Since 2018, Restless Books has partnered with the New York Public Library and other public libraries to offer three-session workshops for immigrant writers. Hundreds of participants from around the world have joined in person and via Zoom. They engage with international immigrant literature published by Restless and produce short pieces—fiction, memoir, poetry—that are workshopped among all the participants. We hope you’ll enjoy reading these pieces as much as we did and that you will support these emerging writers now and for years to come.
— Ilan Stavans
All in My Hands
By Alisa Kana
The office was already alive with motion when I stepped in—PC screens blinking, video projectors glowing with startup slides, monitors displaying timelines and workflows. Voices buzzed around me like electricity in the air. In the corner stood my Italian boss, straight from Rome, his visits a predictable rhythm: every six months, he arrives to supervise the Albanian branch, bringing new projects with him.
These projects are our oxygen. Without them, the branch couldn’t survive. And Daniele—our local coordinator—knows that better than anyone. He’s the one who keeps the whole operation running in between. A kind man, grounded and calm, he invests in creating a peaceful work environment where everyone feels respected. This isn’t just a job—it’s a space where we build educational content, webinars, and masterclasses for lawyers, accountants, and other professionals. It’s specialized work, and it’s growing. But only if the projects from Italy keep coming.
They didn’t even look at me when I walked in. Just a nod from Daniele and a short sentence, spoken with that same casual intensity Italians have when they’re serious:
“Fallo. È tutto nelle tue mani.”
I had barely processed those words when my phone buzzed in my pocket. Again. And again.
The room was cold, but my face was hot. A test was underway—one I hadn’t been told about. I was the coordinator of the two-role group, and this was my time to prove whether I was ready for the new role. But no one had warned me it was today. No messages, no meetings. Just this ambush, this pressure.
Internally, I was spiraling. How do you focus on a live test, one that could define your position in the company, when your phone is vibrating with a dozen missed calls?
I checked the screen. It was Sara. Over and over.
The screens in front of me glitched—just as the presentation software froze. Graphs locked mid-motion. The video projector output went black. A moment of tension froze over the entire room.
Daniele swore under his breath and immediately called for the IT guy. “Sta arrivando,” he said, already pacing.
That breakdown gave me an unexpected slice of time—the tiniest piece of good luck in a bad moment. Just enough space to take a breath and answer the call.
I stepped outside and picked up.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, crying but trying to sound calm. “I had an accident. The car—the front part is destroyed.”
My heart dropped. She had borrowed my car this morning because hers was in the auto repair shop. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m okay. No one’s hurt. But I need help—there’s paperwork, the police…”
Her voice was shaking. And mine was too.
At that moment, I felt completely split in two. Part of me was still in the project room, trying to hold everything together, trying to meet the expectations of my Italian boss who had just promoted me. And the other part of me was out in the street with Sara, standing by a wrecked car that used to be mine.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to quit. But I couldn’t do either.
I ended the call and leaned against the wall, trying to breathe.
Then I saw Elda passing by—the Albanian girl from the floor below. She knew Sara. She always checked in with me when things got busy. Without thinking, I called out her name.
“A të lutem, Elda, më ndihmo!” I said, my words coming fast in Albanian. “Sara ka bërë një aksident me makinën time. Është mirë, por makina është prishur. A mund të shkosh të shohësh si është, të ndihmosh me situatën? Unë nuk mund të dal nga projekti tani.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Po, po, mos u shqetëso. E rregulloj unë,” she said quickly.
I could have hugged her. I almost did.
Back in the room, Daniele looked at me with raised eyebrows. I gave him a short nod, as if to say, I'm here now. Let's go.
The external pressure didn’t ease. The test was in full swing, the Italian boss watching closely from the back, whispering to another manager. Daniele was pacing like an expectant father.
Inside, I was still scattered. One half worrying about paperwork, repairs, and guilt; the other clinging to the system displays in front of me, making calculations, inputting commands, analyzing charts, making real-time adjustments. I wasn’t just being tested—I was the test.
Daniele came over again. “Puoi farcela,” he said under his breath. “Ma devi concentrarti.”
I wanted to believe him.
“Daniele . . . ho paura di sbagliare. Troppa pressione oggi.”
He nodded, serious but calm.
“Lo so. Ma sei preparata. E non sei sola.”
“E se fallisco?”
“Non fallirai. Respira. Un passo alla volta. Io sono qui.”
When the final stage of the trial concluded, I felt like I had aged five years in five hours. I waited for someone to say something. Then, Daniele stepped forward and shook my hand.
“Bravo,” he said. “Era una giornata difficile, ma ce l’hai fatta.”
Only then did I breathe.
Later, I found a quiet spot to check my phone. A message from Elda: “Gjithçka është në rregull. Sara është në shtëpi tani. Makina është marrë me vinç.”
I sat down and let my head fall into my hands.
