by Jennifer Ross
Ana first gave me a manicure the day before our daughter’s wedding, and over the years I have learned much about her. She is from Guatemala, has five children and three grandchildren, lives in Brooklyn, loves dancing, and is a devout Catholic. She always tells me she will pray for me and my family. We chitchat about the stores in the neighborhood and the ever-changing restaurants, and we are both happy when a Housing Works opens nearby, as we share a passion for used clothing and goods.
In 2019, on the day before Thanksgiving, I am her last client, and she asks me what I am cooking for the feast. I tell her we are flying to my husband’s family in Chicago, so all I have to do is buy some gifts. “Yes, it’s good to spend the holiday with family.” I ask her what she is making and her face grows solemn. “I am going to visit my son who is in prison in upstate New York. We leave in the van at midnight and get there at 8:00 a.m. We visit, then it’s a long ride back.”
I am at a loss for words.
“He was accused of murder and got 25 years to life. We are lucky. New York does not have the death penalty. We have a lawyer who will appeal”. I have no words. “Safe travels and god bless.” I thank her and leave.
I see her before Christmas that year.
“Everyone good in the family?” she asks.
“Yes, but our daughter is pregnant with twins and it is a very high-risk pregnancy. I am really worried.”
“I will say extra prayers for her and the babies.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it”.
Covid hits, and the salon closes. When it reopens, she asks about the twins, and I show her the pictures, telling her that though they were born eight weeks prematurely they are doing well. “Let’s thank God for that,” she says. “I have a new baby granddaughter in Kentucky.” Then her phone rings, and she has to excuse herself. “It is my son in prison,” she says, “and he is only allowed one call a week. He is depressed. They no give him no work, and don’t let him study.”
I tell her I’m sorry to hear it.
“Our appeal failed, we paid the lawyer a lot of money and he don’t do nothing.” I ask whether she can get another lawyer. “Yes, but too much money. A lawyer who got parole for a prisoner wants $100,000. What people have money like that?”
Again, I have no words.
In September 2023, Ana is very excited because her son in Kentucky has offered her a trip anywhere, and she has chosen to go with her church to Israel, the following month. “Our priest will say a mass in the church where Jesus was born, and I will pray for my son and all my family. We will go to the places he walked, he did miracles, where he died and where he came back to us.” Her youngest son has a job with the New York City ferries which he loves, and her husband, who had been unemployed, has found a job.
I see her in December. It turns out that her trip was cancelled, following the October 7 Hamas attack, and she is disappointed. Her church is going instead to Rome, and holy places in France and Portugal. I tell her that that will be interesting: Rome is beautiful. “No,” she says, “I will wait for peace in the Holyland. I want to go where Jesus lived, and I will pray for peace. It will come soon.” I wish I had her faith.
I see her in late January, a cold gray day, before leaving for sunshine in Barbados. Her phone rings and it is her son. She is down when she returns. He told her he only got some frozen rice for dinner. “ I told him to heat it on the radiator but there is no heat”. I check the temperature in Elmira, New York: -10F. A prisoner was found dead that morning: he was sick and begged for help but was left to die, his screams echoing through the prison. Is this in NY, with its vast wealth? Are we now land of the cruel, home of the callous?
That summer Ana is optimistic. She has good news. “My son will move from upstate New York to Sing Sing. It Is much nearer and I can go by train, then a short cab ride to visit. They will let him start studying. He wants to be a paralegal.”
We discuss her outfit for her nephew’s wedding. She needs three different dresses: for the rehearsal dinner, the church, and the dance party. We look at her phone and I weigh in. “Yes, those are the ones I like best,” she says. “Now I need shoes.”
I see her a few days before the election. I have my “I voted early” sticker on. We discuss nail colors and she notices the sticker. “I will vote tomorrow, but I am worried. My youngest son’s girlfriend is illegal. Her mother brought her here when she was three, and she never got her legal. She shows me a picture of her and her son. “Oh they are an attractive couple. She is so pretty.” “Yes, she is a sweetheart, and so smart. She is studying to be an x-ray technician. But I don’t know what will happen if….” I wonder if she is in the DACA program, but I don’t ask.*
I change the subject, saying that it must be good having her son closer to home.” “Well, yes and no. I do see him more but the wait to get in is much longer. The other day it took four hours.” “Where do you wait?” “We wait outside.” “Why? Did you wait outside upstate in the freezing winter weather?” “Yes, but never more than two hours. Here they say they are short-staffed.”
For the first time her voice is angry and bitter. “Why do they treat us so bad. We don’t do nothing bad. We work and work and take care of everybody. Why do they treat us like animals? No, they treat animals more better here. Why do they punish us?’
I too feel angry. This is the richest country in the world. When I worked at Queens Plaza, I used to see a long line of women and children, waiting for the bus to the prison at Riker’s Island. I now wonder how long they had to wait, standing outside in all weathers, and how they were treated,
Ana sighs heavily. “What you gonna do?” I am done. The next client enters. Ana puts on her bright and breezy face to greet her. I leave with her “God bless” and walk out into a golden afternoon. God bless America.
**
*The Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program was announced by President Barack Obama on June 15, 2012. The U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) began accepting applications in August 2012. It was an executive order, never passed into law, and can be revoked.
Jenny is a retired English teacher who taught high school and college. These pieces were written during the writing SG in Fall 2024, coordinated by Charles Troob and Susan Smahl.