Melbourne Story - 7.Dishwasher 2

It had been almost a year since I started working as a kitchen hand at the Italian restaurant — though in truth, most of my work was dishwashing.

When I first began in January 2006, I worked just five hours on Saturdays. But as the year went on, the restaurant became extremely busy. At one point, I worked as many as 55 hours a week. During that time, all I could think about was how desperately I wanted just one day off.

Then one day, one of the three young Chinese men working with us did his job carelessly and was scolded by the Head Chef. Half by choice and half by force, he quit. The other two complained to the Head Chef about his dismissal — and ended up being fired as well.

That was when I first realized how powerful the Head Chef’s authority was in the kitchen. Even the General Manager did not challenge his decision.

As a result, my working hours increased. But watching such events unfold in a foreign workplace did not feel good. Soon, new workers joined us. Although I had been there nearly a year, my English was still halting and limited. Yet there I was, giving instructions — in broken English — to new hires who, despite being new, spoke fluent English. One of them was a dark-skinned African man whose English was far better than mine. I sometimes wondered how I must have appeared in their eyes.

When the African worker first arrived, he seemed timid and quiet. But after exchanging a few words with me and realizing my English was not very strong, he began calling out loudly, “Martin~ Martin~,” joking around in a tone that seemed to say, “Is that all the English you’ve got?”

When I first started, I hadn’t dared to say a word and had simply washed dishes all day.

Another young man from Fiji also spoke English well and joked easily with the waitresses. But his work habits were careless, which bothered me. If my English had been better, I might have given him firm advice. Instead, when I tried to say a few words, he barely listened, and I could only swallow my frustration.

In this country, if you cannot speak English well, you have little choice but to lower your head — much like being unable to speak up in front of someone loud and dominant back in Korea. In my mind, I had many things I wanted to say. But the words would not come out quickly enough in English. Translating Korean thoughts into English before speaking was enough to make me feel as if I would burst.

(Back when I worked at a company in Korea, at least no one said I was bad in the in-house English conversation class…)

During large functions, when serving group guests, the Head Chef, two cooks, and I would stand in a line. Using tongs — here they call them “tongs” — we placed potatoes, pumpkin, sautéed vegetables, and roasted meat onto each plate, passing them down the line. Across from us stood the waiters and waitresses, handing the plates out. They would joke with each other and laugh.

Even after nearly a year, I still could not understand most of what they were saying. So I stood there silently, placing potatoes onto plates with a blank expression.

Imagine that scene for a moment. How foolish I must have looked in their eyes.

When your English is weak, you are not easily treated as a colleague but more like a subordinate. Even if they had no such intention, there were times I felt that way.

To those considering immigration: no matter how excellent your technical skills may be, if you cannot express yourself to your employer in English at least at the level of a local high school graduate, you may inevitably be treated as less. You must cling to English as if your life depends on it.

And yet here I am saying this, nearly twenty years after immigrating, still unable to fully understand or speak well. Ultimately, that may be my own laziness.

If I may offer an excuse, I immigrated at the age of forty-nine and worked among colleagues in their twenties and thirties. Naturally, the range of conversation narrowed, and I spoke less. Even though I worked long-term in foreign-run businesses, my English did not improve dramatically.

Still, if you can manage English reasonably well, finding a job here is not particularly difficult. When people in Korea ask friends abroad, “You’ve been there three years — your English must be good by now, right?” think about the reaction they usually receive.

Three years is nowhere near enough.

I consider myself truly fortunate. Even though English is essential for a kitchen hand, I sent out dozens of resumes and cover letters by email without any response. Then finally, one place said, “Let’s give him a trial.” That opportunity allowed me to prove myself physically, and somehow I have continued ever since. My wife also says I am lucky.

At the end of each week, when I looked at the following week’s schedule, if I was rostered for only three or four days, I would feel disappointed — “Next week’s pay won’t be much.” But when I was scheduled for a full week, I felt reassured. Yet when the work became exhausting and I grew irritable, I would think about how, at my age, I was working alongside much younger people and suffering quite a bit. The human heart is truly inconsistent.

About ten months after immigrating, I enrolled in a government-funded multicultural English program run by the immigration department. It was five days a week, four hours a day. My classmates came from China, India, Thailand, Hungary, Africa, Egypt, Lithuania, Vietnam — a truly diverse group.

After studying English until noon, I would go to work and labor from 6 p.m. until 11 p.m. or midnight. At first, the fatigue built up so much that I sometimes slept until 10 a.m.

The total 510 hours of English education — funded by the mandatory education fee paid during the immigration process — became, at my age, an experience that truly nourished my blood and flesh.