The day had nearly broken me—but I hadn’t broken. I had juggled two lives in one body: professional and personal, leader and friend, technician and emotional support. And somehow, I’d managed to show up for both.
It wasn’t perfect. It was messy, painful, full of doubt. But sometimes, doing your best doesn’t look clean. Sometimes it looks exactly like that day—improvised, emotional, and barely held together.
I let myself feel the weight of everything. The stress I had pushed down during the test, the guilt about the car, the pressure of the role—it all came rushing up like a wave. I wanted to be proud of myself, but pride was fighting with exhaustion. I kept hearing Daniele’s voice in my head: 'It’s all in your hands.' And it had been. But no one told me how heavy it would feel.
Alisa Kana is an Italian teacher and writer who finds meaning in the quiet power of language. For her, words have always been a way of seeing the world — a way to feel, to question, and to connect. Surrounded by books, she is drawn to their ability to hold both truth and beauty. Teaching, reading, and writing are not just passions, but ways of staying close to what matters most: the pursuit of knowledge, the rhythm of thought, and the poetry hidden in everyday life.
Between You and Me
By Jessica Magnolia MT
A normal workday. The pressure in my head speaks again. The voice is here. I truly managed to erase it for almost a decade, my dark night of the soul, years of therapy, research, and study to change my mind, my feelings, my body, and my life. When the doctors said I might not have children, greater faith gave me the best son in the world. That really worked. But now, in this workplace, like a stranger, I'm not accepted even at home. I feel that voice reviving it, like an automatic machine with no chance of regaining balance. It's coming, I can feel it, that voice again in my head, drilling into my soul.
“Hello, my dear. We are here again together. Are you ready?” This won't take my energy again because I know who I am. “Ok, little Jessie, that’s not my intention. I’m here just to help with your job. Now, grab your eight-foot ladder, hang two drills from your tool belt, and remember to carry that ladder on your right shoulder. The left is almost purple now, but it isn't time to complain. Carry the bag with the other tools in your left hand for balance. You know how important balance is, especially over the ladder. I don't want to see you fail again, but don't worry, your secret is safe.”
I think as I type a message to my men. Hey guys, how are you? Mom and Tio Jeff have almost started work. Have fun together, ok? I'll see you tonight. Hijo, besa a papá por mi. Good luck with that last interview. Honey, you got it. Amor, we're almost there. I love you guys. I sent the message. I got a photo back. I'm happy. While Jeff and I unload the things from the truck, I look at the kids leaving their school, beautiful kids all of them, like my son, but in a different place. The voice is coming again: “Jessie, don´t forget to smile, a big smile, and be friendly to the people working in the building. Show how strong you are, because that's what everyone comes to work to prove. Show who you are. You´re an authentic American dreamer, of course.”
-Pero esto no es lo que yo soooy. I say it in Spanish out loud to myself to silence the other voice: "It always happened to me." I thought no one else could hear it. But of course, that was not the case.
-Did you say something? Jeff, my boss, asks me as he takes off his headphones. We are waiting while the school guard opens the building door for us so we can start our work.
-Nothing, Boss . . . I'm just singing . . . beautiful boooy . . . I sang so as not to worry him.
-The Beatles! As if it were a game of Jeopardy, he answers me, always happy, animated, and full of energy.
-That's right! I said, celebrating his response.
-Are you ready? He asked me the same thing every day at work.
-Yep! I was born ready! Was my response as we bumped fists to start the day.
After just a few seconds of silence, it starts again. “That's it, shut up, Jessie. Everything you're carrying inside, forget it: ambitions, projects, dreams, all of that weighs more than your load. If you pay attention to this ridiculous stuff, it will be twice as heavy.” I keep singing the song in my head. The school guard is coming, now smiling. He finally opens the door for us.
-Hello, my name is Jessica . . . Following the introduction, Jeff shows him the contract for the security cameras. “Could you tell me my name, please?” Ignoring the voice, my movements are always fast. “Wait a minute, I talked with you, woman, okay? You never stopped. Keep moving, walking like a soldier, and take the emergency stairs to the right, up to the fifth floor. There's no elevator in this school.” Don't stop, I mumble to myself because the weight is heavier if you stop thinking, feeling, or if you take any kind of pause. “If you stop, that's a promise. I'll keep talking in your head.” Please shut up now. They'll realize you're coming with me. I answered that I would like to talk with a real person.
“Oh, come on! I was with you for months, and nobody at work or home saw me. The strong woman who sings all the time, weirdly talks to herself, is always listening, smiles every single day, and works harder than many man is stealing the spotlight.” After almost ten months of working with Jeff, my brother-in-law, and his work team, I learn from everyone about their stories, advice, and examples. I won not just money here. They respect my work and appreciate me. I would like to feel the same way in the house where we temporarily live with my husband's family, but that's not the case.
