Untitled 18
In a quiet neighborhood of Santiago, Chile, I sit down to a slice of cake and a cup of hot tea.
My host introduces me his mother.
She welcomes me warmly and encourages me to eat up. Once I finish the slice, she will encourage me to have seconds, but I will eventually convince her that one slice before bed is quite enough.
Their house is a modest one in a part of Santiago no tourist really has any business being. There's not much of interest here-- some small shops and restaurants, and a bunch of one-story houses.
We talk pleasantries, and I tell her I'm visiting the country on vacation.
She tells me she works for a public school that's 2 hours away by bus. Her days are long since she ends up spending 4 hours of the day commuting.
My host apologizes because he can't introduce me to his father-- his father works in the next town over and so only comes home once a week.
I am surprised-- such a crazy life it is in this third world country! Parents commute so far just to support their families!
This is what I think, but I realize I'm a pot calling the kettle black.
My own superiority or blindness or selfishness makes me forget things.
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How many bottles of nail polish do you think there are in a nail salon at any given time?
100? 200? 1000?
Does this number include base layers and top coats?
These are the questions that 6-year-old me pondered while sitting in the nail salon.
There's a stereotype about immigrant Vietnamese women working in nail salons, but you know, I can't even be mad about it, because as far as I know, it's spot on. Almost every single one of my countless aunties (and many of my uncles) worked in nail salons when I was young, and my mother was no exception.
Unable to afford day care, she often took me into the shop with her where she worked, paid well below minimum wage without overtime pay and without benefits. And I, unable to leave the shop, would go through the drawers and shelves and displays, trying to count the many little bottles.
No matter how many times I tried, I always came up with a different number.
It was somewhere between 340 and 380.
Because my mother didn't speak English, she could never own a nail salon like other aunties. Just getting work was a struggle.
So in my early years, even though our family lived in LA, my mother would sometimes disappear for weeks or months at a time to work in Santa Barbara, some 2 hours away by car.
When I was young, I often went with my mother while my older siblings stayed in LA with my dad. We'd be given blankets and pillows to sleep on the floor in the living room of some relative's home. In the morning, she would go to the shop and I would stay in the house that was not home, playing and watching TV and waiting.
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I'm so excited-- my new job is offering 35k more than my current salary!
He pays over $4000 a month for his studio in downtown-- he said he doesn't want to have a roommate and doesn't like commuting so would rather just have a studio himself.
They give their employees $200 every month to spend on personal health-- gym membership, massages, spa trips, whatever really.
I studied math in university, but I've come to realize I don't really understand what numbers mean.
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My mom still works in a nail salon today.
Luckily, her stint working in Santa Barbara ended after a few years and she was able to find more regular work close to home.
I tell her she should quit because she's old and because all those chemical fumes are unhealthy for her to be breathing in day in and out.
I don't say it's also because the below-minimum wage money she makes is pathetic by Bay Area standards.
Regardless, my mom waves off my concerns and says she has to work or else they won't have money, though I suspect it's also because she wouldn't know what to do with herself if she stopped working.
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This year, our school district's enrollment is at the lowest it's ever been. We're a solid 7% below regular enrollment numbers from the last 5 years. When we followed-up with non-returning families, the majority of them told us they couldn't afford to live in Oakland anymore even though they were already doubling or tripling up families in houses meant for just one. Most moved south to Central Valley or north towards Sacramento.
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I order a small chai latte and a cookie from the cafe.
My total comes out $7.35.
I pay with card and grab my drink when it's ready.
The cafe is full but I'm able to find a seat in the midst of people drinking lattes and drip coffees and eating scones or biscuits or sandwiches.
In these moments, I'm focused on the things that exist before me-- my drink, the report I'm pulling together on my laptop, a group chat to make weekend plans for drinking and partying, upcoming deadlines and meetings on my calendar, and an email reminder about the late fee on my library book that's building up because I keep forgetting to return the damn thing.
In these moments, it's easy for me to forget that other world.
That place in which we don't plan to spend our excess but instead grovel for just enough.
We don't strive for excitement but for reprieve.
We don't try to live fully, we try to live because that's the only thing we know how to do.