A Sad Little Story Which Still Has Hope for a Happy Ending
A Story in Five Acts and an Epilogue.
Act I: In which she scoffs at the training offered to her
The Department of Foreign Affairs offers a series of pre-posting training courses that soon-to-be overseaers can sign up for, one of which is how to deal with household staff. Knowing that I would only have a part-time cleaning lady and wondering what kind of people needed a course to tell them to be respectful with their staff, it didn't even cross my mind to sign up. In fact, secretly, I suspect that I scoffed at the idea.
Act II: In which she forgets to pack appropriate clothing
In December 2004 I joined some friends in Rio for New Years and forgot to pack any beachware (except my bathing suit) for our four-day stay. Fortunately, one can buy pretty much anything while toasting one's feet in the sun and I quickly purchased a white beach top which would then become part of my standard beach uniform.
Since moving to Recife, however, the blouse started to accumulate odd orangey beige-coloured stains on it. Even stranger was that the stains, as far as I could deduce, were not from any aspect of my time spent on the beach. Finally, bearing the mystery no longer, I asked my cleaning lady if she knew what the stains were from. She indicated that they were from cajá juice, which I also found odd since i) I have never drank any juice on the beach; and ii) I would have to be fairly inept to have spilled it in so many different places over the months. My cleaning lady said that she would see if she could get the stains out and I was grateful. Perplexed, but grateful.
Act III: In which she acquires a funky new skirt
Last weekend, I went shopping at the Paço Alfândega [the old Convent turned Custom's House turned mall] and found a skirt that I quite liked in Anna Paes. While most of the clothes in Anna Paes are often a little bit too alternative for me, there is usually something that catches my interest, quite a feat as we know. The skirt that I bought is a straight skirt in the front, cut on the grain, and an a-line in the back, cut on the bias. Overall, it gives a nice, funky, but not too funky, look. I wore it to work on Wednesday, quite pleased with my find.
Act IV: In which the inevitable happens
This past Thursday, my cleaning lady asked me if she could use bleach to try and clean my beach top. She had tried to clean it the week before to no avail and it was time to bring in the heavy. I agreed that she could use bleach, but asked her to please be careful to not get it on any other articles of clothing. [Can you see where this is going?] Yes, yes, she agreed. It would be a disaster to spill the bleach on something of colour. When I got home from work that night, after what I have to say was a Very Stressful [note the capitals] afternoon and evening, I found a note waiting for me on the diningroom table: Dona Karen, something very awful has happened. It was my fault. Please do not fire me. Please....
Yes. As it turned out, my fear came true and bleach had been splashed all over my new skirt. It was unsalvageable. If it weren't already, it immediately became a double-vodka evening.
Act V: In which the silver lining is found
After wearing the skirt to work during the week, I had decided that I rather liked it and that I would use it as a template to sew a few more versions. On Saturday, I called the store to enquire if they had any more. They did not. Decision made. Today, I headed off to the fabric store and bought a couple of metres of beige linen -- the bleach incident simply propelling my idea to a more immediate level. The cloth has now been washed and is hanging to dry. Tomorrow, I will iron it and start my next project: Operation Recreation. Stay tuned for more!
Epilogue: In which she dreads tomorrow
Maybe I should have taken that course offered by the Department way back when. One of things I find hardest when dealing with my cleaning lady is the fact that she -- and millions of other hardworking but low-earning Brazilians -- is not used to be treated with respect. This is not the first time that something has been broken or mangled. Every time that something like this happens, my cleaning lady asks me to deduct the cost from her salary. I never do. My usual tactic is to reassure her that accidents happen to everyone, me included, things break, nothing is infallible, and that I will not deduct the price from her pay, but that she should try to be as careful as possible in the future. In most cases, the cost to me is minimal while the deduction would be disastrous to her and her family.
We had a difficult moment a few months back, last time something broke. When I reassured her that I would not deduct her pay, she cried back at me For the love of God. Deduct my pay. I have to admit, this caught me off guard. While I was trying to be as supportive as I could in relation to the accident, she yelled back at me to essentially not respect her as a person. I kept my position and things were back to normal by the next week.
What is most difficult about these incidents, is that I know that her reaction is based on how she is used to being treated by her employers; that they do charge her for every chipped glass, that they have fired her for ruining a piece of clothing. It's more draining than it sounds. Every time she comes I have to spend time reassuring her that yes, it is okay that she moved the cushion from one couch to the other [actually, I hadn't even noticed]; yes, it is okay that she moved the mirror to the floor because of construction on the outside of the building; yes, it is okay that she opened a tin of food to give to the cat; yes, it is okay that she closed the window because dust was coming in; etc.
So the saddest part of the story is not that I lost a skirt. But rather, the saddest part is that I live in a country where not everyone is respected. Not everyone is able to earn a decent wage with decent working conditions. Not everyone thinks that they themselves deserve respect. This is what makes me sad.
post scriptum: Domestic work in Canada isn't much better. Jan Wong of the Globe & Mail recently worked and lived as a maid for a month and recounts her stories here. Brutal stuff.