“Do you think anyone would notice that I exist? Never. I live with them, and we eat at the same table without them saying a word about my presence. But when you arrive in our lives, you can see me within the first second. Crossing the door in the eyes of your family-in-law, you know it.” I really don’t know which is the most difficult part of my day: coming to work or going home?
“We know each other's secrets to deny my existence, but no one dares to mention my name.” I won't be the one to do it. I refused to accept it. It's always difficult to accept the damage until you feel it physically.
“Well, we will see. Loyalty! But if I am dedicated enough, I can take the attention of someone who is like you. Sensible, perceptive, and happy. That beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy.”
-Stop it. Don´t touch him. I roared like a beast. “Ok calm down! You did it, fifth floor. Breathe for a few seconds. Now go back down those stairs, find the janitor, and ask him, in your best English, where the cable and the cameras are that we'll be installing. Move, move, move.” If I can find something good in the voice of my head, it now speaks to me in English. But I definitely can’t be friendly with it because it can kill me, literally. Focus. I need to organize those cable boxes. Grab all the heavy ones—be strong, pull hard, harder—to the end of the hall. There are only six wires today, easy peasy. I can handle this. Yesterday there were twelve. Looks like today will be a good day. “But it looks like the rest of the team isn’t coming today. All are sick. Between you and me, today should be the perfect day when you ask for my help and mention my name.” I can do this, I think, almost begging myself to concentrate.
-Close your eyes, have no fear, the monster's gone . . . While a song plays in my head, the dark clouds are going away. Time passes faster, hours like minutes, and so does my work, too.
-Ready, Boss! I scream to Jeff, who is across the hall.
-Good job, Jessie. Tape it, please.
“Do your monster work, put the tape over all the wires, open that ladder quickly and climb up, open the foam board, and try not to get any fiberglass on your face. Oh, oh, you did it again. Remember last night, it was funny, you had to go back downstairs in the middle of the night for a second shower because your neck wouldn’t stop itching. You won't be able to sleep again.” Okay, no hug to my son when I get home. I’m so dirty. It’s okay. Anyway, he'll be asleep then.
-What's he doing now? Fortunately, he is with Papa, I reply to myself. Just one week ago, we decided that one of us needed to stay at home with our son. His mood is changing drastically. Every day, Papa is closer to finalizing his research contract with that hospital, and we will have a new home in New York, and everything will be okay. I hope he can cook after his interview so our little one doesn't eat things that cause so much gas and bloating at night. "Remember not to ask again what he eats, they'll give you the same answer: eat well. How can you question your mother-in-law, who takes care of your child, if you don't pay? If they're supposed to be your family, you should feel comfortable, helpful, and grateful. Don't worry about the best way to raise a child. Inexperienced mother, please work and don't be stupid.”
-But I know my son's digestion. I´m not stupid. I complain again when I hear Jeff yell at me.
-Jessie! Pull the cables!
“Well, listen to him, Pull! Pull!” That unstoppable voice nagged me all the time like my second boss.
-Okay, okay. I answer my real boss, ignoring the fake one screaming.
“Pull, Jessie! You made his lunch and dinner before leaving, but nothing will change. Pull!” But they shouldn't have hurt him. “Sure? Even when his grandma asked for permission to hit him? Pull! Pull! Pull!” I said no. “You know he's not eating what you prepared for him. Those farts smell like chicken nuggets and candies. The color of his urine looks like he doesn't drink water, but you don't want to ask anymore.” Now his father is there. They're our family. “They´re doing you a favor, and that gives them the right to tell you how you live here, where the captain rules, not the sailor. Puuuuuuull!”
-Jessie, stop! shouts Jeff. -That's too much, now you need to pull back.
-Sorry, Boss, give me a minute. I´m on my way. My answer is brief. I need to concentrate.
-After that, can you start with the classroom 13-20, Jessie? I´ll start the closet on 20-33!
-Okay, Boss!
I have never received bad treatment from that man I affectionately call Boss. Jeff is like a brother. He doesn't fail me, and I can't fail him. “What a cursi speech, how about concentration? Walk fast, faster!!! Open the latter, open the sealing, pull back . . .Go to the next classroom and start with the first security camera.” I can’t stop thinking about my family-in-law, who is angry all the time with me. And now I'm with them. This is contagious. It's like a disease. How much is necessary to feel it in your body, to convince these people that you are strong enough, like them? Or maybe more. But don’t think everything is about time. One hour, two cables, three cameras, four decent English conversations . . . -Five centimeters more to reach that corner and close the false ceiling, I whimpered before losing my balance and falling onto a bookcase.
“Oh no! Too long, come on, Jessie, you can put a foot on top of this bookcase. Take care because you can fall eight feet down agaaaain! Hahaha, sorry for laughing! Let me try again! Oh no! Poor Jessie! Again on the floor! Okay, done, wake up fast and fix the furniture.”
