Fostering Empathy for Immigrants: Finding Common Ground Through Shared Human Experiences
Every time I heard the spigot turn in the shower, I would run to the bathroom door and impatiently station myself outside of it. When she was ready to begin her daily makeup ritual, Mom would crack the door open to invite me in. Sitting on the toilet, I’d goggle at every brush stroke that added color to her cheeks. I’d gaze at the gentle precision of her coil-like brush that darkened and lengthened every eyelash after she craftily curled them with a teaspoon. Occasionally, she would pause and look down at me to ask my opinion on her progress with a playful glance over her shoulder, a puckering of her lips, and a batting of her freshly painted eyelashes. But, this time, she wouldn’t look at me. This time, as she elongated and enhanced her lashes, her hands shook, and her mouth quivered.
“Aye, esta cosa. Damn this thing,” she said, slamming the mascara brush down, then wiping her bloodshot eyes with a cotton pad spritzed with makeup remover, and started again. She took a deep breath that sounded like tiny gasps of air, then exhaled quickly and again struggled to keep her hand steady. I watched quietly, trying not to disturb her modified daily routine. This was the first time in a while that she had invited me in. She hadn’t worn makeup in months—not since my dad died. Her showers were longer now, and she seemed to cry louder while taking them than she did when she randomly locked herself up in her room.
For months, I sat outside the bathroom door and waited.
“You look beautiful, Mamí.” I smiled, hoping I didn’t upset her more and get myself thrown out. Reminding her she was beautiful always made her feel better, but this time, she just looked down, exhaled the weight of the world, and we both watched as a black tear splashed into the yellow stained porcelain sink.
“Dame un pedazo de papel,” she said, motioning toward the toilet paper roll on the tank behind me. She folded it into a triangle and used an angle to dry the inner corners of her eyes, then wiped the black trail off her cheek, left behind by the tear. She took a deep solid breath, looked up, and said, “Okay,” compelling the unfamiliar woman in the mirror to get her shit together.
I was afraid of her once. This fierce woman, and layer down of the law. A woman forced into fearlessness her entire life. Even at eleven, I knew of her courage and strength. Mom often told stories of having to defend her brothers from boys bigger than her when she was my age. When she was sixteen, Mama Maria, her mother, came to America, leaving her in Mexico to care for her seven younger brothers and sisters, before she too had to cross the border alone, accompanied by six other men.
As I gazed at her through the mirror, I wondered if, this time, the universe had finally knocked the shield and sword she always carried from her grasp
“I’m going to work,” she said, rushing out of the bathroom after a car honked outside. She took a seat on the couch to frantically tuck her jeans into the ugliest brown boots I’d ever seen.
Work? I wondered. You don’t work. She had been a housewife my whole life.
The honking became more frantic. Distracted by her beauty ritual, I hadn’t paid attention to her clothes. She wore an ugly long-sleeved red and blue men’s flannel shirt buttoned at the wrists and tucked into a pair of my dad’s jeans that were baggy on her. A red paisley bandana she wore under my dad’s Marlboro trucker hat, tucked into the shirt collar, covered her hair.
I walked over to the living room window and saw a large produce truck parked in front of the house, its bed crowded with Hispanic women and men dressed like my mother.
I didn’t understand what was happening; whatever it was, it didn’t feel right. My heart began to pound. Why is she working? I wondered, who are those people in the truck, why is she dressed so horribly––and those boots, though.
She stood at the door for an eternal second, examining me. I could see how hard leaving was for her. When her lower lip began to quiver, she shut the door. Mom ran to the back of the truck, and two men lifted her by the arms to help her in. I watched from the window as she found a place to sit—between two older women with sunburnt, sullen faces holding on to their straw hats.
Diosito. bring her home safe, I prayed––words I would whisper to myself for years every time she left for work.
Just as I was about to cry, I watched her sit up straight in her seat among all the others’ tired, defeated, dark brown faces. She gripped her thermos in one hand, rested it on her knee, while the other hand clutched her Thrifty’s lunch sack that she rested on the other knee––shield and sword ready, I realized. We locked eyes and she smiled that it’s going to be okay smile moms smile when they know you’re afraid.
And for a while. It would be.
A few weeks ago, this was the memory that flashed into my mind in the produce section of the Gay Kroger in the Highlands when I overheard a conversation between two young college-aged men.
“Oh, it’s so hard picking these apples,” a guy mocked as he placed the red fruit that might have been picked by a sad child’s mother, father, sibling, or, in many cases, grandparent, trying to bring to fruition the opportunity of a promised dream, into his noisy shopping cart. Curiosity won, and I looked up in what should have been amazement or surprise, but language like this has become too regular for that. The guy he was shopping with’s chuckle was interrupted when he noticed his friend’s comment had caught the attention of the brown-skinned man standing just a few feet away.
Shame was evident on his face, caused by the impromptu reaction of my smirk and rolling eyes.
“He didn’t mean anything by it,” he defended.
For a brief second, I wanted to insult him back. I wanted to call him a racist or lower (and age) myself by calling him an ignoramus, but instead, I decided I would share a story.
“You know,” I said, then sighed and smiled that lopsided it’s not okay, but I understand you’re just an ignorant prick smile struggling to remain composed people smile. “After my dad died, leaving my mother with four kids under the age of ten, working in the fields was the first job forced to retire housewife could get in order to put food on the table. Twelve, thirteen hours in the hot California Sun so that people like us could place the same picked fruit in these noisy-ass, wobbly shopping carts.”
“Whatever, dude,” the insulter said as he pushed his cart to the next aisle. The shamed-faced friend stayed behind.
“Can you imagine? Your mom out there. Doing that?” I tsked, examining an orange before placing it in my cart. “It sucks.”
“Yeah, man, that does suck. We were just kidding, though; we really didn’t mean anything by it,” he apologized, then joined his friend.
Just do better, I mumbled to myself and continued to pick my fruit.
We all need to do better.
This got me thinking about all the othering we’ve seen lately and how much the us vs them language perpetuates dehumanization. What if shamed-faced friend had rejected ignoramus’s comment rather than chuckling? Perhaps ignoramus would have responded with a dismissive “you’re too sensitive,” or maybe, not understanding why, he would have realized what he said wasn’t funny. Either way, he probably wouldn’t use language like that again––not in front of this friend who had rejected his comment. This is a change in the right direction.
While storytelling can effectively highlight our common humanity, as we all experience similar emotions, life goals, and struggles, like a mother doing her best to care for her children, I believe by rejecting hurtful language, we can begin to promote the change needed to combat discrimination towards others.
