A few months ago, I expressed the prolonged pain I felt for my mother because she worked under sweatshop-like conditions; she assembled products for Tiffany & Co. and earned 0.0001% of the products’ market price. Her workplace does not exist; you can’t even find it if you stand right outside of it. But it is there, and it is how she survives- a widow, an immigrant, an elderly woman and a mother of three. She has damaged her own physical health manufacturing parts for people to wear. Yet she has thanked God each day because yes, she finally had a job. 

That, now, is in jeopardy. Today, my sister and I threw a surprise birthday party for my older brother; only two clusters of our cousins and his best friend showed. My mother was the light of the party, and she soon found her way to the Vodka. And after the liquor reached its intent, she began pouring out the news on her work; this never happens. Mother stays silent to comfort her kids, and to let us think we are not poor, but wealthy, even without a father. But her strength had left, and freedom of non-censorship replaced it. For the months of February and March, Tiffany & Co. placed an order that would typically take them two weeks to manufacture. It looks like my mother’s three year search for a job was futile. Maybe this will work out for the best? Maybe we will find a better, less stressful job. Or Maybe God hates us and has put my family through hell since September 3, 2006. 


2 thoughts on “Immigranda

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