The ketchup splattered all over my face and station, but didn't break my focus. My hands refrained from wiping my face and kept scrubbing. I just started my first job as a dishwasher at 16, and I was locked in. Have I ever had a job before? No. Did I want them to realise that? Of course not. I've always wanted to prove that I work hard, that I want to be the best, and this job was no exception. I got this job by luck; a friend's mom hooked me up with what at first sounded like an easy position at the charming Elawa Farms Foundation, a restaurant and cafe on 320 acres of midwestern prairie. In reality it demanded focus, endurance, and responsibility. A constant grind of keeping up with dishes and doing chores for the chefs. It was my first weekend working, and I was scheduled for nearly 30 hours in 3 days. I felt like a warrior preparing for a battle. 

By the third day, I had built a rhythm. Scrubbing the super dirty stuff while loading the cleaner things into the dishwasher. I was becoming efficient. Swithcing from sponge to steel scrubber like a knight choosing his sword. But this day was different. I was scheduled from noon to 11pm for a 170 person wedding. Dishes piled up in the sink as the chefs prepared steaks and appetizers. I was repeatedly called to action elsewhere abandoning and returning to my post repeatedly. Servers strutted into the kitchen and demanded.

“Run these glasses through now”.

I obliged, killing the momentum I had built up while scraping off chicken and grease from the steel sheet trays. The pile of dishes grew. Plates stacked on pans stacked on pots covering my station like skyscrapers on a skyline. The smell of soap mixed with herb aioli and frosting wafted into my nose through clouds of steam. I was in the heat of battle. Me against the ever growing army of dirty dishes. Whisks covered in gravy, pots with sugar caked onto the bottom. If I cleaned one, two more replaced it. To win this battle, it would take time and grit. By 10:30 pm, it was just me in the kitchen. The sound of spraying off mashed potatoes, periodically interrupted by a server bringing me the "stragglers", random wine glasses, forks left behind. By the time the clock flashed 11:00 pm, I was still working. I kept working until there wasn't a dish left, but I had a new problem. Cleaning my station. 

I scrubbed off every grease stain or ketchup splatter untill I saw my own reflection in the steel of my sink. I cleaned the floors of my station untill they squeaked and took a step back to appreciate my work. It was probably overkill, as someone else comes in at night to clean, I didn't care. Even though I was just a new dish washer, I took pride in my work, because I pushed myself. I worked as hard as I could. I wanted to be the best.The next shift a chef told me.

¨You work pretty hard for a 16 year old white kid¨ .

Most people would take that for what it was, a compliment, but I didn't. I took it as a challenge. I didn't want to be the hardest working kid, I wanted to be the hardest working.  I have only worked harder since then. Motivated by nothing more than wanting to be better.  I wanted to be the best. Throughout my life I have always pushed myself to be better, work harder, and even struggle. Settling at the bare minimum won't make me the best version of myself, so I don't. I can't always be the best, but I always can try. I want to be the best, and nothing, especially not ketchup, will break my focus.