-Aaaahg! Aaa auch aaauch! Yes. I fell eight feet and got up in seconds to fix what I broke. And now I don't know what's harder: the work, the silence in my family, the wait for my future home, the feeling in my body, the voice in my head, or my own faith.
“Tell me my name! Call me! Tell me my name, please. Jessie, recognize me inside you, living with your family, touring all your body, I’d love to be harder now, stronger like you. In your dreams, I have a nest, and you wake up with me, tell me my name. Please, I’m here with you, before you came to this country, since your childhood, every year, every month, come on, sing with me: Every day, in every way, it's getting better and better . . .”
-Stop it! “Then tell me my name! You can feel me, you can see me, you can hear me. Come on, accept me. Accept me to heal, even if I disappear. This only has to stay between you and me.”
-Pain. I’m in pain. Your fucking name is Pain.
Jessica Magnolia M.T. was born in Mexico City, Mexico, and moved to New York City in 2022 with her family. She is part of a circle of women with a tradition of indigenous knowledge. She feels she has been reborn in Harlem as a writer, singer, actress, swimmer, volunteer, and New Yorker. Jessica Magnolia M.T. is an English student at the Stavros Niarchos Foundation Library where she was part of the Creative Writing Workshop with Jennifer Celestin.
Chapter: Daughter of the Displaced – The Bridge, The Roots, and The Bloom
By Stephanie Portillo
This piece is a reclamation.
A prayer and a protest.
It is my ancestors’ affirmation—
and their rebellion, too.
I am what survived.
I am their unfinished fight.
I’ve always walked with my ancestors. Even in the moments I didn’t have the words for it, I could feel them—in the way I moved through the world, in the way I loved, in the way I fought for my community. Long before I understood the language of lineage or the systems that tried to erase us, I understood connection. I understood presence.
Returning to my ancestral homelands—Guatemala and Mexico—was never just a trip. It was a homecoming. A healing. A reckoning. My parents once fled these lands, forced to seek refuge from famine, poverty, and war. But here I was, decades later, standing on the same soil—not in fear, but in gratitude. Not escaping, but returning. Not hiding, but honoring.
Together, as a family, we replaced silence with laughter—and grief with presence. We reclaimed joy on the very land that once carried our sorrow. We rewrote the story in real time—with open hearts and grounded feet.
There was a time I questioned everything about myself—what it meant to be Latina, to be Black, to be Indigenous. I didn’t fit neatly into anyone’s box, and for years, I tried to contort myself to belong. I was always too much of one thing, not enough of another. Too American for my roots, too Latina for this country.
But the truth was never either/or—it was both/and. Braided, inherited, whole. It isn’t something you choose between—it’s something you reclaim.
I am not a foreigner on stolen land. My roots are older than borders. My lineage predates colonization. My identity isn’t something I prove—it’s something I live. My very existence is resistance.
Growing up in the U.S., I often felt like I was living between worlds—navigating systems that didn’t see me, institutions that didn’t value me, and conversations that tried to define me. People tried to speak on my experience, to shrink my identity into soundbites and checkboxes. But I’ve learned to reclaim that narrative. To tell my own story, in my own voice.
I’ve reframed what it means to belong. I no longer seek validation from systems that weren’t built with me in mind. I don’t need permission to exist. I am not too much. I am not too different. I am exactly what my ancestors dreamed of—a powerful, proud woman standing in her truth.
My Indigeneity isn’t something I found—it’s something I remembered. It lives in my bones, in my spirit, in the way I honor land, ceremony, and community. It’s in the weavings of my
Guatemalan roots. In the bold colors and fierce resistance of my Mexican bloodline. It’s in the way I speak, move, organize, love.
Colonialism tried to erase our languages, our stories, our fight. But it could never erase the memory. It could never silence the spirit. My ancestors lived, loved, and resisted here. And now I return—not as a stranger, but as their legacy.
Everything I do now is rooted in them. My work, my advocacy, my joy—it’s all an offering. A continuation of their fight, a reflection of their love. Justice, empathy, and the pursuit of a more inclusive world—that is how I honor them. Because we are the seeds of our ancestors. And through us, their resilience lives.
Sacred Inheritance: What Took Root
I am from here,
and I am from there.
I am Mexicana.
I am Guatemalteca.
I am Americana.
I am the daughter
of the displaced
and the determined.
I am filled with sacred rage—
the fire my ancestors lit
so I could find my way back.
My ancestors were here—
before the borders,
before the lies.
Their blood runs through these lands.
We are the reaping of what they sowed—
not just what our ancestors planted,
but what colonizers never saw coming.
They buried us.
But we were never seeds of silence.
We were sacred fire.
And we bloomed anyway.
I am not a guest on this land—
I am its continuation.
I am not caught between worlds.
