-> G21 FICTION
 BECOME A SPONSOR OF THE WORLD'S MAGAZINE.
WHY should you advertise here? We'll tell you.
VA LOAN INFORMATION and VETERANS' MORTGAGES Music Download Universe & Great Ebay Info KATRINA & THE LOST CITY OF NEW ORLEANS by Rod Amis New Orleans is the Lost City of America. Rod Amis, publisher of G21: The World's Magazine, once believed one of the best bartenders in New Orleans, tells the story like no one else could. A portion of the proceeds of this book will go to the New Orleans Hospitality Workers Fund. The cooks, servers and restaurant workers of New Orleans have provided fabulous times and memories for millions. Now we must remember them in their time of need.
Buy the book or get a downloadable PDF Copy now!
 AFRICA FRESH! New Voices from the First Continent
An anthology of African writing only featured on the Internet until now, this book features the collected works of writers for the G21 AFRICA section of G21.net. The eight writers represented here are from around the continent and present an exciting look at cutting-edge fiction and reporting from the first continent today. Buy the book or get a downloadable PDF copy now! |
To read this article in Deutsch, Francaise, Italiano, Portuguese, Espanol, Korean, Japanese, Chinese, copy and paste the complete URL ("http://www.g21.net/fict8.html") and enter it in the box after you click through.
PAVING THE ROAD Ten Years of Truthspeak 1996-2006 G21 AFRICA MPHUTHUMI NTABENI, South Africa G21 AFRICA BONIFAS ODUOR-OWINGA, United States G21 FICTION MPHUTHUMI NTABENI, South Africa G21 FICTION CYNTHIA JELE, United Kingdom JOIN OUR MAILING LIST. It contains more jokes than not. GLOBAL*BEAT CATRIONA STUART, United States SMOKE & MIRRORS ROD AMIS, G21 World HQ THE PREVIOUS EDITION MEET THE G-CREW! These are the people behind this jam-band every week. HOME TABLE OF CONTENTS & BACK ISSUES BECOME A SPONSOR OF THE WORLD'S MAGAZINE.
WHY should you advertise here? We'll tell you. Send Page To a Friend We know you're lazy. Here's a button for a quick translation of this page. Just click on the flag for your country. You're welcome! OR TRY THIS GOOGLE TRANSLATION SERVICE. |
G21 FICTION - THE GOOD NANNY: New South African writer CYNTHIA JELE debuts with a piece on the circumstances of foreign-born nannies in the United States.
She is an illegal immigrant and works as a live-in nanny for a wealthy suburban family. The Halters, who she found in the 'Help Wanted' section of the local newspaper, have two children. The children are Sara, a freckled face ballerina with erratic temper tantrums, and a bowlegged, floppy toddler named Dylan.
Cynthia Jele The children's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Halter - despite their insistence, she simply cannot refer to by their first names, Tom and Kelly - are a pleasant couple with busy work schedules. She is not entirely certain what they do, something in consulting.
The Halters live in an expansive six bedroom, five bath brick Georgian home, complete with a three car garage. She never stops marveling at the towering structure; its imposing four front pillars and white shutters, that match the double French doors which open into a foyer with a crystal chandelier that she believes must cost nearly half her year's salary.
Once a year in the summer, Hispanic men - it is always Hispanic men - with tall sturdy ladders come to wash the windows. She and the children picnic in the front yard on those days, watching the men's swift and precise movements, their yellow skins drenched in sweat and glistening in the Midwestern sun. She brings out lemonade for the children, chilled cola drinks for the men.
"Gracias, mamacita," they say. Sometimes they wink at her and she blushes.
Her bedroom in the basement, too, is vast and furnished with all the amenities - a cushy queen-sized bed, a larger-than-life walk-in closet and a television with so many channels she can never find a desirable program when she wants one. Often, she gives up and settles for the program guide channel, watching the programs scroll by. She hasn't managed to operate the DVD player.
This living arrangement is a far cry from the modest wooden shack she calls home back in her country and which her husband and two children share with his parents and her dead sister-in-law's children.
Her heart aches each time she enters Sara or Dylan's extravagantly decorated rooms; her small girls share a bunk bed with their two cousins.
She is thirty-five years old. She came to this country in a desperate attempt to help put food on the table. She is a qualified teacher in her country, an educated woman, a somebody.
