Stephanie Sala - The Philippines
Posted: Nov. 2, 2005
I remember that this happened on a Wednesday. I was doing part time work at this residence on the Upper East Side but wasn't going to be paid that day. I also remember breaking out in this hideous rash-a sure sign of stress as I was waiting for my papers to be approved so I could work legally.
While I was grateful for the money that was coming in, there was hardly enough to pay for food or rent. Still, I agreed to meet a friend for dinner because I felt very alone and completely out of sorts. All throughout the 45 minute subway ride up till I arrived at work, I remember praying for money to pay for dinner. Vacillating between calling myself weak for being so needy and feeling humiliated.
It was a Romanian housekeeper who opened the door for me. An immigrant like myself. I looked at her and was painfully aware that if my papers did not come, I would have to take on a similar job. The thoughts ran through my head like a speeding train. Did she have a family back in Romania? Did they know what she was doing here to survive? I looked at her and wondered if dignity was something she embraced or if it was something she painfully shut out. What did dignity mean anyway? I thought about my friends at home and the little luxuries I once had. I thought about my education and the culture I was exposed to. Here in this new country, none of this seemed to matter. I was the recent immigrant who did not have the right to work or stay on.
I introduced myself and remember holding her hand and searching her face for an answer to the unspoken question. She squeezed my hand as if to assure me that I would be okay and that I did matter. I immediately wanted to wash my face a thousand times till there was no trace of my tears-which had now come and wouldn't stop falling.
In any case, I set to work, filing papers and putting them into shelves. The distraction was necessary and successfully abated this recent sorrow up till I saw the clock and felt my hunger. "Mom", I found myself saying, "I wish you were here." I repeated this quietly until it sounded like a mantra.
I pushed myself to work even harder and didn't notice that the lady who opened the door for me had come in till she asked me if she could give me something. I was momentarily confused and thought she had asked if she could help me arrange things so I shook my head and said no. With tears gathering in her eyes, she asked me again. "Please, can I give you something?" I was concerned that I had upset her and immediately stood up and said that I would happily accept whatever she had to give me. At that moment, she took out a $20 bill and handed it to me. "Please. I have a daughter like you. She's around your age and I miss her so much. Please buy yourself dinner."
I didn't know what to say. How did she know? I hugged her tightly and something within me believed that I would indeed be okay. Life was teaching me something important. Hers would be one of the many faces of my mother in this strange and foreign land. And mine, one of the faces of her daughter. I learned something very valuable that day. I learned that every man I met was someone's father, brother and friend. Every woman, someone's mother, daughter and sister.
I am someone's daughter, sister and friend. As long as I hold on to this universal truth, I will find a home everywhere I go. I will matter and I will be okay. The border which separates citizens from immigrants like myself is an illusion. My job is to remember and to wear this remembrance on my face for the millions who are praying for dinner and recognition at this very moment.