Ala's story features on Let Me Tell You, a podcast from SBS Voices. launch on Wednesday June 15. Listen in the , , , or wherever you listen to podcasts.
The customer is acting weird. He’s been hanging around the counter even though I handed him his green tea frappe 10 minutes ago.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Could you sign my cup, please?” he says. “I’m a fan.”
Though slightly embarrassed, I oblige while my workmates eye me with suspicion. It doesn’t really go down well in the workplace when you explain that you’re a celebrity in another country.
Life was very different in the Philippines just a few months back. Fresh out of uni in 2006, I was a model, blogger, and a video-jockey for a music channel. My face beamed from screens, magazines, and billboards. My blog was a big deal and had a throng of dedicated followers. Most importantly, I had a voice, and the future was full of promise.
Life was very different in the Philippines just a few months back. Fresh out of uni in 2006, I was a model, blogger, and a video-jockey for a music channel.
So when my family decided to move to Australia, I was reluctant.
“We want you to have a choice,” they said.
A choice between the glittering path of celebrity and influence versus — what, exactly? They were vague. And I remained unconvinced.
But a few months before our move, a sailing trip changed everything. I was invited to spend a week on a ship, blogging about the movements of an international team of environmental activists. The way they lived inspired me. Being there made me feel unanchored, alive, daring - it terrified me.
I realised I’d kept close to the harbour all my life, never really questioning who I was. My reality felt sheltered, my glittering path safe and predictable. I knew then that I had to get on that plane to Australia.
"At one point, I was turned away from a job as a sandwich hand because I was told I lacked Australian bread-slicing qualifications." Source: Supplied
I arrived with my bags full of confidence. I saw myself as possessing unique skills and experiences that I couldn’t wait to put to use in my new country.
But Australia saw me differently. When I arrived in the land of opportunity, my English and education were doubted, and any experience that didn’t take place in Australia got brushed away. It was as though my life - the promising one - had never really happened.
At one point, I was turned away from a job as a sandwich hand because I was told I lacked Australian bread-slicing qualifications. Had I really forsaken my future to move to a country that didn’t trust me to make sandwiches?
I was in the trenches of depression when an older immigrant spoke to me. “This is the game you must play,” he said. “Things are different here. Make your CV as plain as possible. Just do anything you can to get your first job. After that, things will be easier.”
This is the game you must play,” he said. “Things are different here. Make your CV as plain as possible. Just do anything you can to get your first job. After that, things will be easier.
With those words, I threw pride out the window. On my CV, I crossed out my colourful career history and was reborn as “a fresh graduate with good communication skills and a willingness to learn”.
That same week, a local cafe gave me my first job.
For the first time in my life, I worked with my hands, my back, and my body. I made coffee, mopped floors, took out the rubbish, and cleaned toilets. I served people who were nice, and people who were nasty. At the end of the day, I would collapse in a heap, smelling like sour milk and stale espresso.
And I loved it.
I saw in that job the small beginnings of a new life, the first few bricks being laid down with my own hands. It was my life, not anyone else’s. The anonymity that once made me feel invisible now felt liberating. I was nobody, and I was free.
My past didn’t simply disappear, of course. My old and new lives would sometimes collide in comical ways. Filipino tourists would enter the cafe and recognise me, confused as to why I was in Australia mopping floors. My colleagues would also wonder why people wanted a photo taken with me in my dirty apron and milk-stained shoes.
My old and new lives would sometimes collide in comical ways. Filipino tourists would enter the cafe and recognise me, confused as to why I was in Australia mopping floors.
But building a new life was not always linear. While I marvelled at gaining a new set of possibilities, I grieved the loss of old roles and aspirations. Every so often, I would look back at the parts of me that didn’t get the chance to flourish in Australia, and wonder what might’ve been. Losing an identity is like chopping off a limb. You still feel it itch even when it’s not there.
Perhaps immigrants are always divided: proud and grateful for what they’ve built, but never forgetting what they gave up for it. It is not exactly regret that we feel, but a longing to somehow unify the past and present into a picture that makes sense.
It comforts me to think that somewhere in an alternate universe is another me who chose not to leave, and who wonders about the kind of life she would’ve had if she had gone to Australia.
Ala's story features on Let Me Tell You, a podcast from SBS Voices. launch on Wednesday June 15. Listen in the , , , or wherever you listen to podcasts.
Ala Paredes is a writer, artist, and teacher who loves her plants and ukulele. Follow her on Instagram .