She remembers the day she received her teacher's diploma, what a joyful day that was. No more living in poverty while her husband worked two jobs, barely scraping enough together to provide for the family and her college tuition. No more living in squalid conditions, in a foundationless slum with no electricity and running water. She is a teacher now; she will find work, a good job, she told herself.
For three years she searched for a job, a teaching post at first. Nothing came through. The education department enforced a hiring freeze on all teaching posts. The government has no money, she was told. She waited patiently; the freeze never lifted.
Dejected but hopeful, with her diploma under her arm, she set out to look for another job - any job. Nothing. Too many qualified persons, not enough opportunities. She had no alternative but to look someplace else.
She, however, cannot teach here, they tell her. Her education is not good enough for this country; her qualifications frowned upon, irrelevant. Here she is an uneducated, undocumented nobody. She is despondent and penniless when she finds the Halters. They take to her immediately. Perhaps they're drawn to her maturity. Perhaps they simply pity her.
*****She has been with the Halters for over three years now, thirty eight months to be exact. She intends to make this her final year with them. Her husband, now self-employed, thanks to the money she's been wiring home each month through Western Union, tells her he's saving most of it so she can finally open the international eatery she dreams of when she returns.
She no longer wishes to educate; the dream of making a difference died in her heart a long time ago. The new house, a real brick home with cement foundation, is almost complete. He'll be moving in with the children very soon, he tells her. Her children keep her sane. She draws her strength from listening to their eager voices during their monthly phone calls. Tears pour down from her eyes whenever she looks at their pictures. They've grown.
It breaks her heart that she hasn't seen them the entire time she's been here. She doesn't have the right traveling documents.
She has made a few friends with other live-in nannies. They, like her, come from all over the world: Bulgaria, Lithuania, Mexico and Poland, and each has a poignant story to tell: ailing parents, hungry children, prejudiced in-laws, cheating spouses.
They meet at the park, watch the children run free. They bring picnic baskets, share the contents, and reminisce about home. They also gossip endlessly about the rich and vain employers: whose divorce is the nastiest, who is salvaging the remains of the marriage by having a surprise baby, who is filing for Chapter 13 bankruptcy.
(Do you know anyone looking for a nanny?), who is having an affair with his secretary (Should I tell Sue about the notes I keep finding in his pants?), who has had work done (No way! Oh yes, the nose is definitely not hers) and whose children are on medication (At least the tantrums have stopped. That boy is impossible. I'm tempted to smack the crap out of him).
They daydream about having that amount of money, what they could do with it. They laugh themselves silly afterwards.
*****She works fifty hours a week. She bathes, feeds, drives, and entertains the children. She also cooks, cleans the house, washes, irons, and mends ripped clothes. She spends her days off, half-a-Saturday and a full Sunday, in her room reading. She has taken to Maya Angelou. She also reads the self-help and inspirational books Mrs. Halter passes to hers: Chicken Soup for the Soul, Five People You Meet in Heaven, The Purpose Driven Life. She stays clear of the weight loss and diet books making up half of the Halters' bookshelves.
She also frequents the $2 movie theater and the Chinese buffet three blocks from the house. She likes the sweet and tangy chicken with beef fried rice. Before she came here, she had never eaten Chinese food before. Sometimes she and her friends take a train to the city where they visit museums and ethnic neighborhoods, or simply stroll by the lake.
In the summer, she takes the children to the neighborhood pool everyday for a few hours. They like it there. She watches Dylan waddle and splash in the 'kiddie' pool, his blue water goggles tightly clad on his face. He refuses to go near the water without them. Sara likes the water slide. Now that she is able to go on her own, she climbs the fifty steps and slithers gleefully down the yellow tube.
"Hey guys, did you see me? I'm really good at this," Sara says, galloping back up. She does this the entire time they're there.
*****On this particular afternoon, she is at the pool with the children. After choosing a spot behind the lifeguard's station under the umbrella shade, she unpacks the beach bag and puts their goggles on. She realizes she has left the sunscreen lotion in the car; Dylan was playing with the tube on their way to the pool. It is hot, above 100 degrees, the children need sunscreen lotion.< /p>
None of her nanny friends are there to lend her some. She doesn't dare ask other parents, in case they think her irresponsible. She tells Sara to watch her little brother while she runs to the car to get the lotion. She can see the car from where they're seated, and will be able to keep an eye on them. She instructs her firmly not to go near the water until she returns. Sara nods and grabs Dylan's hand. She is a good girl sometimes.
