Liwliwa
I think a stranger just paid me a compliment. So why do I feel so conflicted?
Last month I decided to hire a full-time helper. So one Monday during lunch break, I went to a maid agency and asked if there was somebody I could interview. I told the lady in the tiger-prints with plunging neckline and very long fingernails pasted with pearly swirls (she turned out to be the owner) that I wanted a Filipina who was immediately available and if she could speak our mother tongue, that would be great.
She said my timing was perfect, there was somebody right next door (at another agency) who had requested for a transfer from her previous employer and, having failed to find a new employer in time, had been booked on a flight home the very next day -- a hard worker, experienced (she had worked in Hong Kong), gentle with kids. The catch was, if she went home immigration might give her a hard time coming back, or processing her documents anew might take weeks because of the extended holidays at the Philippine embassy. So maybe, she said, I would prefer another applicant? In fact she could recommend two more.
I said I would try my luck anyway, and waited for the girl to come in for a quick interview.
She was olive-skinned, slim, a little below average height. She greeted the agency owner with the meekness expected of household help who sleeps in your house and partakes of your food; her “Good afternoon, Ma’am” hurt so much that I could not meet her eyes. She wore a faded shirt and jeans. She was clutching a handkerchief in one hand, in the other an old cellphone. I could tell that she had not slept well. She sat before me and gave a small smile. Hello, I said, kumusta?
And then, because I did not know how else to start, I asked her why she wanted a transfer.
She breathed deeply, began haltingly. But she gained momentum in no time at all, everything tumbling out one after another. It was too hard, I could not take it anymore. My employer called me Stupid. Hey stupid, come here.
I had no food. I had to wait for them to finish eating, and by then there was nothing left. She was crying now. Once I hid food in my room. My ma’am found out and took it. They always asked me to buy groceries for two, and she would check the receipts for anything extra. I could not leave the house to buy food because they checked up on me. If not for another Filipina helper three floors down, I would have starved. I told her yesterday that I would like to ask for a transfer. She told me to find a new employer. But this morning she just asked me to pack up my things and leave. My husband says don’t worry, it’s okay, just come home, us and the children would be together and that’s more important. But I want to work. I want to work. She repetition was soft, as if she was saying something that could be embarrassing.
Tiger-print lady looked up from her paperwork and pushed a box of tissues at me. Hey, why are you crying too? The box was within easy reach, as if she was well-prepared. It was not hard to imagine women coming through the door and sitting by her desk saying Ma’am I cannot take it anymore. Help me. And she typing with those long impossible fingernails, sitting with her perfect coiffed hair, calculating what it would cost, in her mind already searching the sea of faces on the waiting list for the replacement to send to the employer from hell.
They treated her like shit, I told her. She did not look chastised.
Liwliwa (isn’t that a most beautiful name?) asked me if my husband was Singaporean. No, I said, we’re both Filipino. I have one son, he’s two. My husband is doing a postdoc in Japan and I have a full-time job myself so I need help. My son will be in day care the whole day, so really I just need breakfast ready when we get up, warm food on the table when we get home, and a tidy house. Somebody who can be patient with a toddler, someone I can trust.
Liwliwa asked me so I went on to say, I teach, my husband is a researcher. Will I give you days off? Of course, I thought that was a requirement.
She started crying again, but not as hard. They looked like happy tears. That she considered what I was offering as something precious made me sad.
Ma’am please pick me. I don’t mind if you pay me less than what they gave me. Just give me two hours to go to church on Sundays.
And then she said something that has stayed with me ever since. Nowadays I look at my sleeping son, finally collapsing after a whole day of running and ABC's and red circles and green alligators, and her words come back, her voice so clear in my head. I see Liwliwa’s pleading face, all the pure, gut-wrenching hope in it.
Ma’am, you are God’s gift to me.
I’m translating, and not very well I’m almost certain. Bigay po kayo ng Diyos sa akin. In Filipino the tone of it gave me goosebumps. I was asking her to clean up after me, take care of my mess. I thought of all the times my husband and I fought, his disappointed face, all the times my mother said, I called and called but you did not pick up, I was wondering if you were all right. I felt unworthy of her awe. But for a brief moment there I felt pleased; then decency took over, and I felt like I had grime under my nails.
Liwliwa went home. Two days later I called the agency to say that I was hiring her. I had not interviewed anyone else. I was perhaps being Messianic; perhaps Liwliwa was in reality a shrewd judge of character and picked her words carefully, knowing exactly what would make me yield. Anyway, I wouldn’t know for sure. A few days later, as the snow made first landfall in Kyoto, I received an email from the agency. Liwliwa’s husband would not let her come back. I could understand, but it did not stop the sigh of exasperation at this wrench thrown into my well-planned timetable, did not stop me from imagining her looking back with longing even as she held her children’s hands.
