How Not to Drown in a Glass of Water
Angie Cruz
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
Para las madres, tías, vecinas y comadres who know how to resolver and take care of nuestra comunidad. For the ones who’ve experienced rechazo.
SENIOR WORKFORCE PROGRAM
New York, United States
The Senior Workforce Program is designed to provide career counseling, job listings, and similar employment-related services. All participants receive extended unemployment benefits for the twelve weeks they participate in the program to subsidize prevocational training that includes communication skills, interviewing skills, and punctuality to prepare them to reenter the workforce.
The final report will assess if the participant is job ready or not.
The following are the twelve sessions and documents that may or may not have supported the final report and recommendations.
SESSION ONE
My name is Cara Romero, and I came to this country because my husband wanted to kill me. Don’t look so shocked. You’re the one who asked me to say something about myself.
Before we begin, can you permit me to have a glass of water? Ay, yes. Thank you. Why am I so nervous? I know, I know, we’re just talking. And this water, is it from the bottle? Does it taste strange to you? No?
I’ve never done something like this before. I didn’t think I was going to have to look for a job at this point of my life. La Profesora from La Escuelita said that you’ll help me. You’re dominicana, no? She said if you know a lot about me you can find me a job. Is that true? Ay, good, because I need a job. The factory closed in 2007, right before Christmas. Can you believe that? Almost two years I don’t work.
In reality, El Obama has been very generous. After the factory closed, I received fifty-three checks, then El Obama gave me thirteen checks, then twenty more. Did he have a choice? No. There are no jobs—my factory left to Costa Rica! You know they’re never coming back. And after these twelve weeks that I meet with you—I’ll receive no more checks! Like my neighbor Lulú says, El Obama is good, but not God.
I’m lucky because I’m fifty-five years old—wait, did I say fifty-five? I’m fifty-six! I stopped counting. If I don’t, I’ll be in a coffin sooner than I’m ready. The point is that I qualify for your Senior Workforce Program. Me, a senior? I told Lulú I’ll be a senior for the checks but not for the canas. Ha!
* * *
You want to know how I found out about La Escuelita? OK, I can tell you. One year ago we received this letter from the government that we must report to La Escuelita to take classes. If not, no more unemployment checks. I did not want to go to La Escuelita because it was far away in Harlem. So, in the first day, I paralyzed. I had to fight to get out of the bed. I sleep maybe one hour or two, almost nothing. I couldn’t even drink my café that morning. It was like I forgot how to dress. Does that ever happen to you? When the easy is impossible? But you have to understand, I stopped working in the factory and for twelve months I only wore my inside clothes. My belts, my blazers, my dresses—lost in the closet.
Thank God for Lulú who came to get me that morning. I tell you, on the first day of La Escuelita, Lulú appeared in my apartment with banana bread she makes at home, with nuts and chocolate, warm from the oven and said, You have fifteen minutes.
I didn’t want to make Lulú late, so I speed up. She knew I would never go to La Escuelita by myself. And for this I pay the price, because for the rest of my life she will say, What would you do without me?
But don’t worry, I don’t need Lulú to take me to work—I’m ready to confront life. Look, already I’m losing some weight so I can fit into my blazers. Don’t you think I look good with this one? You like it? Of course you do.
I never wear brown. My color is black. With my black eyes and hair, black makes me look elegant. This brown blazer is Lulú’s. She looks good in this color because she dyes her hair blond—well, it’s more like anaranjado because she does it from the box. But the color still looks good on her because her skin is like a penny. Not like a brilliant penny, more like an old penny. And she’s only fifty-four. I tell her to drink more water so she gets more glow. But she doesn’t listen. She is also more fat than me. But that doesn’t matter. We’re all more fat since losing our jobs. Lulú more than me. In fact, this blazer doesn’t fit her anymore, even when she wears the faja. She never takes off the faja. Never. Not even to sleep. OK, maybe sometimes to sleep. But even in the dreams she wants to look like a botella de Coca-Cola. But when I tried the blazer, you should’ve seen her face: arrugada. But it’s OK—jealousy. I’m accustomed to it. I know I was born with sugar in my pockets.
* * *
I loved La Escuelita. It opened my mind a lot. But it’s not easy. When we started, La Profesora said she could teach us to keep numbers. How to use the computer. Even to read and write English! Ha! I have been in this country twenty-five—wait, no, almost twenty-seven years. I speak English good. You understand me, right? OK. But to read and write English? ?No me entra! How you say a word in English is not how you write it. Why is that? You laugh, but it’s true.