She has just closed the car door, lotion in one hand, when sharp screams and whistles blare. It can't be a signal for adult swim, she thinks, perhaps a child has had 'an accident' in the water, again. She scurries back. The pool has been cleared, and disgruntled swimmers gather by the lifeguard's station blocking her view of the children.
"Call an ambulance! Somebody call the damn ambulance!"
A woman's voice echoes over the mumbling pool attendants, "Whose child is this? Who's responsible for this child?"
She searches for Sara and Dylan, but they are not in the chairs under the umbrella where she left them.
She starts to panic. She feels the blood rush through her face, her heartbeat increasing. Tears begin to form in her eyes. Where are they? Please, God, don't let it be them. Whatever is happening over there, don't let it be them.
She moves closer to the crowd, pushing her way through. Now the teenage boy lifeguard is yelling, but his voice is muffled by the increasing murmurs.
"I can't believe someone would leave children alone like this."
"So irresponsible!"
"This is unacceptable, somebody needs parenting lessons."
At last she's in the front. The first thing she notices are Dylan's Spiderman trunks, the ones she bought only yesterday at K-mart, and the ones he insisted on wearing to bed.
Dylan is in the lifeguard's arms, and appears engrossed by the red whistle hanging on the lifeguard's neck.
"He's with me," she says, surprised to find her voice.
As she approaches the lifeguard, she feels everyone's eyes burrowing through her back, senses their disapprovals.
"Martha, Martha!"
She hears Sara's voice. She sees the girl, dripping, her small knees relentlessly knocking against each other. She bends down, kneels on the concrete and flings her arms wide open.
"I'm so sorry, Martha. Are you mad at me?"
"It's not you fault, Baby," she says to the child. "Everything is all right."
Dylan spots them then. He wiggles out of the lifeguard's arms straight into hers. He is smiling.
"Martha, me go water. Me go water!"
He says to her with the same pride he displays after he completes a picture puzzle by himself. She knows he expects a response, praise: good boy, Dylan. She only draws him tighter to her.
The lifeguard is addressing her, asking questions or illuminating what happened, she can't tell. The only sound she hears is of the children's heartbeats throbbing gently on her chest. She closes her eyes and prays in silence.
The blowing whistles jostle her. The crowd, just as quickly as it gathered, disperses. Children giggle and water splashes; the pool's lively order is restored.
*****The paramedics arrive shortly after and check on the boy. He'll be fine, they tell her. Make sure he stays warm. You're lucky ma'am the guards saw the child before he was on the deep end, the accident could have been fatal. Children this young almost never make it.
Before they leave, they congratulate the staff for doing an outstanding job. The young lifeguard, whom she assumes pulled Dylan out of the pool, beams. She pictures him being awarded a golden bravery star by the pool association; his job secure for the following summer.
The police arrive next.
Except for a few gossipy parents jabbing fingers in her direction, the pool shows no sign of an earlier disturbance. Now she wishes she had taken the risk and asked them to spare some lotion.
"Ma'am, I'm Sergeant Cooper. Are you the kids' care provider?" He asks, not bothering with the pretense that she could be more than a nanny to them. Perhaps her outdated swimsuit and cheap sandals give her away.
The sergeant isn't a big man, but his face, red and bully, and his snapping voice of a dog, commands attention. In general, she is intimidated by law enforcers. On the road she drives the minimum speed, stops perhaps a second too long at intersections; she doesn't mind the honks and hauls of insults and flipped fingers from other motorists.
"Yes," she replies sheepishly.
He pulls out a small notebook from his back pocket and asks for her name, address, and an ID. She gives him this information. Her identity card is fake. She paid a man, a nameless Ukrainian, about $150 for it. The officer doesn't notice. He hands it back to her.
"Can you give details of what happened?"
He writes everything she says down, his pen moves furiously through the pages.
"And where are the kids' parents?"
"They are in Florida and are not due until tomorrow."
He looks at her and sighs.
"Ma'am, this is serious offense. I'm afraid I can't leave you alone with them. Is there anybody else, a relative or close family friend that can take care of them until their parents return?"
"Sir?"
"I can't release the kids to your care, Ma'am."
