I am Maid

I happened to be at my parents’ home one day this past week during dinner time. Although I usually eat when I visit my parents, I am never actually there when it is time for my father to dine. I had forgotten the intricate ritual that goes into “serving” him his dinner.

Initially, my father doesn’t eat a simple meal like most people; his meals have parts and sub-parts. There’s the meat, and rice, and boiled green banana or sweet plantains (boiled or fried), and there’s salad. Everything is served all at once. He sits down and my mother runs around the kitchen getting everything together. She brings the food first, then he’ll bellow: “cubiertos!” She’ll put down whatever she’s doing and hurry to get utensils for him. Then he’ll say: “limon!” and she’ll stop whatever she’s doing again and fetch him a lemon wedge. When he’s satisfied with what’s in front of him, he takes the salt shaker and sprinkles salt generously on his food – without tasting it first. When he’s just about done, he’ll say loudly for my mother to hear, wherever she may be in the house, “I could drink some soda now!” And she’ll come scurrying and open the refrigerator – which is located right next to him in the eat-in kitchen, by the way – get him a can of soda, open it and put it in front of him.

When he’s completely done, he will wipe the corners of his mouth with a napkin that she placed there for him, and get up – leaving the plate with the scraps on the table. He will then go watch the news while reclining in his chair. My mother takes the plate from the table and does the dishes. Only then, when she’s done with her “wifely duties” can my mother relax enough to sit down and eat.

This is nothing new for me, of course. Until I moved out at 22, I was one of the women scurrying about like frightened slaves trying to anticipate my father’s every need. But until I saw this again the other day, I had relegated it to the back of my mind. And I have to say that it bothered the crap out of me. I recall the years of servitude; never having a free moment, because you could be called to “duty” at any moment by a whistle (yes, my father would whistle for us when he needed something). It could be something as simple as passing him the remote (because it was too strenuous for him to reach over the 11 inches to get it) or something as disgusting as clipping his toenails or putting medicine on his corns. As a fully grown woman with my own family now, I don’t understand why mother accustomed him to being treated that way, so that now in their twilight years, she continues to be a servant when she should be the one being waited on. I know it’s too late for them; neither one of them is going to change, but the whole thing still leaves a bad, bitter taste in my mouth.