Being a laborer is not an option. But unless one is posted through work—most immigrants begin as laborers. Some of us grow, some return, and others stay in the same fields.

We are endowed with different aptitudes and attitudes. Some climb the ladder so high they do not know how to stop, losing the ability to address the common person. Some screw up in life so bad they do not know how to stop, and it doesn’t matter where they are. And then there are those in the middle who are left to fix both sides.

I became aware of myself and learned to plod on people’s judgmental attitudes. I realized that I had a gift to work with children—and I embraced it. I embraced being a maid and I enjoyed it. Some paid quite well too. One time, in US history class, I came across Martin Luther’s words, “…that whenever you are engaged in work that serves humanity, it has dignity, and it has worth.” I took a shower with these words; I let them cascade on my body and soul like holy water, adding to my own self-efficacy.

It is said that “Experience is the best teacher.” I stand corrected, but I can say that people who interpret this question positively have not had the experiences some of us have or they climb the ladder and join the mob. They have not been laborers, cleaning people’s houses, collecting trash, etc. After my self-vindication—I started to enjoy this question. I realized that most people who ask me this question are not asking to know me, but to see if we can exchange communication channels and socialize in the same circle. Upon learning of my profession, we hit a cul-de-sac.

I keep enjoying these meetings. A few years ago, a man I had briefly met through a mutual friend was now my apartment leasing agent. I had seen him before as I drove by, but I wasn’t sure it was him. This time, he was standing near the Rental Office, so I stopped, and it went like this:

“Hey, I’m Caren. Are you Keva [not his real name]?”

“Yes, hi,” he answered.

“I thought I had seen you. I remember you from Amina’s [not her real name] house.”

“Yes, yes, you live here?” He asked.

“Yes, in that unit,” I answered, pointing to the unit across from where we stood.

“What do you do?” He asked.

Really! I thought, feeling discombobulated, flabbergasted, and all those words that fill the mouth for no reason at all, but felt good to use. I think some people have a way of projecting their insecurities on others, or perhaps he felt that since I now knew what he did, it was a fair question. I thought it befitted to ask me relevant and related questions such as how long I had lived there, if the apartment was good, and if there was anything they could do to make us, tenants—comfortable. And maybe tell me the position he was holding in that office, before gradually turning the topic to me. I had not braced myself for that moment, but previous experiences had prepared me to answer this question as I deemed fit.

 “I work,” I said.

“Where?”

“At home.”

“Oh,” he feigned a smile.

Coming from a fellow Kenyan, it exhibited complete lack manners; a passive aggressive behavior. It is an American theme some of us have acquired, and use it to show level of education and professional prestige. It was the end of conversation.  

“Well, it’s nice to see you. Have a good day,” I said.

Like Baraz, each time I saw him and greeted him with high spirits, he responded with little interest. Maybe I had bruised his ego by failing to give him a direct answer.  

Another time, a church member, a Sunday school teacher, asked me to speak about my job in his class. Through prayer request, he had known that I was looking for work, so when we met, he asked for update on the job hunt. Upon learning that I had a job and what I did, he asked me to speak about my work in his class. It was related to a topic he was due to teach on. I obliged. The following Sunday, I arrived, greeted a few members who were there and sat. A few minutes later, a woman I had not met, came and sat next to me.

“Hi, I’m Rachael, [not her real name],” she greeted.

“I’m Caren. It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

“Whath thoo you thoo?” She asked in a strong foreign accent.

The person who had invited me had told me that he had not told the members that I was going to speak—so I was there just as an unknown visitor. Given the ambiance, I expected a response such as, “Welcome. Are you new to the church? How long have you been a member?” But it was not so. She began the interrogation, and quite aggressively. Perhaps it was her nature. I felt a droplet of saliva as she spoke, and her entire demeanor scared me. I felt attacked. “We will know each other better soon,” I answered, and she responded with a weak smile. To my surprise—Baraz, the man who had asked me if I worked at the World Bank, walked in and sat next to the lady. I had not seen Baraz in a while, but I was shocked and sad to see how frail he had become. He looked as if he had experienced some health issues, as he was having trouble holding his saliva. He wiped the drool on the side of his mouth with a handkerchief, greeted the lady—and stretched a hand to reach me. It occurred to me that he did not recognize me at all. I could tell that it had nothing to do his previous attitude. I felt sad. He started a conversation with the lady, unknowingly defusing the situation. It was ironic.

