My reentry to the United States after living overseas for more than three decades was a trial by fire. Everything was familiar but everything had changed. I didn’t understand the professional scene, health care or the property market. Everything was a challenge as I attempted to master a culture that I had once belonged to—I had become a tourist in the land of my birth.

I had entered what I now laughingly call my repatriation penalty phase, which I felt had been personally arranged for me by an unfeeling God. My stepdaughter, fortunately, was able to immediately find two summer jobs at a dog grooming business and a Baskin and Robbins ice cream shop. She didn’t know anyone but had the consolation of earning plenty of money before she started her final year of high school. My husband’s broad Aussie accent made him a small-scale international celebrity and he eventually found a job at the Microsoft campus and later at the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation. 

I had successfully worked in London, Sydney and Melbourne for myself and for local government but this did not have much weight in the job market. I did not have local references and my work history did not translate well into an American environment. My solution was to work for a temporary employment agency until I could figure out what was the best and most suitable professional direction. I was employed and I went to my first administration job. It was a hostile environment and I was affronted by the aggressiveness and rudeness of the people who ran the business. To avoid this, I decided my next best option was to work in the temporary, manual labour market. This gave me a perspective that quickly dispelled any sense of nostalgia for life in the United State and showed me the deep class divisions in this country.

My very first job was to give away samples of chocolate and coffee flavored calcium tablets in downtown Seattle. (By the way, this type of pop-up shop was frowned upon and the police could shut us down at any time.) I worked with another woman, a former nurse, who had lost everything when her insurance would not cover her suicide attempt. I was shocked by her story and I realized that where the health care system and social welfare were concerned do not expect justice or compassion. My next assignment was to work for a company that cleaned businesses and houses after fires and smoke damage. I worked with a woman who had injured her arm on the job and who had to stop work to get an operation and rehabilitation. She admitted that she was likely to be injured again but she needed the job. Another day, I was assigned to clean a greasy Microsoft kitchen elevator (I had hoped to be introduced to Microsoft in a more elevated way—pun intended.), and then there was the job where I packed recycled cloth rags into small packets in a large drafty factory.

In this job, I was working alongside people who were new migrants, homeless or had mental health or addiction issues. We were at the bottom of the social ladder. Most of these people only had high school educations. Ironically, I was being offered permanent jobs after a few days of work because I must have seemed reliable and looked acceptable. I was learning how fortunate I was to be white and middle-class and to have a university degree. Eventually, I found an employment agency to work with. This entire transition period lasted about twelve months until I was employed by an annual arts festival. This eventually led to my employment at the University of Washington where I would become the Libraries Associate Director of Development.

I had passed the US initiation and repatriation test. I was proud of what I had achieved (and survived) but I had no illusions about the ruthlessness of life in the US and that many ordinary people were living on the edge of a precipice, just barely keeping their balance.