Last month I decided to hire a full-time helper. So one Monday during lunch break, I went to a maid agency and asked if there was somebody I could interview. I told the lady in the tiger-prints with plunging neckline and very long fingernails pasted with pearly swirls (she turned out to be the owner) that I wanted a Filipina who was immediately available and if she could speak our mother tongue, that would be great.
She said my timing was perfect, there was somebody right next door (at another agency) who had requested for a transfer from her previous employer and, having failed to find a new employer in time, had been booked on a flight home the very next day -- a hard worker, experienced (she had worked in Hong Kong), gentle with kids. The catch was, if she went home immigration might give her a hard time coming back, or processing her documents anew might take weeks because of the extended holidays at the Philippine embassy. So maybe, she said, I would prefer another applicant? In fact she could recommend two more.
I said I would try my luck anyway, and waited for the girl to come in for a quick interview.
She was olive-skinned, slim, a little below average height. She greeted the agency owner with the meekness expected of household help who sleeps in your house and partakes of your food; her “Good afternoon, Ma’am” hurt so much that I could not meet her eyes. She wore a faded shirt and jeans. She was clutching a handkerchief in one hand, in the other an old cellphone. I could tell that she had not slept well. She sat before me and gave a small smile. Hello, I said, kumusta?
And then, because I did not know how else to start, I asked her why she wanted a transfer.
She breathed deeply, began haltingly. But she gained momentum in no time at all, everything tumbling out one after another. It was too hard, I could not take it anymore. My employer called me Stupid. Hey stupid, come here.
I had no food. I had to wait for them to finish eating, and by then there was nothing left. She was crying now. Once I hid food in my room. My ma’am found out and took it. They always asked me to buy groceries for two, and she would check the receipts for anything extra. I could not leave the house to buy food because they checked up on me. If not for another Filipina helper three floors down, I would have starved. I told her yesterday that I would like to ask for a transfer. She told me to find a new employer. But this morning she just asked me to pack up my things and leave. My husband says don’t worry, it’s okay, just come home, us and the children would be together and that’s more important. But I want to work. I want to work. She repetition was soft, as if she was saying something that could be embarrassing.
Tiger-print lady looked up from her paperwork and pushed a box of tissues at me. Hey, why are you crying too? The box was within easy reach, as if she was well-prepared. It was not hard to imagine women coming through the door and sitting by her desk saying Ma’am I cannot take it anymore. Help me. And she typing with those long impossible fingernails, sitting with her perfect coiffed hair, calculating what it would cost, in her mind already searching the sea of faces on the waiting list for the replacement to send to the employer from hell.
They treated her like shit, I told her. She did not look chastised.
Liwliwa (isn’t that a most beautiful name?) asked me if my husband was Singaporean. No, I said, we’re both Filipino. I have one son, he’s two. My husband is doing a postdoc in Japan and I have a full-time job myself so I need help. My son will be in day care the whole day, so really I just need breakfast ready when we get up, warm food on the table when we get home, and a tidy house. Somebody who can be patient with a toddler, someone I can trust.
Liwliwa asked me so I went on to say, I teach, my husband is a researcher. Will I give you days off? Of course, I thought that was a requirement.
She started crying again, but not as hard. They looked like happy tears. That she considered what I was offering as something precious made me sad.
Ma’am please pick me. I don’t mind if you pay me less than what they gave me. Just give me two hours to go to church on Sundays.
And then she said something that has stayed with me ever since. Nowadays I look at my sleeping son, finally collapsing after a whole day of running and ABC's and red circles and green alligators, and her words come back, her voice so clear in my head. I see Liwliwa’s pleading face, all the pure, gut-wrenching hope in it.
Ma’am, you are God’s gift to me.
I’m translating, and not very well I’m almost certain. Bigay po kayo ng Diyos sa akin. In Filipino the tone of it gave me goosebumps. I was asking her to clean up after me, take care of my mess. I thought of all the times my husband and I fought, his disappointed face, all the times my mother said, I called and called but you did not pick up, I was wondering if you were all right. I felt unworthy of her awe. But for a brief moment there I felt pleased; then decency took over, and I felt like I had grime under my nails.
Liwliwa went home. Two days later I called the agency to say that I was hiring her. I had not interviewed anyone else. I was perhaps being Messianic; perhaps Liwliwa was in reality a shrewd judge of character and picked her words carefully, knowing exactly what would make me yield. Anyway, I wouldn’t know for sure. A few days later, as the snow made first landfall in Kyoto, I received an email from the agency. Liwliwa’s husband would not let her come back. I could understand, but it did not stop the sigh of exasperation at this wrench thrown into my well-planned timetable, did not stop me from imagining her looking back with longing even as she held her children’s hands.