That’s the dream isn’t it?
Make a million dollars, which used to be considered quite substantial, but now is
barely enough to purchase a home in Sydney. Then, stop working to live a life
of leisure and creativity, self-worth intact. I mean, if I look at being forced
out of the workforce this early, while still having a roof over my head and
being able to eat from that perspective, I’m living the dream! Admittedly, I’m
completely reliant on my partner financially. I’m resentful and grateful
simultaneously. Is this the elusive middle way?
I started working when I was
thirteen. I wasn’t legally old enough but hung out at a coffee shop after
school and the owner made a sexist remark about washing his dishes. I mentioned
he had to pay me and that was my first job interview. I worked consistently
ever since until I embarked on motherhood. It’s not like I was unaware of
gender inequality and the gender pay gap, the limitations of the gender binary
construct aside, but I naively thought that I could overcome it. It’s only in
retrospect that I see how deeply ingrained inequality is, particularly in the
labour market.
In Australia, the gender pay
gap is currently around 14% and is measured using Australian Bureau of
Statistics figures, by calculating the difference between the average full-time
weekly earnings of men and women. For the last couple of decades, it has been
between 15% and 19%, and it can be affected by factors such as occupation,
industry and sector; public or private. The two main drivers of the gender pay
gap are occupational segregation and the undervaluing of feminised work. In
Australia, women tend to congregate in roles that are incorrectly and
degradingly considered to be less skilled, like those in the nurturing and care
sector, the service industry, the humanities and the arts. For example, industries
like education, nursing, aged care and childcare are dominated by women. In
2016, around 97% of childcare workers were women. Their average income was
around $600 a week, ironically seeing many of them unable to work full-time and
afford their own childcare fees. On the other hand, the stock market value for
the sector at the time saw profits of around the $1b mark. Furthermore, even in
skilled professions, women still tend to earn less compared to their male
counterparts for the same work. Women who pursue successful careers, also tend
to lean on other women to support them with domestic services; race and class
exacerbating inequality. Additionally, women tend to do more invisible and
uncredited labour including emotional labour. We grumble about its
exploitation, but instead of valuing it as vital within a paid economy, which
we have seen starkly during the current global pandemic, we dismiss it and
continue to deny its remuneration.
Throughout high school and
university, I had regular part-time work, mostly in food service. I was
encouraged to earn an income, take on responsibility and have a strong work
ethic. That’s the main reason my parents emigrated to Australia from Malta in
the 70s and 80s. I was obligated. A contribution of hard work builds character
and attains freedom for myself and others, I was taught. Menial work, a means
to an end; education paramount.
So, I studied hard. I did well
in high school and got a high score at the end. I got into university but had
no direction or guidance about what my desires or strengths were, so I followed
my heart. I did an Arts Degree. They were affordable and popular when I studied
between 1993 – 1995 and we had HECS (Higher Education Contributions Scheme). I
never worried about the cost because I knew I didn’t have to pay anything until
I was required to pay it back through the taxation system once I started
earning a decent wage over the threshold. I didn’t notice the debt, but I
remember the relief when I’d paid it off. The system has gradually become more
complex to navigate and Arts degrees themselves more expensive. I’d chosen
essay subjects in high school; the easier road apparently. My choices were similar
at university and while I didn’t fully participate in university life, I did
have a few lightbulb moments.
My Anthropology Professor in
first year was the only one that ever gave me a High Distinction. Another
Anthropology tutor suggested I stay back after class to listen to Noel Pearson
speak. Once in Sociology, a mature age student sat beside me in a lecture and
suggested I choose Women’s Studies in second year. She thought I’d enjoy it. I
took her advice and she was right. I failed English miserably in first year. I
didn’t realise I’d failed until third year, when I was lining up (in person
before the internet) to register, hoping to graduate. I had to pick a first
year subject to make up the units to get my degree. I chose Government 101.
Practical and useful I thought. I still don’t understand the Westminster
System. I graduated and John Bell from the Shakespeare Theatre Company spoke at
the ceremony. I hired a gown and got photos near the Jacaranda tree. My family
came. We were like aliens on a foreign planet. Working class people from the
western suburbs, a daughter of migrants, don’t belong in that world. But I got
my piece of paper; it was currency. An example of intelligence, commitment and
completion. An unattainable symbol of prestige in my family.
