I’ve mastered the art of folding pizza boxes. Each corner of cardboard expertly flicked up and tucked, spun around and closed. It’s all about the rhythm. If you’re a pro like me you can knock out the whole fifty pack while a customer waits for their takeaway order. “You’re so quick!” And just like that I felt useful.
I grew up around food and business. Since immigrating from Lebanon, my parents have been working relentlessly for the Australian Dream. But pinning on a True-Blue badge isn’t a rosy feat.
They refused to burden relatives with babysitting three kids. As strong believers in stranger danger, child care was no option either. My two older brothers and I waited around while my parents worked the five-to-nine.
My dad woke up early to buy produce. He toiled for hours prepping food before rush hour in an empty, dark shop - with a cup of coffee for company. He scrubbed the floors for health inspectors and quietly absorbed customer feedback.
Sometimes business was slow, and when money was tight, I felt incredibly useless. The silence of a quiet phone and missing footsteps can be deafening. I’d find the stash of menus and sneak out to distribute them to the neighbourhood for a quick reprieve.
The silence of a quiet phone and missing footsteps can be deafening. I’d find the stash of menus and sneak out to distribute them to the neighbourhood for a quick reprieve.
I desperately wanted to help out. I’d stand to the side and eavesdrop phone orders, memorising the script I’d use when I turned 14 and 9 months.
“Oh your parents own this restaurant?’ customer’s children would ask, “That’s so cool. So you get everything for free?” I’d nod reluctantly.
I did get food for free, but sitting around while my dad routinely burns himself and mum fills empty water glasses is less than ‘cool’. It’s excruciatingly boring. I desperately envied my friends who were sent to after-school care. I imagined an oasis filled with happy kids playing endless games as they were treated like royalty. I’ve since learnt it’s more like eating cold canned spaghetti and kids wetting themselves which eases my spite.
I buried my curly head in books to pass the time, occasionally glancing up when my dad swore in Arabic at a pizza he had to remake. I turned to Jacqueline Wilson and Roald Dahl for company and flicked through copies of Marie Claire when my mum was busy - indulging in stories about sex, drugs and Jennifer Aniston’s tumultuous love life.
A customer once brought me a whole box of novels after spring cleaning her daughter’s room. “I just always see you reading,” she said. I grew tired of the pity. I didn’t mind waiting around especially since it meant we could afford a portable DVD player and I could watch Mulan in peace.
I especially hated sitting near the register as customers filed out to pay. There was no privacy. The small nook between the fridge and pantry was far too dim to read and too cramped to flip pages. Older women would regularly approach me. “Is this your daughter?” one woman asked my mum with her pale finger jutting toward me, “Oh she must get so bored sitting there all night.”
My mother despised the condescension but she was in the business of being hospitable. I’m sure we’d go hungry if she wasn’t so polite.
My mother despised the condescension but she was in the business of being hospitable. I’m sure we’d go hungry if she wasn’t so polite. “She prefers to be here with us,” she’d say with a plastered on smile.
The truth is she felt incredibly guilty. Although sitting around was boring, I’m beginning to understand how trapped she must’ve felt. My pregnant mother worked with a two-year-old and a huge belly until the day she went into labour. While she was recovering, a worker called in sick and she rushed back to help my dad fulfil delivery orders. She had no choice but to keep working and it almost cost her life.
They have since been able to buy houses, send us to good schools and universities. I watched them labour so we are afforded opportunities and can blossom.
Working hard will always feel easy to me because it doesn’t fracture my back, kill my spirit or splinter my fingers. If I can spend hours folding pizza boxes and peeling garlic cloves I can sit through endless meetings. Though I’ll always be gripped by a bittersweet feeling every time I walk into a kebab shop and spot a little girl with an iPad waiting for her parents.
