The Gift of Listening

Thank you for sharing your story, I said to Santa, the woman who cleaned my hotel room this morning.
“Oh no, thank you for listening to my story, it feels good to be heard” she replied, as her brown eyes beamed back at me.

I was so moved by our less than 2 minute conversation, shared mostly, as I helped her make my bed.
Our exchange started as she began to change the sheets, and I told her that wasn’t necessary, since this was our last night at this hotel. Immediately she made it clear she didn’t speak English, only Spanish. Well, that came in handy, as that is my first language, having grown up in the Dominican Republic.

Where are you from, I asked?

“Honduras; I am Latina” she replied.
I instinctively asked her if she had children because she felt like a mother to me.
“Yes, I have four children, all in Honduras. They are girls, twenty-two and twenty, and boys fourteen and ten years of age.”
I asked how long has she been here.

“Six years,” she said.

I could feel her sadness at not seeing her children in all that time. And I asked her how they all coped with that.
“My youngest son asked me, over the phone, last month, are you pretty, Mami? How tall are you? What do you like to eat?”

Santa shared the high emotional price she pays, for the benefit of providing her family with a better life back home. Here, in the US, she earns in one day, what it would take her a week back in Honduras. She shared that the sacrifice is well worth the sadness of not seeing her children grow up. Santa said, “The hardest part is not seeing their hair grow, or watch them enjoy their meals, or play with each other.”

I asked her about her life here, since she sends so much of her income back to Honduras, how does she manage?
“I get by.”
My inquiries lead her to disclose that she shares an apartment with seven others and that way her expenses are minimal. And all of the other ladies are in a similar situation.
I asked her if that brought her comfort. “Not really,” she said.
“Everyone copes differently. Some smoke, others drink, some wander the streets at night. In many ways, we are strangers. And on top of that, it’s hard when eight women share two bathrooms.” Then she went on to straighten the bathroom, and I sat in my room’s comfy chair to ponder her situation.

Here is this hard working mom, doing the best she possibly can for her kids, even though it means not being with them. Yet, she sees the sacrifice as worthwhile because she is giving her children a better future. And here I am, living a rather comfy life, traveling the world with my husband. I have breakfast with my sons, almost every morning, before they leave for school, and I’m usually home, almost every afternoon when school lets out. I talk to my daughter, almost every day, and know I’ll either visit her, in Colorado, several times a year, or I’ll fly her home, so I can get my mother-daughter fix.
And like Santa, I find things about my life that are a worthwhile sacrifice, such as being available to my kids, instead of making my work my priority. We are both the same, only different.

As Santa came out of the bathroom, I reached for my wallet.
I know I can’t change her world, but I am in a position to help make it a tiny bit easier.
As my hand met hers, she smiled a smile that said thank you, as her eyes slowly watered.
Then she said last week her children received some pictures of her, and her youngest son, who saw her last when he was four years old said excitedly, on their last call, ‘Mami, you are pretty!’

Santa smiled.

We shared a deep hug, and then she turned and walked towards her maid’s cart.
As she closed my bedroom door, her face sweet and soft now, whispered, “Thanks for hearing me.”

By the way, in Spanish, Santa means Saint.

Written Monday, October 24, 2011
At the Orlando Hilton