I am the bridge.
I am the roots.
I am the bloom.
I do not ask for space,
I take root
in the ground that once held their grief—
and now holds my power.
I am the prayer.
I am the protest.
I am the promise.
I am the world
my ancestors walked,
prayed, and fought for.
I am a force.
And I’m only getting started.
Stephanie Portillo is a writer and nonprofit leader based in New York City. She is the Senior Manager of Strategic Partnerships at Literacy Partners, where she leads national initiatives that uplift immigrant and Latinx families through literacy, storytelling, and advocacy. Her work explores themes of displacement, resilience, and cultural identity.
What Nobody Told Me When I Signed Up to Be an Au Pair
By Ibeth Nore
The truth is that I was removed from the house like an object. I never recovered some of my personal belongings, not my phone, and just $59.00 I got paid after working over forty-five hours that week. My body was pushed in a car at 11:00 p.m., and my mind was blank. Where am I? Where are these guys taking me? The next stop was about half an hour from the house. The car was parked in a driveway. Am I going to die? What is this fucking guy doing? Carlos, Daven’s driver, got out of the truck and approached a woman. I realized that it was Carlos’s wife getting out of the door. She looked at me and got in another car and drove in a different direction. I wanted to jump out of the car. I pulled on the door handle. Shit, the door is locked. I was quiet, seated on a piece of metal. There were no seats in the back of the truck; it was just a narrow space between the driver’s and passenger’s seats and the back window. I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I was on a big highway. One lane, two lanes, three lanes, one car, two cars, five cars. It was dark, and the highway seemed familiar from the ride when I arrived in LA. In reality, I did not know my location, and I did not have any way to check. My eyes rested a little bit. I was extremely tired because I had worked many hours the night and day before. I was repeating in my mind: God protect me, guardian angel, take care of me. I cannot do anything. Why is this happening to me? Ibis breath, count until four. I do not know what to do. I was told that my flight to Colombia would leave at 7:00 a.m. from LAX. I asked Carlos, “Porque?” The host dad seated next to Carlos whispered something to him, and Carlos replied to me, “I cannot talk. Daven wants you to be quiet until we get to the airport.” We arrived at the airport, and Daven got out of the car and ran to talk to a woman. I looked through the window and I recognized Carlos’s wife. One day, during dinner at the house, I heard Maria talking to Daven about her job, and later I asked Kim about her, and Daven told me that she worked at the airport checking people through the security cameras. Porque el esta hablando con ella? Why is he talking to her? I wait until Carlos puts down all my bags and we walk to the entrance of departures. Daven said, “Maria is checking you through the camera, and she will make sure that you board the airplane and leave my country.”
Before working with Daven, I did not have a babysitter job. I did not have any experience changing diapers, cleaning bottles, or holding babies in my arms beyond helping my family members with their babies occasionally. I was an attorney in Colombia, my home country. I had the job that I dreamed of, working in a multinational corporation. My position did not require me to speak English because we had a bilingual lawyer. The company, AZTAFF, provided us with English classes at 7:30 a.m. before work started. One day, I made a mistake in a contract for five thousand dollars. I did not get fired, but that mistake triggered in me a desire to become bilingual, and one day be a senior attorney at AZTAFF.
English was always a difficult subject for me at school, and despite the classes that we took at work, it continued to be challenging because I spoke Spanish all day long. Casually, one day after work in Bogota, D.C., I passed my dear friend from high school, Paula, on the street. She told me that she was on vacation because she was studying and living in Denver with a host family. I asked her about her experience, and she was happy. She introduced me to the au pair program with the agency that she used to travel with. A couple of weeks passed, and then I made the mistake in the contract. That triggered in me Paula’s idea of study and work, and I immersed myself for a year in American culture to learn the language and return to work in a higher position. I knew that being bilingual would help me get a senior attorney position in AZTAFF, and that would also allow me to travel a lot.
I dialed the agency’s number. “Hello, this is Ibis. I would like to have information about the cost and the requirements for the au pair program in the United States of America.”
“Yes, it costs $2,500.” Okay, hmm, it doesn’t sound like much money if that would help me to learn English, travel, and study. I signed the contract to be an au pair, another word for babysitter. Weeks later, I paid and received the contract in my email that established the following: “Cultural Exchange program. The au pair will work for a maximum of twelve months, which could be extended for the same period one time. An au pair will work forty hours per week. The au pair will earn $195.00 per week. The family will provide food, room, a $500 bonus for the au pair to study, and one week of vacation per year. In the case that the au pair or the host family do not adapt to each other, the family can request a meeting with the au pair’s counselor to mediate the differences, and if the issues persist, the au pair could change families. Either party must contact the agency and seek a rematch. I agreed, paid, and the agency placed me on the website. Weeks later, I matched with a host family from Malibu, California. My English was poor. The only phrases I knew were: “Good morning, how are you?”, “I am from Colombia, I am a lawyer,” and my age and hobbies. The family, Kim and Daven, emailed me and wanted to have a Zoom meeting. They knew about my poor English, but they said it would be fine because Carlos, Daven’s driver, was at home most of the time. We scheduled the first meeting for Saturday, May 29, 2016.
