The Gift of Dignity

By chance, both Mari and Gloria wrote me long notes yesterday to tell me of the gift I and my guests here at the villa have given them: the return of their dignity.

Gloria at work

Mari at the hotel, having a Coke with me

Today I’ll write about Gloria’s note; tomorrow, Mari’s.

Gloria’s note tells us that she was born into a poor and humble family. By the age of 14 she was working in Panama City as a servant, and suffering great humiliation – such as the employer who counted the slices of bread, and docked Gloria’s pay if she ate more than one piece for breakfast. From then until now, the blows have come often and hard. Moments of even slightly better fortune have been few.  People such as Gloria learn to keep their heads bowed, their eyes downcast, their shoulders bent, the better to escape the enmity of the world around them. One of her employers told Gloria that the problems between rich and poor are the fault of the poor, who envy all the blessings God has rightly bestowed on the upper class who know what to do with them.

Gloria asked me if I remembered 2008, when she and I first met. As I was leaving the villa, I gave her some money so that she would have a financial cushion of sorts. I told her that it pained me greatly to hear of her being treated badly by employers. I said that if people were unkind to her, she needed to be able to leave and find other work and not have to worry about whether her family would eat that night. And I told her that when she talks to people, she needs to keep her head up, her eyes looking straight ahead, and her shoulders back. The renters who followed me were, in fact, people she describes as “ogres”. Instead of crumbling, she called her supervisor in the rental management company and told her she wouldn’t work for these people if they continued to treat her badly. This was a first for Gloria, and the outcome was good. The supervisor spoke to the renters, and their demeanor improved.

The crux of Gloria’s letter today is that we have given back her dignity in small but enormously significant ways. I invite her not just to prepare the food, but to sit at the table with us and eat. I and my guests visit her home. We take her on outings with us: to the casino, the zip line, on shopping trips to Penonome. If she stays here late and misses the inexpensive transport I give her money for a taxi, instead of expecting her to walk the four miles to the village. Here, in her words, is the essence of the gift:

“Although I am born poor and humble, you and your friends have shown me that we are equal in the eyes of God. It doesn’t matter to you that I am dark, that I never got to study, that I wear inexpensive and poorly made clothing and shoes because that is what I can afford. It matters to you that I am a person, a wife and mother, a good worker, a person of faith. You care whether I have had breakfast, if I look tired, if I am preoccupied about something. When you can, you help. You care about me, and you have helped me care more about myself. Now I am a woman of boldness and courage, and not just an ungrateful servant.”

And all of this – the letter and long conversation – happened today before breakfast.

Tags: teachable moments