My most recent experience came one early morning, just as I was out for my one-hour walk. I had put on my headphones, ready to enjoy the autumn breeze and the music, and thinking, “that I must maintain jeans size four until death do us part.” A few feet from the house, I notice a man I assumed was a Kenyan as a friend had told me that there was a Kenya living across from me, but we had not met. He was just locking the door, so I waited until he got close.  

“Habari, hello,” I greeted.

“Salama, salama, fine, fine. Wewe ni mkenya, are you Kenyan,” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered. We can switch languages and still understand each other, perfectly.

“How do you know I’m Kenyan?”  

“I know us,” I joked, but soon admitted that a friend had told me, although it’s true that I know us.

“Uko wapi, where are you?” He asked.

“Pale, there, the brown house, second from the end,” I answered.

“I see! Na unatoka upande gani, and which location do you come from?”

“Kisumu,” I answered.

“Oh, very nice. What do you do?”

Here we go again, I thought. He didn’t ask where I was off to or even when I moved there. He just wanted to know what I did. But I had decided that if the conversation is not flowing accordingly, I had the ability to evade this priggish attitude question. 

“Hiyo tutaongea siku ingine, juu ya chai. We will talk about that another day, over tea,” I answered jokingly.

Feeling a little embarrassed, he offered himself.

“I’m just off to work, I go to the office once a week now, because of this COVID-19 thing.”

“Nice. We can’t complain. Many people have no jobs,” I said.

“Definitely!” He answered.

We bade goodbye in the hope of getting together in the future.

On two occasions, when I felt the question was unwarranted, I simply said that I was unemployed. If people really want to know because they care, then that should be the moment to ask how the job search is going, the area of interest—and how to help. And it’s apt to offer some ideas, if any, to which there was none. 

On an open conversation with my guests, I brought up this topic to hear what others could say. We shared similar opinions as the ones I got from the post, but one stood out from the rest. One of the guests told us a story about an individual at a house gathering, who, each time someone walked in, the person soon hit them with, “What do you do? How do you know these people?” questions. It went on for a while until he asked the wrong person.

“‘Does that make me less of a person?!”’ The lady had asked.

That ended interrogations.   

The truth is, there are people who speak this language because it is the culture; it’s their way of starting a conversation. For some of us, if you have walked rough roads, you become more sensitive and learn to tread slowly. I have heard African Americans say, “You are all in my business.” Some of us are just private. I may sound resentful—but some people just don’t know when to ask this question. It’s as if you knock the door and walk straight to the bedroom to see if the bed is fit for you to lie on. Culturally, it is a rude way of starting a conversation. We know that a conversation begins with greeting, followed by name introduction, and introduction should include both first and last name. The one name introduction is a culture we have acquired from the West. You may then talk about where you come from and the conversation may run so far as to find that your uncle’s son is married to someone you both know or you can share some career experiences in a decently flowing conversation without meddling.

On the post comments, someone said, “For such people, tell them the field you are in and ask them why they are asking. I always tell them I’m in the Healthcare. Why?” I dig this, and so without leaving you wondering what I do now, I’m in the Public Health.

Carol, the lady who rescued me from Baraz’s judgment, still hugs me as if she wants to tell me that Baraz judged me, and it was wrong. I see it in her. She asked me if I finished school, and I told her that I finished my bachelor’s. She seemed pleased as if she wants to say, “Now you can tell them something big,” and she has not asked me what I do now. We meet at church and outside of the church, and we greet, chat, and move on. A humble personality is priceless.