Title: Dunkind Donuts
Existence: Dunkin Donuts Company
City: Annapolis, Maryland, USA
Year: 2025
Narrative of the company where I worked in Annapolis, MD.
Dunk means to submerge something in a liquid.
The GOAL is sales and supplying the North American community with all the sugar and caffeine they need to sustain the "American Dream."
The worker's attire was selected without random chance: visors that show you where to look, company T-shirts that tell you who you are, your name on a sign to make you think you're someone in that world, blue jeans to remind you that you're a worker like any other, all the same.
The division of labor confused me, because there are some, but they don't. We all work as a team; we're one body working toward the same goal: quick "tasty" sales, fulfilling the customer's fleeting desire as quickly as possible so they continue to crave it.
Team "by force" and by force. I see equity with Hierarchy. Where triumph belongs to an owner and the system. It's also true that I see other dreams coming true, like those of immigrants who arrive with weak papers and seek to build their homes. This space welcomes them to begin making them a reality. And they welcomed me, who, while I have plenty of papers, did need a quick income and was eager to meet people.
I also recognize the everyday nature of this space, its regular customers. Those who have breakfast with coffee and hash browns; the grandfather who comes weekly with his twin granddaughters to eat donuts; the man of the "medium black coffee" who sits down with his computer to watch soccer games; the woman who tries the entire menu while chatting with her friends (I spoke with her, and she confessed that she struggles to live after being widowed).
When the ghostly American dream blends with everyday dreams.
The most phantasmagorical thing about all this, which I can't ignore, is the terrifying nature of the waste generated. Tons of plastic used to label, package, wrap, insulate, and control; liters of disinfectant and water to make everything more hygienic; kilos of food and drinks discarded for not being "perfect." And obviously, regarding the quality of what they call "food." I couldn't find anything that wasn't artificial; its components are (literal) plastic copies of nature.
Sometimes I thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a funeral home attached to the cafeteria, so I could welcome deceased customers after breakfast.
Sugary Military Service
I did my military service selling donuts and coffee, wearing blue jeans, light sneakers, and headphones to be more alert to the bombardments of customers.
Two counters, one at the Drive-Thru, with a screen to see how many enemy vehicles are in line; another at the front, to serve walking terrorists.
Millions of stimuli per square second.
Our bombs are cream, ice cream, milk, coffee, and donuts.
Kilos of sugar explode in the air at every moment, between lattes, frozen yogurts, and shaken espressos.
The smell of coffee keeps you awake; even if you don't drink it, it seeps through your skin and into your bloodstream.
Everyone is running, fighting for the same goal: for the enemy to leave happy with their order.
The smell of dead pork turned into bacon mixes with the smell of reheated muffins and the smell of kitchen icing, which resembles white whale-killing oil.
Who started the war? The market.
Who's winning? Me, with my $16-an-hour salary?
Discipline, order, and progress?
I don't know if I'm progressing, but I am processing. Processing how the hell I got there. Clearly, I learned a lot about myself, that I'm stronger (mentally and physically) than I thought. I actually have a very high sensitivity (some call it neurodivergence), that even the noise of the refrigerator (which sounded like a war tank) made me feel sick every time I had to wash the dishes ("do the Dishis"). I'm allergic to several foods, specifically everything sold at that restaurant, and to several chemicals, many of them in my coworkers' perfumes. There were times I wanted to disappear because I couldn't stand the toxicity of the environment anymore.
"My band," my coworkers, literally one heart. Working very well together! Although at times we suffered from arrhythmias and small heart attacks that made us stop and have to talk to solve relationship problems.
We were all from different nationalities.
Although several of us were Latino, our Spanish wasn't the same. We stopped to explain what we wanted to say and thus avoid misunderstandings.
The managers working side by side, I'd never seen bosses so demanding of me and of themselves. They practiced what they asked of you, super responsible women committed to their work. They taught you by example what it meant to be a good employee of their company.
I came from working as a therapist, where I constantly observed the uniqueness and needs of each person. There was no room for that in this donut company, nor did it matter, everyone was equal there, there was no time to see what each of the 20 employees in the store needed... the war for quick sales started every day at 5 a.m. and didn't stop until 9 p.m.