My first full-time job was in residential
community support. It was the closest I got to feeling that dignity of having
finished an Arts Degree at the University of Sydney, majoring in Women’s
Studies, Anthropology and Sociology and putting it to good use. Doing my
Masters or a Phd wasn’t really an option. I’d already strayed far enough out of
my lane and I wasn’t about to push my luck. I certainly couldn’t afford to. I was
eager to work and be debt free. I spent three years in a domestic violence
refuge, doing important work that was shamefully undervalued. There were three
generations of women working side by side and to my knowledge, I was the only
one there with a degree. It felt superfluous in comparison to the abundance of
wisdom and life experience of my co-workers, but it proved invaluable during
the refuge’s transition from a grassroots shelter to a funded and operational
service provider. I burnt out fast, three years in, feeling like the nature of
the work and the lack of resources didn’t attract the compensation or
appreciation it deserved. The older workers had more tenacity than me.
The next six years were an
attempt to figure out where I could be productive and valued in the private
sector, because as I’d learned, the community sector was potentially harmful to
workers; neglected by government, funding bodies and society at large. It was
underfunded, underpaid and traumatic work. I have regrets about giving up too
soon, but my body and mind’s deterioration gave me little choice at the age of 23.
My parents had been recently married and had had me at that age, but I dreamed
of doing more with my life, given the opportunity to delay settling down. The
private sector, I assumed, would have boundaries, safety nets and a pathway to
a ladder to climb. With a degree under my belt and several years of experience
doing the gritty work, a fancy office and people in tailored clothes would
welcome me with open arms and help mold me into something befitting my
intellect and compassion, I thought. I discovered that the opposite was true. To
make it in the corporate world, I soon learned I had to be callous and
compromise some of my values. Empathy and collaboration wasn’t encouraged,
competitiveness and individualism was. I had learned about the structures that
demanded my subordination in that world. Evidently unionised menial employment,
an Arts degree with a feminist angle and supporting diverse survivors of family
violence were useful and empowering eye openers. I did my best but without
vocational qualifications and unrelated experience, it was only possible to
start at the bottom in a private company. Receptionist, secretarial or mail
room and casualised. No perks, bare minimum. I was expected to work my way up
and I was motivated at first.
One of my first private sector
jobs was in a fashion warehouse of a small-scale designer as the receptionist
at head office and the designer’s personal assistant. I cringed at the stored carcasses
of fox stoles, I prepared lunch for the staff every day and picked up her son
from school. A couple of the men in the
office were a bit too aggressive for my liking but I knew my assertiveness
wouldn’t be welcome. It was a four-hour return commute each day by car and it
proved unsustainable. I felt ungrateful and oversensitive, but I knew toxic
when I saw it, so I quit.
Shortly after, I found a job
at another corporate company, an engineering firm comprised of five smaller businesses.
My “office” was a dark room surrounded by compactus shelving units. I had a
huge bowl of lollies on my desk, that I was responsible for keeping full for
the staff to nibble on when they came to return files to my in-tray. I bound
documents with the coil binder machine and went to the post office to send and
retrieve mail. Sometimes I relieved at reception and took calls. I recall
supporting and advocating for a co-worker that was being abused and stalked by
her parents, my refuge skills resurfacing. A senior staff member raised his
voice at me once and I didn’t hold back like before. I shouted back with no
inhibition to never speak to me that way again. A female senior staff member
made him apologise but it was the beginning of the end. Once, we were having an
office celebration. I went out to the balcony for a cigarette and in the
meantime, someone had closed the glass sliding door. On my way back in, I
walked into it like a budgie flying into a mirror. The office erupted into
laughter and quickly refrained to save me embarrassment, but I didn’t feel the
humiliation. I realised that even walking into a glass door with full force while
everyone snickered at my expense didn’t make me feel any less worthless than I
already did working there. I started planning my exit.
I began working in a call
center selling insurance products for a conglomerate of financial institutions.
It was an opportunity I probably blew to be honest. They let casual staff turn
up every day if they were keen. We sat in a large open plan office at rows of
desks, behind computers, wearing headsets. Calls dropped in as we cold called
existing bank customers, offering them life and accident insurance products
with free coverage for three months. We signed them up and gave them details about
how to cancel before the billing kicked in. It was easy and I learned to sell
quickly. I had a knack for connecting with people in a non-threatening and
nurturing way. I didn’t pressure them and if there was no interest, I empowered
their decision making and didn’t waste either of our time. I made them feel
like they were in control, that they were getting something for nothing if they
only remembered to cancel, but if the price suited them, they would wind up
with a great product. If there was strong resistance, I wished them a good day and
promptly hung up. I got so good at selling they used me to test out phone
lines. Once, I spoke to so many customers in one day, the system looped back
around to the first person I’d called that morning, then the second and third
and so on. It baffled the IT guys, I’d clocked it. So, they promoted me. When I
say promoted, I mean the pay and casual status remained the same, but I got to
sit at a different desk and process cancellations. There was less volume and
more responsibility. I sat in a more private room, away from the entry level
plebs, among the second and third-year plebs. With one foot on a possible rung,
I had a moment of self-righteous doubt about working for banks and insurance
companies. I’d been looking for an out, a return to dignified, ethical work in
the care industry and scored a job in a disability support service just as the
“promotion” kicked in. It was a huge mistake. I went straight back to that
feeling of powerlessness and grief that had sunk me at the refuge and I lasted
as long as the probation period before finding something else.
