LA SEÑORA DE LA CASA
Many people asked me if I would be working in Costa Rica. Yes, managing the lives of three children under seven and a household in another language. What I didn’t realize, is that I do have another job, I am la Señora de la Casa.The Woman of the House. In charge of my domain.
During any given week, between two and six people come through my door, to clean, clip, dig, dust, move, and maintain this house that is mine but not really mine. As the dwelling belongs to the school, school personnel maintain it. Wipe the drool away ladies, this means I have a housekeeper who helps me 40 hours every week with dishes, laundry, toilets and dusting. A gardener who mows, fertilizes my herb garden, and washes my fountain. Assorted electricians, movers, and carpenters who assist with just about everything else.
I have rationalized many valid reasons for this luxury. In the first month we lived here we hosted four school parties in our home for over 300 people. Houses in Costa Rica fight a daily battle with the animals that surround them. For example, if counters and floors are not wiped clean of food within 20 minutes, an army of tiny insidious ants take over (Their bite burns; this is especially problematic for toddlers who enjoy eating off the floor. I suspect, because of course I would never let my toddler eat off the floor…). I am also certain that the school wants to protect its investment from the frolicking habits and sticky fingers of three small children.
As someone who has lived in a fixer-upper in Connecticut for that last 7 years, this luxury has taken some getting used to. Somewhere around week two, as I was gingerly asking my gardener if I might move this lovely plant from my porch inside to my living room, my exasperated housekeeper looked at me and said, “Miss Melissa, you can do anything you want! You are the Woman of the House!” Well, OK then.
So here I am, a white, wealthy, American social worker. And my black, poor, Nicaraguan housekeeper will call me only ‘Miss’ Melissa. I cannot throw anything away, because she wants it. Moldy shower curtains, calphalon pots so scratched they smell when heated, leftover food. She makes roughly $250 per month, rides the bus for two hours every workday and sells Amway on the side. Kind, reliable, honest, hardworking. As tender and concerned with my babies as if they belonged to her.
Are you still drooling?
I feel as though I have suddenly woken up in The Help. Or perhaps it is just that I finally have the opportunity to see myself the way much of the world sees me, a Wealthy American. As others would be quick to point out, there are many, many affluent, and even middle-class Latinos in Costa Rica who also have help such as mine. Indeed, it is part of the culture here in a way that it is simply not in the US. In the US, full time help such as this is reserved for the ultra-wealthy. But maybe here, in this country, as compared to $250 per month, that is exactly what I have become.
The kicker is, it feels really, really good, to be taken care of so exceedingly. For seven years I have been all that the second-generation feminist wave said I should be: working mom, equal marriage partner, community builder. I don’t need to tell anyone reading this that while I wouldn’t have done it any other way, it is fucking exhausting. Here I actually have a sane amount of things to accomplish on a day. Gone is the sense of never quite being able to do enough, and the frantic pre-guest bathroom cleaning.I am under no delusions that I have the energy or ability to seed a proliteriate revolution during my stay here in Costa Rica (not to mention that it is clearly not part of my new job description). I don’t have any idea what the right answer is, or even a clear definition of the problem, as you the reader have clearly surmised. So stay tuned as I work it all out.