Glimpse - Your Stories from Abroad

“Noemí,” my host father says to the empleada as they are both standing in the kitchen, “Can you make me a piece of toast with butter?”

The first thing I wonder is why he can't make the toast himself. He is standing next to the toaster, and Noemí is busy washing dishes at the sink. Never mind, I tell myself, this is none of my business.

Moments later, my host father is sitting across from me as I sip my coffee. He noisily flips through his newspaper, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose and leaning forward to see better. Suddenly, he looks up.

“Noemí,” he says again, this time with annoyance. “I asked you to make me toast.”

There is silence from the kitchen, then the sound of shuffling feet.

I stare into my cup, wondering how I can sit here and let my host father speak to Noemí that way. At the same time, how can I, as a guest in my host father’s home, tell him how to treat his employees? Am I confined to being an observer, even if that role means watching someone else be mistreated?

From the moment I moved into my host family's home, I've been uncomfortable with the abundance of hired help that is present at any given time. Both my host mom and dad own businesses, so it's not a surprise that they are extremely busy and don't have the time to do everything for themselves and their two daughters. For this reason, they hire a secretary, a chauffeur, and Noemí, the 30-year-old empleada (housekeeper) who lives in a small room adjacent to the backyard.

While I'm not accustomed to having hired help, I’m not necessarily opposed to the practice—it provides jobs to people like Noemí, who come from far away to take advantage of Lima's educational opportunities. I just can’t understand why my host family treats Noemí so disrespectfully. My host parents are both warm, friendly people, giving affectionate hugs to my host sisters, asking me how my day was, and greeting visitors with kisses on the cheek. Meanwhile, Noemí seems to remain invisible, unless she is being barked at.

Class divides in Peru are historically ingrained and often correlate directly to one’s complexion—or, in other words, to the amount of indigenous blood coursing through one’s veins. Coming from a country that claims to be both classless and colorblind, I have found the blatant racial and economic hierarchies difficult to adjust to.

Initially, Noemí acted reserved and shy toward me, never saying more than a few words at a time. Then one night, when my host mother was working late and my host father had taken my sisters to see a movie, Noemí and I started talking about our families and homes. She is originally from a small town in the rainforest in northern Peru, where much of Peru's indigenous population lives, but she came to Lima to find work and study, in the hopes of starting her own advertising business. She told me she didn't want to stay where her brothers and sisters were, because they had all gotten married and settled down, and she wanted a chance to do something different. The thought resonated with me, because just like Noemí, I had come to Peru to push myself outside of my comfort zone, to learn things I could never learn back home, and in a sense, to be different.

“When was the last time you saw your family?” I wanted to know.

“Four years ago,” she said.

“Four years? Why so long?” I realized how foolish the question was before I finished asking it.

“I have to work,” she said through a sigh. Then after a long pause, she continued, “but Señor Luis hasn't paid me in three months. I reminded him a few times, and he tells me he forgot, but then he still doesn't pay me.”

This revelation shocked me the most. “I'm so sorry,” was all I could say.

She went on to say that she even suspected my host father was going into her bedroom on the weekends to make sure she wasn't stealing from the family. The door to her room was often open when she returned to it and he sometimes asked her about missing items in the house with a condescending, suspicious tone. I saw the tears welling up in her eyes as she spoke.

From then on, Noemí and I sought out moments to speak to one another in private, when my host family was not around. At first I didn't understand why we had to keep our friendship secret, but Noemí told me that my host parents got jealous if she spent too much time talking to my host sister, and she was sure they listened in on her conversations because they didn't trust her. I didn’t want my host parents to feel betrayed or insulted by my friendship with Noemí, and I felt obligated to respect the boundaries my family had set in place. I wanted both Noemí and my host family to like me.

I’m not the only one who has struggled with this dilemma. One of my American friends actually moved out of her house because she couldn't stand the way her host family mistreated the empleada. On the other hand, I have visited a friend's house where the empleada was treated as part of the family. She once offered to take us to one of her favorite shopping areas, and when I asked her if it was OK for her to leave the house, she looked confused, as if I had asked a silly question.

The best solution I’ve been able to come up with is to balance my loyalties—that is, to treat Noemí the way I would want to be treated, while accepting that this might mean making an effort to reach out to her when my host parents are not around. To combat my sense of helplessness within my own household, I also volunteer once a week with an NGO that helps empleadas deal with the frustrations and limitations of their work. La Casa de Panchita is a support-group style home where empleadas can go to talk about the problems they're having with their employers—for example, long hours, low pay, name-calling, sexual advances—and take workshops to learn ways to address them.

And of course, I continue talking to Noemí whenever I can. When she recently told me she was considering leaving and seeking work elsewhere, my heart sunk, but I supported her decision. She has already been looking for side jobs, using her skills in art to make invitations and greeting cards for clients. I realize that she has bigger dreams to chase, and that perhaps her story will be a small victory for empleadas everywhere.