At Rosedale Station

At Rosedale Train Station

Everyone has his own story to tell.

Waiting for the next train at Rosedale Station for my last minute shopping in Manhattan, I bumped into Maria, a very nice Colombiana in her 50’s. Maria is one of the many migrant workers in the Big Apple doing limpieza, or house cleaning, part- time or on-call basis.

Since the train is yet to arrive in the next hour, tried to strike a conversation with her in Spanglish. After all, an hour wait doing nothing is too much to bear.

She has two daughters in Antioquia and is separated from her husband. Most of the money she earns goes straight to Colombia for her daughters’ daily needs and education.

Life is not easy for her in New York but she exudes optimism. She has a happy disposition in life. In Antioquia she said, “Not all women have the same opportunity like me to be able to come and work in the US. I’m blessed. Gracias a Dios.”

I shared with her good memories of my recent visit in Medellin and in Bogota. She was fascinated but homesickness can be seen all over her face. “Que bonito! I had been planning to visit Antioquia for the last three years. I hope I can make it happen soon.” She said.

I’ve learned that she’s been in the US for seven years without seeing home. Her meager income has prevented her from doing so. Likewise, she is saving money for a house in Colombia. With a plastic bag of sandwich, fries and a can of soda in her hands, she was ready for supper when she gets to her apartment.

Her story is not extra-ordinary. In fact it is very common to several Filipinasworking abroad as domestic helpers. What interests me about her tale is that it’s full of hope for better days to come. It’s a noble story of doing great sacrifices for family members, of putting aside personal happiness so her children can live a decent life. Most important of all is the virtue of being grateful for the many blessings she receives, of being contented to life’s gifts no matter how big or small.

We had a very great time talking about going to a rumba or a discoteca, eating bandeja paisa and getting drunk of Antioquia’s old-time favorite Arguadiente. I told her that bandeja paisa is too heavy for me and that arguadiente is too strong. She burst in a minute of laughter. When she learned that we passed the night dancing salsa, her laughs were unstoppable.

Before we knew it, the long wait was over. The train arrived on time. We bid goodbye and exchanged besos. She was going towards Jamaica. I was heading to Penn Station.