MY NOTHING BOX

I worked for five years as a cleaner. It made me spend more time looking at floors than at people. As a former accountant and auditor, I expected more from my internship experience, but instead, I cleaned things—disgusting things—you can and can’t imagine, until I felt I had no feelings left.

Being an immigrant isn’t easy. You learn a lot about why you left your country, for better or worse—especially when the choice was voluntary.

Through this work, I learned how people can be respectful, disrespectful, and petty as well. I worked with all kinds of people and prayed every day to leave the cleaning field.

I once believed that travelling overseas would make me more confident. Instead, I became mute—like an animal without social skills. Whatever confidence I had built through my career path in the past seemed to flush away every time I had to clean another school, another house.

Houses were worse than schools. You don’t truly know someone until you clean their home. Their personal spaces can be the worst places to step into. Sometimes they are friendly and organised—rare for a cleaner to find, but it happens; sometimes they are comforting, but always confronting.

I had one truly good client. I saw their little boy grow, the house change, the garden change, and eventually the family move to another state. There were other good people too, but with challenging houses—those that make you want to cry because you don’t know where to start.

They say more children, more happiness. I say more children, more chaos. I lost count of how many times I cried while trying to figure out how to clean those houses. One family had three children—great people, but a constantly messy home, with beautiful plants everywhere, mixed in with the mess.

After a year, I could recognise each person’s mess—the little boy’s, the two girls’, the mother’s, the father’s. Eventually, I gave up. They had grown comfortable with the mess, and I realised I couldn’t change their behaviour or make their lives tidier if they weren’t willing to help.

They were happy, though. A beautiful, kind mother and plant lover; a police officer who was an attentive father; and their children. They were truly a happy family—but the chaos was too much for me. So I left.

I spent years cleaning high schools, universities, and primary schools. Primary schools were better. Children are just children. They aren’t racist, petty, or hateful—most of the time. Their mess comes from play with sand. Sand on the sinks, sand on the carpet, sand on toilets, sand everywhere.

High schools were different. There were pads on mirrors, food and hair in urinals, blood smells, blood fluid from bullied children on sinks and walls, hate notes, suicidal notes, love notes carved into doors, walls, and tables. You don’t see the leftovers of lunches eaten by sad children hiding in toilets, or wet toilet paper stuck to roofs, walls, sinks, and inside bowls, in primary schools. High school life now appears to me tough on students, on teachers, on staff, but especially on those who are left behind to clean the daily mess of two thousand people. So I felt grateful—blessed—that I grew up in Brazil in a different time.

I prayed every day to leave cleaning work. I felt God heard me on 20 February 2024, when I received an email confirming my contract at a fancy restaurant on the Southbank riverside.

I was amazed by the framed art on the walls. The Black woman on the menu was stunning. The low lighting and leather seats created a comfortable dining atmosphere. The lit staircase, the bar filled with bottles, the wine collection forming a wall on the second floor, the river view, the fire rising from steaks and skewers—everything felt worlds away from the schools I had cleaned.

I thought it would be an amazing place to work, a chance to improve my communication skills after five years of looking at floors, vacuums, cleaners’ rooms, mops, toilets, and rubbish bins. I believed nothing could be worse than cleaning a high school.

I was wrong.

Hospitality is full of unhappy people. Not everyone—some truly love what they do and make your day brighter simply by being themselves. But many are miserable and want you to feel the same. Miserable. Long hours, low pay, pressure, bullying—this environment explains why so many famous chefs have taken their own lives.

I am a quiet person—an introvert/extrovert, an observer. I look young; people often think I’m in my twenties even though I’m in my thirties. I used to joke that this was the only good thing about being Black. But the truth is simple: you never know someone’s journey unless you are willing to listen.

One day, people are welcoming—smiling, reminding you to take breaks, telling you not to get tired for such low pay. The next day, they roll their eyes, mock your glasses, mock your identity, and take pleasure in seeing how unhappy they can make you feel. Overnight, you become a terrible person without knowing what you did wrong. Slowly, I understood the tired, unhappy faces I noticed when I first started as a hostess.

The restaurant has two faces. One is hidden from customers so they can enjoy their meals. The other is just delightful. The onions being prepared for onion rings dish, the desserts’ sweet smells, the oysters being opened, turned, and turning into the final dozen oysters plate, which is always received with happiness by the oyster lovers. I often wondered why people love oysters so much. Are they still alive when opened? They look soft, slippery, and strange. Not for me.

The smell of calamari always makes me want to eat it. The simplicity of bruschetta amazes me. The skewers remind me of espetinhos, Brazilian barbecue. One manager calls out to the runners, “TIME TO SHINE!”—and I smile every time. He loves what he does. You can see it.

There is the wine specialist. The strict manager who first seemed frightening but revealed admirable leadership, especially in handling customers’ affairs when things went wrong. The one with a beautiful voice and confident gestures who makes you want to do your best. The loudest one. The pleaser. The “I don’t bother.” The blue apron presence with his familiar smile. The cartoon heroes name. The travellers and the small communities (Japanese, Brazilian, Indian, Malaysian, Colombian, French and Australians). Also, you could have everything—love and hate—in the same place.

I do love seeing latecomer clients when they join their group, and their faces light up when they find a familiar face in the crowded restaurant; the couples who come to celebrate their years together. You can see how in synchrony they are, just through their exchange of glances and smiles while confirming their water choice together: “sparkling water, please.” The children who stop crying when they see their food being served; the little smiles and curiosity every time I leave a small gift—a children’s book for coloring with crayons—on their table, alongside the parents’ menus.

I love seeing business people in their meetings, getting more comfortable and less uneasy after recognizing the environment and having a few drinks—the hot water with lemon for Chinese customers, the welcoming smile of my manager that gives me the feeling she has my back, and the friendly hostess (my peers). Not every hostess smiles, not every hostess is friendly, but that reflects their personalities, and I am fine with it. Although, I am not fine with the one who talks to me as if I were a dog.

I also love the feeling of home every time I hear someone speaking Portuguese—The customer is in the house. They bring me comfort, a sense of home, my people.

The good things I highlight comfort me and make the bullying and bad experiences just… as they are. You give what you have, and some people just have hurt and frustration within themselves. It is all they can offer you.

They want to be part of the group. They want attention. You can see it if you observe their body language and listen to the tone of their voice. Just watch carefully, put your own emotions aside, and you will see their frustrations revealed. I call this a stoic analysis of a bully.

I pray to God to give me peace, and that I can be a blessing and a helping hand to those who need it during my shift, which is about to start.

Still, sometimes I do a toilet check without being asked by the managers, just to spend a few minutes in the quiet space I am familiar with and have worked in for so many years in Australia—just to put my mind at ease in my “nothing box.”

Australia — May 13, 2024