Small acts of service

Trabaho naman nila ’yan (That’s their job).”

The words came from the next table as a family stood to leave the restaurant. As I glanced over, I saw their table littered with French fries, empty cups, ketchup stains, and stray grains of rice.

A girl, who looked about my age, seemingly about to clean up, paused when her father casually waved her off.

“Hayaan mo na ‘yan. Trabaho naman nila ’yan (Leave it. It’s their work anyway).”

Around us, the restaurant carried on. Orders were being called, chairs scraped against the floor, and employees moved from one task to another, trying to keep up with the rush.

That mess was not out of the ordinary. As I looked around, I noticed other tables left behind in much the same way.

What got me thinking, however, was how easily these tables were left behind.

I watched as a crew member navigated through the crowded restaurant and began clearing the table.

“Trabaho naman nila ’yan.”

I heard it a little too often—sometimes in different variations: “Kaya na nila ’yan (They can do it).” “Sila na bahala diyan (It’s their responsibility).” “Hayaan mo na ’yan (Leave it).” Sometimes they were used together, sometimes each on their own. They were different phrases, but they carried the same sentiment altogether: that someone else would handle what was left behind.

Each time, I found myself thinking about what they revealed. I heard it in restaurants, in public transportation, and in everyday interactions where someone else’s effort was expected but rarely acknowledged. It appeared when students left trash behind in classrooms, when customers snapped at cashiers over small inconveniences, or when people forgot that the nurse assisting them was also capable of having a difficult day.

What puzzled me was why such small moments of consideration could seem too much to ask. Perhaps because small things are easy to dismiss. An empty cup left behind does not seem significant. A few extra minutes waiting for someone to find exact change does not seem significant. An impulsive response to a worker’s explanation does not seem significant. But beyond the inconvenience itself is an assumption: that because someone is responsible for helping us, they are no longer affected by what we ask of them.

The phrase turns a person into a role. A cashier becomes a pair of hands processing payments. A driver becomes a means of getting from one place to another. A service worker becomes a source of assistance whose patience is expected rather than appreciated. Perhaps it becomes easier because roles simplify people. Once someone is introduced to us as a cashier, waiter, or janitor, their work becomes the first thing we see and, sometimes, the only thing.

The familiarity of these everyday interactions makes it easy to forget that they leave work carrying worries, frustrations, and responsibilities much like our own. Behind every role is a person, just like us.

Somewhere along the way, we began to mistake someone else’s responsibility for our permission to stop being compassionate.

What bothered me was the irony. I knew everyone was capable of understanding this. We have all had moments when someone else’s thoughtlessness, impatience, or carelessness made our day a little harder. We know how it feels. But somehow, when we’re the ones benefiting from someone else’s work, it becomes easier to overlook the person behind it.

I remember how, as a child, my mother would remind me to bring my own trash to the bin, return things to where I found them, or thank the people who helped us. At the time, these felt like typical reminders from a parent—small rules meant to teach politeness. I did not realize then that she was teaching me something much larger: to notice the work that often goes unseen.

My mother never taught me these habits because she expected the world to reward them. She taught them because they acknowledged a simple truth: every space we occupy has already been prepared by someone else’s labor.

She understood that respect was not only shown through grand gestures. Sometimes, it existed in the few seconds we chose to make someone else’s day a little easier. What she taught me was that consideration begins with recognizing that there is always a person behind the work being done.

These acts may be small. But perhaps that is exactly why they matter. They ask so little from us, yet they remind someone else that they are seen.

And so, I still think about that girl sometimes. I wonder whether she grew up believing the same thing her father told her that day—or whether, years later, she found herself pausing before walking away from a table.

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Alexa B. Lumanglas, 20, is a third-year English Studies student at the University of the Philippines Diliman.