Personal Narrative: My First Job In USA
Hugo Flores Oct 9, 2010
English 001 MA Essay
My First Job in U. S. A.
Before I came to The United States, I worked in several jobs in my natal country, Dominican Republic. The most of them were not exactly the kind of job that people would enjoy. I have worked under the hot Caribbean sun, lifting and carrying heavy bags of sand at a construction site, I have washed mountains of plates at a restaurant kitchen, I have sweated for ten hours a day working with melted metal at a jewelry factory. But none of these compare to the nightmare
that I experienced at my first job in this country at a famous restaurant in New York City. First of all, this job was exhausting. For eleven hours a night I had to carry upstairs a huge tray full of pounds of hot food from a kitchen located at the basement floor. Besides that, I had to rush all the time from one table to another, taking orders or bringing down to the kitchen dozens of dirty plates, taking only a fifteen minutes break during the whole night. More than the physical demand, another problem of this job was the late schedule. I left work at 12:00 pm then I had to walk four blocks to the subway station and wait there sometimes for more than thirty minutes for the train to arrive, most of the time in a solitary platform, which put me every night in a dangerous situation. Even more than the late schedule, what I hated the most about my job as a waiter was the Chef, who used to yell and curse to every employee continuously; and some guests that were never happy, always complaining, being offensive, and treating me as if I was a slave. One night one of them dropped his steak on my shoes just because it was overcooked for his taste. That was the end of it. I could not take this kind of humiliation anymore. I walked to the manager’s office to quit, and I promised myself never again to work as a waiter.
English 001 MA Essay
My First Job in U. S. A.
Before I came to The United States, I worked in several jobs in my natal country, Dominican Republic. The most of them were not exactly the kind of job that people would enjoy. I have worked under the hot Caribbean sun, lifting and carrying heavy bags of sand at a construction site, I have washed mountains of plates at a restaurant kitchen, I have sweated for ten hours a day working with melted metal at a jewelry factory. But none of these compare to the nightmare
that I experienced at my first job in this country at a famous restaurant in New York City. First of all, this job was exhausting. For eleven hours a night I had to carry upstairs a huge tray full of pounds of hot food from a kitchen located at the basement floor. Besides that, I had to rush all the time from one table to another, taking orders or bringing down to the kitchen dozens of dirty plates, taking only a fifteen minutes break during the whole night. More than the physical demand, another problem of this job was the late schedule. I left work at 12:00 pm then I had to walk four blocks to the subway station and wait there sometimes for more than thirty minutes for the train to arrive, most of the time in a solitary platform, which put me every night in a dangerous situation. Even more than the late schedule, what I hated the most about my job as a waiter was the Chef, who used to yell and curse to every employee continuously; and some guests that were never happy, always complaining, being offensive, and treating me as if I was a slave. One night one of them dropped his steak on my shoes just because it was overcooked for his taste. That was the end of it. I could not take this kind of humiliation anymore. I walked to the manager’s office to quit, and I promised myself never again to work as a waiter.