The Department of Foreign Affairs offers a series of pre-posting training courses that soon-to-be overseaers can sign up for, one of which is how to deal with household staff. Knowing that I would only have a part-time cleaning lady and wondering what kind of people needed a course to tell them to be respectful with their staff, it didn't even cross my mind to sign up. In fact, secretly, I suspect that I scoffed at the idea.
Act II: In which she forgets to pack appropriate clothing
In December 2004 I joined some friends in Rio for New Years and forgot to pack any beachware (except my bathing suit) for our four-day stay. Fortunately, one can buy pretty much anything while toasting one's feet in the sun and I quickly purchased a white beach top which would then become part of my standard beach uniform.
Since moving to Recife, however, the blouse started to accumulate odd orangey beige-coloured stains on it. Even stranger was that the stains, as far as I could deduce, were not from any aspect of my time spent on the beach. Finally, bearing the mystery no longer, I asked my cleaning lady if she knew what the stains were from. She indicated that they were from cajá juice, which I also found odd since i) I have never drank any juice on the beach; and ii) I would have to be fairly inept to have spilled it in so many different places over the months. My cleaning lady said that she would see if she could get the stains out and I was grateful. Perplexed, but grateful.
Act III: In which she acquires a funky new skirt
Last weekend, I went shopping at the Paço Alfândega [the old Convent turned Custom's House turned mall] and found a skirt that I quite liked in Anna Paes. While most of the clothes in Anna Paes are often a little bit too alternative for me, there is usually something that catches my interest, quite a feat as we know. The skirt that I bought is a straight skirt in the front, cut on the grain, and an a-line in the back, cut on the bias. Overall, it gives a nice, funky, but not too funky, look. I wore it to work on Wednesday, quite pleased with my find.
Act IV: In which the inevitable happens
This past Thursday, my cleaning lady asked me if she could use bleach to try and clean my beach top. She had tried to clean it the week before to no avail and it was time to bring in the heavy. I agreed that she could use bleach, but asked her to please be careful to not get it on any other articles of clothing. [Can you see where this is going?] Yes, yes, she agreed. It would be a disaster to spill the bleach on something of colour. When I got home from work that night, after what I have to say was a Very Stressful [note the capitals] afternoon and evening, I found a note waiting for me on the diningroom table: Dona Karen, something very awful has happened. It was my fault. Please do not fire me. Please....
Yes. As it turned out, my fear came true and bleach had been splashed all over my new skirt. It was unsalvageable. If it weren't already, it immediately became a double-vodka evening.
Act V: In which the silver lining is found
After wearing the skirt to work during the week, I had decided that I rather liked it and that I would use it as a template to sew a few more versions. On Saturday, I called the store to enquire if they had any more. They did not. Decision made. Today, I headed off to the fabric store and bought a couple of metres of beige linen -- the bleach incident simply propelling my idea to a more immediate level. The cloth has now been washed and is hanging to dry. Tomorrow, I will iron it and start my next project: Operation Recreation. Stay tuned for more!
Epilogue: In which she dreads tomorrow
Maybe I should have taken that course offered by the Department way back when. One of things I find hardest when dealing with my cleaning lady is the fact that she -- and millions of other hardworking but low-earning Brazilians -- is not used to be treated with respect. This is not the first time that something has been broken or mangled. Every time that something like this happens, my cleaning lady asks me to deduct the cost from her salary. I never do. My usual tactic is to reassure her that accidents happen to everyone, me included, things break, nothing is infallible, and that I will not deduct the price from her pay, but that she should try to be as careful as possible in the future. In most cases, the cost to me is minimal while the deduction would be disastrous to her and her family.
We had a difficult moment a few months back, last time something broke. When I reassured her that I would not deduct her pay, she cried back at me For the love of God. Deduct my pay. I have to admit, this caught me off guard. While I was trying to be as supportive as I could in relation to the accident, she yelled back at me to essentially not respect her as a person. I kept my position and things were back to normal by the next week.
What is most difficult about these incidents, is that I know that her reaction is based on how she is used to being treated by her employers; that they do charge her for every chipped glass, that they have fired her for ruining a piece of clothing. It's more draining than it sounds. Every time she comes I have to spend time reassuring her that yes, it is okay that she moved the cushion from one couch to the other [actually, I hadn't even noticed]; yes, it is okay that she moved the mirror to the floor because of construction on the outside of the building; yes, it is okay that she opened a tin of food to give to the cat; yes, it is okay that she closed the window because dust was coming in; etc.
So the saddest part of the story is not that I lost a skirt. But rather, the saddest part is that I live in a country where not everyone is respected. Not everyone is able to earn a decent wage with decent working conditions. Not everyone thinks that they themselves deserve respect. This is what makes me sad.
post scriptum: Domestic work in Canada isn't much better. Jan Wong of the Globe & Mail recently worked and lived as a maid for a month and recounts her stories here. Brutal stuff.
posted by Karen @ 10:58 p.m.
3 Comments:
yeah I guess it is a touching story for sure! Interesting to know these things.
I read all of those articles, growing up on a farm I totally understand manual labor, and I know he is not a president in South America somewhere.
My first extended stay in Belize the maid washed all my knit shirts on a washboard and then hung them
up on pegs on the line under our house. My entire wardrobe was done in.
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