Walking in another [wo]man's shoes

The following is the first of my efforts toward translating the scenes from the Louisville Catholic Worker home of hospitality into words on a page, and stories that share meaning.

“I look forward to hearing from you,” I suggest, sitting beside her in the backseat, hoping my voice would be inaudible in the background of the voicemail she’s leaving.  Flustered, she looks at me blankly.  Her mouth loosely mimics the basic sounds of the phrase, nearly involuntarily, before she embarrassingly punches the “end” button on her at&t GoPhone.

“I for hear you?” she asks, trying to grasp the tense-layered nicety to which she’d just been introduced.  It was bad timing on my part; I should have let her exit the call naturally.  Today had already required enough patient imitation from this 29-year-old, Mexican mother of 4 recovering from a serious bout of depression.  It was a 20-minute drive just to get to the staffing agency’s headquarters, let alone the half hour we spent holding out for eye contact from one of the job placement personnel in the lobby.  There must have been a misunderstanding, the job candidates are only called in once there is a placement available.  She should return home and await further contact. 

She rustles through her purse, a black faux leather bag with decorative zippers.  It was probably a practical purchase back when her weekends still included the occasional salsa dance and cerveza.  Now, it doubled as a filing cabinet.  She’s learned to cling tightly to any shred of identification or liability; her temporary worker ID card, the most recent LG&E bill, an “authorized pick up” permission slip from her children’s daycare still awaiting signature, a notice from her work of her upcoming FMLA expiration, and the prescription for the anti-depressants she still refuses to take. Surely fiberglass assembly would be a welcome replacement for meatpacking, which, after 2 years, had left her nearly as cold, sterile, and severed as the slabs of pork and chicken she hurriedly sliced and packed daily.

Her eyes loosen in severity as she pulls out the small, sturdy travel calendar she’d been searching for — its bright pink, plastic cover echoes its transport in contrasting her emotional state.  Flipping to the few lined pages of “Notes” in the back, she sounds out each word as she jots it down, stringing them together like beads on a chain.  She even chooses the proper form of “hear”.  Knowing her reputation of being doggedly independent, even to the point of obstinate, I am struck by the need she’s exhibiting for certainty, order, consistency. She’s gradually putting into practice some of the techniques emphasized in her group therapy sessions.  Take time for yourself, find the root source of your feelings and address them, allow for the people around you to help.