2003

It’s my nth reject letter and my third cup of coffee. I stopped counting the reject letters after the tenth one. Never been a big coffee drinker, either. Always hated the stench of coffee breath. I used to get weird looks in my previous workplace — the only journalist who didn’t drink coffee or smoke cigarettes.

But coffee had kept me going after starting the job application saga, months into my migrant life in Australia.

So I kept drinking.

I’d already read three reject letters in my inbox and four from my mailbox. The reject letters came in many forms, too. Applying for jobs came in many forms, so very unlike my own application process in the Philippines.

Australia had made me cynical about the job market. Sometimes, it made me doubt my talents and skills, as well as the education I received back home. And that pissed me off more than anything.

I was headhunted even before I finished my communications degree. I started my job as a TV reporter for one of the biggest broadcasting networks in the Philippines a month after graduation and never stopped working.

But in Australia, my international experience didn’t count. Companies here did not care that I hopped into military choppers to cover rebel insurgencies and bomb threats. They couldn’t care less about my time covering fires at two in the morning. Or how well I relayed the news despite being surrounded by bodies, barely concealed under banana leaves.

The rejection letters gave throwaway comments like:

‘Though you were unsuccessful on this occasion, I am happy to discuss your application in relation to the client's requirements.’ I tried contacting them to discuss my application. No response.

‘We enjoyed reviewing your background.’ What exactly did they enjoy about my background? If they enjoyed it so much, why not give me the job?

‘We will retain your resume on our file and will advise you should another suitable opportunity arise.’ No one had ever contacted me for another suitable opportunity. Ever.

It had been three months since I arrived in Australia to fulfil the cliché that’s been imposed on the minds of citizens from third world countries: first world country equals greener pasture. But so far, the grass had been greener on the country I’d just left. At least there I had a job. The salary may not have been much, but it was stable and fulfilling.

My coffee mug was empty. I gave myself a couple of seconds to contemplate whether filling it with another caffeine-packed concoction was well worth the insomnia. In the end, I decided to just have water.

It was another long day in cold rainy Melbourne. I hadn’t had the money to buy decent winter clothes yet. Going outdoors was not appealing, to say the least.

But I had a job to do. If you could call it that. I worked as a walker, delivering leaflets, hand-outs, and weekly review publications to houses (except those that had No Junk Mail signs on it). The ad said it was a great way to lose weight and earn some dollars at the same time.

Plus, they accepted anyone — as long as you could read and follow the No Junk Mail sign.

My first day as a walker was okay. The walk was good, the task was simple. Boring but simple. The next couple of weeks became worse and worse. The weather got colder, the leaflets got heavier, and the pay wasn’t even that good.

But I kept on. It was money that I needed. I tried not to think about the master’s degree I’d recently finished and how useless it was in Australia.

After two hours, I rushed inside the apartment to escape the winter chill. But not for long. I walked to the local library to check my email. There was an interview invite for a direct marketing job. They had asked me in for an interview without even asking for my background. That should’ve triggered some warning bells, but I was too eager to finally land an interview that the alarm system failed.

Having no clue as to what direct marketing was or what the company exactly did worked to my disadvantage.

It was an hour and a half trip on public transport to get to their office. Waiting for a tram in the cold weather made me want to pee most of the coffee I drank that morning. I wished I had a hot calamansi juice with honey and ginger instead. I wasn’t used to Melbourne winter and my throat was starting to tickle. Mama’s calamansi concoction was the best remedy for it. But there was no calamansi. I didn’t even know if there was an Asian store in my block.

‘Is the 64 tram going to Caulfield?’ An old lady touched my hand and looked up for an answer.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, and waited with me.

The tram arrived and people piled in. The old lady smiled at me before moving to the back of the tram, sitting beside a girl in school uniform.

The office was easy to find and the interview was straightforward. They told me I was one of their top three candidates. They were glad, elated even, to have me in the team. I was asked to start the next day.

At last, I finally had a job. Whatever direct marketing was, it couldn’t be as bad as being a walker, right?

Wrong.

The next day, after yet another hour and a half on public transport, I stood in a mall for six hours, selling credit cards to people who didn’t even know where their next meal would come from. A lady told me this after I approached her. Then a man. Then an old lady.

Some people literally ran away after seeing what I was trying to sell. Before then, I never knew there were people in first world countries who were as destitute as those in the Philippines.

The job was disappointing, to say the least. My feet ached from standing all day, and to add insult to injury, I found out that the base salary they said they’d pay us was only for two weeks. After that, we were on our own. My $20 commission for every credit card sold would be my bread and butter after the initial two weeks. I calculated the expenses and the plausible commissions I could get in a week and decided it was not worth it.

I quit after the first day.

My shortest job ever.

I kept applying online. Walking to the public library to use the computer to apply for jobs became part of my daily routine.

The rejection letters came, too. Those who could be bothered anyway. I’d memorised the format by heart.

They always thanked you for applying.

They always said it was an extremely hard decision-making process.

They always said they were impressed by your skills and experience.

They always said someone else matched the requirements.

They always said they wanted to keep you on file for future openings.

They always wished you future success.

They were always unhelpful.

I had no idea that the reason I was rejected so many times was because of my lack of local experience. An honest job recruiter finally told me one day.

‘How do I get local experience if no one has given me a job?’ I asked.

She couldn’t answer me.

Still, I kept applying.

Another day, another trip to the city. I hopped on the tram to yet another job interview. It was for a subeditor position – the closest role to my skillset.

I was hopeful. Maybe this time things would be different. I adjusted my collared white shirt and brushed the lint off my black trousers. The high heeled shoes pinched my toes, but they were already frozen from the cold anyway, so I didn’t care.

My stop was getting closer. I walked to the tram door, buttoning up the only black blazer I owned.

A group of highschool boys blocked the door and stared at me when I said ‘Excuse me’. I stared back and raised my eyebrow. They moved to make way for me.

I got off the tram.