I studied English before that meeting and learned questions to ask Kim and Daven about their life and the babies. On Saturday afternoon, I joined the meeting, and it was the family and Carlos. He translated the whole time, and I got to practice what I studied. It was a short meeting, and Daven said something that I did not understand. Then Carlos said, “Daven wants to know if you would like to have another meeting,” and I said yes. I continued working at AZTAFF, and after that meeting, I was against the wall. I had the dream job, but I wanted to be successful. I told Paula about Daven and Kim, and she said that her English had improved so much and that she had traveled with the family. Her last sentence was: “It was the best decision I could have made.”
Daven emailed me the link to the second meeting. I was more confident to speak a little, but my English was not enough to have a fluent conversation, and so Carlos translated for us again. After that meeting, I called my mom.
“Hola Ma, the family seemed nice, healthy, and I think I would be safe.”
Then, my mom said, “Mi amor, te amo. I am not sure about the decision that you are about to make in leaving the job that cost you a lot to find and following your dream to change diapers. I worked hard to send you to an excellent law school, and I don’t agree, but you have to follow your heart.”
OMG, my mama is making drama. “Ok Mama, te amo. Buenas noches.” I closed the call. The following week, I went to work, and that au pair experience and Paula’s last sentence were free rent in my head the whole week. On Friday night, I sat at my desk with a glass of wine, and I typed an email to Daven and Kim. “Hello host family, I hope everything is going well. I am emailing you to say that I accept the offer to be your au pair. Let me know if you are still interested. Regards, Ibis NP.” The next Monday, the agency emailed me that they would start the process to get my visa and that if it were approved, I would travel at the beginning of July. My visa was approved.
My life changed in the blink of an eye. I quit my job and arranged my trip. I flew from Colombia to New York. My boarding pass said “Seat 15A.” I got the window. I looked through the window when the airplane was taking off, and I saw how my life as a lawyer vanished with the clouds. But I was also excited for what was about to start. I arrived in New York at JFK. I walked to customs, said good afternoon, and smiled at the officer. He said, “Colombiana, si?” and I smiled again. Oh gracias a Dios, he speaks Spanish. “Porque visitar los Estados Unidos?”
I responded, “I travel as an au pair,” and I got the first stamp on my passport.
I enjoyed New York for a week while I was in training with other au pairs from around the world. I never thought New York would be my new home because I came with the goal to learn English and return to Colombia and the position that I had.
The next time I blinked my eyes, I woke up in Malibu, California. The attorney’s life was gone. I thought in that moment that an adventure was about to start, that I was smart, and that I would adjust easily. I was looking forward to this being one of the fun chapters of my life. The house that I was living in was a dream house with a magical view. I was able to see all the blues and greens of the ocean from the patio. I arrived to live in a fancy house with a pool and a family that I thought would treat me as a family member. Daven, a tall black guy with a nice smile, picked me up at the airport and said, “Welcome to Cali.” The next words were in the car on our ride to the house that would host me for the next twelve months. He said, “Kim is in la casa with the babies.” I said okay. In the week that I was in training, I learned a lot of words and sentences, but I was quiet most of the time. He asked me how New York was, and I said that I loved it, that I had a great time. I wanted to talk with him, but I did not know how to combine the words and put together the sentences. In my English, I said to him, “I am muy Feliz to be here and write a new chapter of my life with your babies.” It was my first time out of my country, so everything was new for me. He drove fast in his fancy car, and after an hour or two, I was not sure about the time, and was confused because my watch said 5:00 p.m., but his car said 2:00 p.m. My biological clock and my brain were on different times. We got to the house, and Kim and her babies welcomed me.
She smiled and said, “Hola, bienvenida a mi casa.” I extended my hand to greet her, and I got on my knees to greet the twins, Kisz and Kasz.
“Hola ternuritas, we are going to have fun together,” I said to them in Spanish. She showed me my room and my bathroom. The first impression I had of Daven and Kim was that she was older than he was. They were not affectionate, like Colombian couples. For example, he did not kiss her when we got to the house. But I could be confused because they spoke fast, and I did not understand them. Daven asked if I was hungry, and I nodded my head. Then, after lunch, I went to change my clothes. I wore sandals and shorts, and everything matched. It was really hot. They took me to my first Mexican restaurant. He said, “Order whatever you want.” The menu was in Spanish. I chose the simple taco de pollo. While in the restaurant, we did not communicate much due to the language barrier. We returned home, I showered, and they said that I should sleep so I would be ready to start working the following day.
