CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Being out of a job and having so many disadvantages in a foreign country was extremely demoralizing. I was spinning through a hurricane of emotions. When I had first arrived, California had seemed like paradise, but I had discovered quickly that nothing comes for free in America.
I looked for a job every day, feeling deeply homesick all the while. I wrote stories, poetry, and letters to my loved ones back home. I didn’t let them know all the details of the challenges I faced. I didn’t want them to worry about me, after all that they had sacrificed just to get me here, and I was still as determined as ever to make it in America. I remember some people back home saying I would be back in six months. I was not going to give up on my dreams, at least not yet.
Finally, after what seemed like endless struggle, I got a job as a pizza maker at Little Caesars in Seaside, a town right next to Monterey. My coworkers — Layla, Mandy, Tony, and Jimmy — were all young and we had a great deal of fun working together. By this time, I still didn’t have a circle of friends, and being around people around my age was a good feeling. Our supervisor’s name was Lisa. It wasn’t easy work. I was very proud when I felt like I had learned to make a good-looking pizza, distributing the toppings as evenly as possible and having it come out looking and smelling delicious.
I was slowly making more friends and improving my English. I started to meet my coworkers on our off hours. We would go to movies or hang out at the mall when I wasn’t with Barbara.
Jimmy, who was of Irish-American descent, and Tony, an African-American guy, were two of my new friends. Jimmy was pursuing an acting career and successfully auditioned for roles in some plays that were put on at Monterey Park. We went as a group to watch and support him. I remember being impressed by the difficulty of live theater — you only get one chance to remember all your dialogue and deliver a convincing performance.
I remember Jimmy inviting me to a house owned by one of his other friends’ families for a party. It was in Pebble Beach, and it was an extremely beautiful and well-kept place. As I walked around looking at all the expensive furniture and art in the rooms, I wondered if I would ever have a nice home like that.
While I was still working at Little Caesars, somebody suggested that I apply for a position as a courtesy clerk, bagging customers’ groceries at Safeway, a large supermarket in the area. This would mean better wages and benefits and less time spent standing in front of blisteringly hot ovens. I applied and to my surprise they hired me. I was very excited — this was another step forward. If I remember correctly, Safeway paid $6 per hour to its baggers, aka courtesy clerks, in 1991. I was always grateful to earn even the minimum wage in America because when I converted the American dollar to Turkish lira, it was an amount I knew I couldn’t earn back home.
Safeway was a good and enjoyable job. Just like I had at the pizza place, I found myself working with great people who were easy to get along with, and the customers were generally nice, too. The pace was quick enough that I never got bored, and I enjoyed bagging people’s groceries and interacting with them. Even a short conversation could help me learn a word or phrase that would increase my sense of myself as an American.
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