the older women at my workplace.
I look at older people a lot, I try to imagine the kinds of lives they led, and how they lived their youth. What were their dreams and aspirations? Did they even have dreams? Did they worry about the future?
There are a lot of immigrant women at my workplace. I watch them walk away, and I imagine how tired they must be considering how tired I am.
Do they cry after a stressful day at work? Do they wish it was better? that they didn’t have to do all these things, like wearing sneakers and jeans and having to listen to people speak English all day?
Do they wish they had done something different in their youth? Was moving to the U.S. a part of their plan? Did they move because of war, unrest, and economic instability? Do they curse the leaders whose fault it is? “Fuck you for making me come to this country and speak a language I barely understand?”
I’m forever curious. When they tell me about their children, their friends, or their home country, I listen intently; maybe I can imagine a little more accurately.
I wonder if they’d ever go back, do they still have a home in their hometown? Where are the friends from their youth?
When they struggle to explain a situation or understand what a manager is saying, I wonder what thoughts are running through their minds at that moment.
There are two kinds; the first half speaks in loud tones as if it’ll make their broken English clearer, and the second speaks in hushed tones like they want to mask their inability to speak “correct” English. It is a black-and-white chart.
They tell me to focus on school. “You’re young, you have to go to school. Okay?” Are they speaking to their younger selves through me? Or is it a motherly instinct? to tell one’s child to focus on school because it’s believed that education is the gateway to a bright future? I wonder.
I hope the conclusion to their story will be gay. full of rest, happiness, and good company, as the elderly deserve. I hope it happens for them.