The next morning, I opened my eyes at 6:00 a.m. I ran to the shower, and from the beginning, I always changed my clothes in the bathroom, as I thought that Kim may feel jealous. I tried to always be in contact with her to avoid conflicts. At 7:00 a.m., it was breezy, and Devan got out of the room and saw me seated on the patio. He brought one of the babies, but I found it difficult to identify him at the beginning. I held him in my arms, and Daven said that I could get anything from the fridge to cook my breakfast. I said thank you. I put the baby in his chair, and I fried two eggs with a cup of coffee. OMG, this is not coffee. I ate, and Kim showed up in the kitchen. I greeted her, and she put the baby in my arms. This woman does not realize that I am eating. “Hola bebe,” I said, and I ate whatever was left on my plate.
Some time passed, and Daven said, “My amigo Carlos, a driver, is Mexican and will come later to translate your schedule for you and explain everything. I said okay.
It was around 10:00 or 11:00 a.m. when two people entered the house and introduced themselves. “Hola, bienvenida a Malibu; mi esposa, Maria y yo soy Carlos el conductor y ayudante de Daven.”
I said, “Hola, mucho gusto, Ibis.” Carlos, his wife, Daven, Kim, the twins, and I sat at the kitchen table on the patio with a view of the ocean. At that moment, I thought how lucky I was, that this was the house of my dreams, and I loved the view. Carlos translated my schedule from 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. But there are too many hours per day. Okay, Ibis, breathe, continue listening. “The hours that the twins are sleeping, you can do laundry, clean their bottles, and organize their room. In the morning:
7:00 a.m.: change diapers and put on new clothes.
Give them 4 ounces of Kim’s milk that is frozen in the fridge.
8:30 a.m.: play with them in the gym.
9:30 a.m.: change diapers, feed them, and change them for a nap.
1:30 p.m.: change their diapers, feed them, clean their bottles, read a book in Spanish, and teach them songs in Spanish.
3:00 p.m.: nap time until 5:00 or 5:30 p.m. Between that, help Kim with anything that is needed for the kids.
5:30 p.m., wake them up and change their diapers. After dinner time, go for a walk and bathe them. From 7:00 to 7:30, you will be free. Oh, something important: Daven will travel to Africa for two weeks in a couple of weeks, so Kim will need your help, and it will just be you and her. I can come if you need me, or Kim will call me to translate anything in case you do not understand.”
Carlos asked me, “¿Tienes alguna pregunta?” – Do you have a question? I have a lot. When am I going to study? When the babies are asleep, I have chores, too. I said, “Yes, when are my days off? And no, I do not have more questions.” I must talk to Erika; this seems a lot for just $195.00 per week, and Daven is going away, leaving just the two of us. Daven was a key part of the house because he always cooked and helped me with the kids because Kasz and Kisz sometimes cried, and of course, I could not change the diapers or hold them at the same time. So, Daven helped me most of the time while Kim was sleeping in front of the computer during meetings. She was a senior blah blah blah in Bank of CAAC.
Erika was the counselor that the agency assigned me. She went to the house and took me to the beach, and in a soft way explained to me what Carlos said–that the host family paid for me. I paid, too, to be here. What are you talking about? She convinced me to help them and added that she would talk to them to give me time to study.
It was August 13. My routine started at 7:00 a.m., and I planned to work until 6:00 p.m. and go for my evening walk along the beach. During the day, I changed diapers and burped the twins. We did our gym routine, and by 10:00 a.m., they were ready to take a nap. While they napped, I did laundry, cooked my lunch, and of course, I was kind, and why not make extra to share with Kim, so she can just sit and feed the twins when they wake up? I folded everyone’s clothes. I was like a robot; I never thought I had all these abilities.
I was next to the pool, enjoying the ocean view and eating my lunch at 1:00 p.m. when Kim called me.
“Yes, Ibis, could you help me burp Kasz?”
“Yes, I am finishing my lunch.” OMG, how useless could this woman be that she cannot burp them by herself? I stuffed myself with the rest of my lunch, and the night routine started again. Kim went to sleep, and I was with the twins until 4:00 p.m. At 4:30 pm, the twins got up, and we took them for a walk. Everything appeared to be nice and happy. Kim even thanked me for cooking while Daven was away. We went to the beach and took selfies. Kim and I went back to bathe the twins, and everything was running smoothly until the door creaked.
“Hola, buenas noches,” Daven said.
I answered back, “How was your trip?” he smiled and said it was great, that Africa was amazing.
The twins were getting ready for bed, and suddenly Kasz started crying, “Wah wah wah wah wah!” like never before. I got worried and approached Daven. Kasz was in Daven’s arms, and I started singing the duck song, “Cuak cuak cuak.” I made up that song for them to help them relax when they cried. Daven and Kim were talking. Kim was in the kitchen cooking something for him, and unexpectedly, Daven yelled at me and sent me to my room. I blushed because I did not understand what was happening. I went to the room, and I called my mom and my dad.