I secured casual employment
with future potential at a labour hire company. They advertised the position as
temp to perm, as was becoming the trend. The incentive was that if you
proved yourself over a twelve-month period, you would then become full-time staff.
It was one of the more unusual experiences I had. For instance, only Capricorns
were promoted to management – I’m a Gemini, I was already out of the running. I
don’t recall ever doing any substantial or relevant work. I took calls from labourers
and airport baggage handlers, usually giving them scripted answers about when
they could expect to be paid. I sorted timesheets, shuffling them into
alphabetical order in a wooden sorter. I remember emptying boxes, retyping
something that had already been typed, returning files to shelving, meeting
with an angry man who hadn’t been paid. My refuge experience and training
dealing with possible aggression and violence saw me draw that short straw.
They tried to include me socially, but I had nothing in common with my
co-workers. A team building weekend in the Blue Mountains was organised by the
company. We had to trek through the bush and work in teams to find a mock plane
wreckage. I located the wreckage in a tree but none of my teammates believed
me. They told me I was going “bush mad”. I tried to explain that if they
followed me a few meters and looked up they’d see it too, but they refused. The
other team won. I quit before the Christmas party having lined up another
casual role.
I knew the corporate world was
not going to ever feel safe or right for my interests or skillset. I had one
last attempt at a private vascular clinic. Medical administration felt like
care. Another temp to perm role, it also didn’t work out. I contributed high
quality work but at the end of the twelve months the manager cut my shifts
instead of making me permanent, so I quit. It was the first time I was truly
unemployed with nothing to go to. I spent November to February of 2004/2005
unemployed and on Newstart, barely covering rent, job hunting over the holiday
period. Centerlink forgot to send me a group certificate and the taxation
office audited me. I had to pay them back $300.
I eventually landed in the
public service in workers’ compensation health administration and stayed for a
decade. It was unionised, a permanent role with Award protections and stability.
I had never been ambitious for power or wealth. I only wanted security, a
decent income, camaraderie and to be of service. I finally felt like I was
making a difference to people’s lives and it allowed me to embark on adulthood
with the self-respect and independence I’d always strived for, even though
career progression was corporatised and near impossible. In that role I was
able to travel, I met my partner, we bought our first home and started a
family. I wasn’t fully prepared for the interruption to my working life that
having children was going to bring.
I had my first child and while
on unpaid maternity leave, conceived two more; twins. Suddenly we were
responsible for three young children. Returning to full-time work was not an
option until they were in daycare, around the age of two which was our personal
preference. Privatised childcare is expensive and even with the rebate and my
partner’s uninterrupted income, we could only afford a couple of days. Sydney
is cursed with the tyranny of distance, traffic, and inadequate parking and public
transport. Not working in my local area felt overwhelming. My partner and I
agreed that we’d only access school hours at daycare to get accustomed to a
routine as early as possible, knowing how short the school day is and how
unaccommodating full-time employment and workplaces are to these limitations. If
I was going to return to work, it was only going to be a couple of days a week with
daycare restricted to school hours.
I had a total of four years out
of the workforce and watched as my superannuation plummeted compared to my partner’s
and as soon as the twins joined their older sibling at daycare two days a week,
I started looking for work. Seven months and over 60 applications later I found
another public service administration role in health. I persevered for almost
three years, but then Covid-19 hit. The kids had started primary school by then
and I was required to home school. It was a short-lived return to the workforce.
After lockdown ended, I didn’t
go back to work. The risks felt too high, the uncertainty of further adjustments
related to the pandemic too distracting. The casualisation of my role, the
culture of devaluation of administrative work in general, the travel, and the
lack of working from home options, which we needed a pandemic to even begin to
talk about as a nation, didn’t provide enough incentive to balance the demands of
a young family with paid employment. So, for now, I guess I’m semi-retired and
hope to have a decent income again someday. Or not.