She wants to say, Sir, I'm a good nanny. I've been with the family for three years. I changed Dylan's first diaper, saw him take his first step. It was me who left two quarters under Sara's pillow when she lost her first tooth. I'm so sorry for what happened. Please don't take them away. Instead she begins to weep.
Sergeant Cooper lowers his voice and hesitates for a second, like doctors when they're about to announce devastating news to the patient's family. He tells her about the severity of the incident at hand, about child negligence, and how the law doesn't take kindly to such cases.
"I'm afraid after the children are taken care of I have to take you with me. If you don't have anyone, we can arrange for foster care until the parents get back."
She doesn't know what foster care is, but she doesn't like the sound of it. From her cell phone, with trembling hands, she dials the children's grandmother, Nana, who lives only a few miles from the Halters' house. Nana is not the preferred contact, she and Mrs. Halter, her daughter-in-law, are not on good speaking terms. But she has no choice.
Nana picks up on the third ring. She begins to speak, her lips are moving, that she's certain of. On the other side of the line, Nana keeps asking, "Who is this? Martha, is that you, honey? Martha?" Nana barely understands her thick accent; she has to repeat herself with her, always:
"I'll drop off the kids at three."
"What, honey?"
"I'll drop off the kids at three."
"Oh, you'll drop off the kids at three."
Now, she tries again, speaking slowly this time. She notices she's talking in her native language. She stops.
"Come to the pool, the subdivision pool," she says in frustration. "Please, come right away."
She tries to remain strong and not let the children see her cry, but tears gush down her cheeks. Sara smoothes them out with the back of her small hand.
"Don't cry, Martha," she whispers to her.
With the children clutched in her arms, she gathers the rest of their stuff and exits the pool. She knows she won't be coming back.
The sergeant offers to carry the pool bag and the children's flip flops. She can barely see the way; her eyes are blinded by tears. Sara, diva Sara who sometimes screams at her, "I don't have to listen to you, you're not my mommy", who throws a fit when the peas in her plate touch the rice, looks up at her. Then she wriggles out of her arm, stands on her feet and she grabs her hand.
"This way, Martha. The car is this way."
It seems like a ges before the children's Nana arrives.
"Oh my God, Martha! What happened? Are you okay?"
She jumps out of the car, leaving it straddled between two parking spots and runs towards them. Dylan shouts with delight and extends his arms towards Nana.
"Nana, Nana! Me go water! Yeah, me swim!"
The sergeant clears his throat. Nana turns to him. Referring to his notebook, he reiterates what he was told.
"But you can't take her away. She made an honest mistake, the children are fine. She's been very good with them."
Her sobs soften. An ounce of courage returns to her; Nana is here, everything will be fine, she convinces herself.
Sergeant Cooper maintains his stance; child negligence is a serious offense. "Only yesterday, we had to bring in a mother for leaving her children in the car unattended while she did her shopping. An entire hour in this heat, unbelievable! She's facing felony charges for child neglect and reckless endangerment."
"That's an entirely different situation," Nana interjects. "Martha didn't do anything closely foolish." Nana starts to get furious; the sergeant is unbending.
"It's police matter now, Ma'am. Unfortunately I can't say anymore. She'll have to come with me."
"We'll sort this out, Martha. Don't you worry; we'll take care of this mess. God, I'm so sorry this is happening to you."
At that moment she realizes it's over; she's going to jail. Nothing Nana says will save her. She has never been to prison, but knows of its ugliness: the beatings, rape, mental insanity, and self-destruction. She cries with shame. She's a common criminal now.
[CONCLUDES Next Edition. - Ed.]
CYNTHIA JELE is an aspiring South African writer who hopes one day to write well enough to be paid in cash, and not in contributory copies, for her efforts. Cynthia lived in the US for many years, first as an au pair (a fancy name for nanny), and later as a student in Illinois. She currently lives in London, but is returning permanently to her home country at the end of this year where she will assume responsibilities of?being a grown up. Her works of fiction have appeared in the Prairie Light Review, a college literary review.? Cynthia has two projects in the pipeline, a self-published guide titled, 'So You Wanna be an Au Pair in the USA: What Your Agency Will Never Tell', and an untitled and unfinished women's contemporary novel. This is her first piece for The World's Magazine.
© 2006, GENERATOR 21.
E-mail your comments. We always like to hear from you. Send your snide remarks to rod@g21.net.