“Hola mami, como estas?” My mom said she was at work and busy. I had to tell her that I did not know what happened.
She said, “Talk to me.”
“Mami, el bebe empezo a llorar cuando estaba en los brazos de Daven y el me envio a mi cuarto gritando. Estoy asustada-” I am scared. Mom said to get into my pajamas and go to sleep. Tomorrow would be a better day. He must be tired. I followed my mom’s advice. I was in bed when Daven knocked on the door and asked me to go to the kitchen. We talked in English. I learned a lot while he was traveling. I studied a lot of verbs and practiced them with Kim.
Daven said, “Kim just told me that you have not been helping her as you’re supposed to.” She is lying, she takes the twins at 7:00 a.m. and goes back to sleep, and I have been working with them until 10:00 or 11:00 p.m. I told him that that was not the truth, and I listed all of the things that I did. I did my job, I cooked, folded her clothes, cleaned the kitchen, and helped her until 10:00 or 11:00 p.m. because it was the last bottle for the babies, and I received them at 7:00 a.m. Carlos entered the house, and he started translating for me. I repeated to him what I had tried to say before to Daven. Kim was in the kitchen, crying and talking fast, but I was not able to understand. I was under pressure, and Carlos was not translating for me.
I said that it was a mistake, that it was not true, and that she was lying. I asked Carlos to tell them that I would step out to call my counselor. I walked to the front door of the house. I was in pajamas, and it was chilly. I pressed her number, 714-900-8400.
“Hola Erika, como estas es Ibeth, hay una situacion en la casa y el Host Dad is yelling at me and would like you to come.”
Erika said, “Ibeth, I am far, and I can’t go, but I will call the family in the morning and drive to the house.”
“No Erika, el ha estado golpeando el meson de la cocina y gritando estoy muy asustada. He has been hitting and shouting in the kitchen, I am scared.”
Erika replied, “Don’t worry, go to sleep.”
I also called my friend Paula, who was in Denver on vacation. She said, “Go to your room, pray, and sleep.” I walked back to my room; I went under the blankets, and I was praying when I heard BOM BOM BOM on my door.
Shaking, I said, “Yes?”
Daven said, “Open the door.”
I said, “I’m in pajamas.”
“Open the door.”
I said, “I am sick, could we please talk in the morning?” No reply, then Carlos knocked on the door.
“Ibis, open the door.” I said the same thing. My heart was beating fast.
“Carlos, por favor, dile que quiero dormir y que hablamos en la manana. Carlos, please tell him that I want to sleep. I have a bad headache, and we can talk in the morning.” I thought Daven had accepted this, and I went back to bed.
I was under the covers when I heard someone trying to open the door with something, and he was yelling at Kim to bring a knife. I was shaking. I did not know what to do. I was wearing sweatpants and a sweater. I tried to call Erika, and the phone rang, but she never picked up. I tried again, another time. I called Paula, but it was 11:00 p.m. and no one answered the phone. A drill was opening my door. Daven opened the door. He gave me ten minutes to leave his house. What is happening? I wanted to call the police, and he grabbed my arm and threw my phone away. He got furious, he packed my bags in minutes, pushed me out of the house, and brought me to the truck.
I was in the truck for around five hours, driving and driving around LAX. We got to the airport.
“Good morning, Sir. Where are you flying?”
“She is flying, she does not speak English, and here are her documents.” This is my opportunity to recover my file with all my documents. I said hi to the woman and jumped on Daven’s hands and slapped my purple file. Carlos dijo-said,
“No hagas nada tonto que y ate vas a tu casa. Do not do anything stupid as you are going home.” I want to tell this woman everything I have been through, but I do not know how.
The woman said, "Welcome." I got my passport, my bags, and Carlos’s wife, who worked at the airport, showed up, and she said she would make sure I boarded the flight. I walked to the gate, and I saw Carlos and his wife walking behind me. I boarded the flight, and at the last minute, Carlos came to sit next to me. I asked, “Por que? I did everything and more. I asked him to let me call my family and tell them, but he did not allow me.” After some time in the air, we landed in Dallas, TX. I got out of the airplane and said to Carlos that I had to use the bathroom. I ran with my bags, and I asked a woman in the restroom to let me borrow her phone to make a call to Paula. My English by then was better, and in a couple sentences, I told her that I had lost my phone, and I had to make a call to my friend Paula. Thank God she let me.
I was shaking. I dialed Paula’s number, but she did not pick up the phone. I called again but heard: “This is Paula, I cannot answer. Leave your message.”
“Paula, I’m in Dallas. The Host Dad kicked me out of the house. I do not have a phone or computer. He took everything from me, and I don’t have any money. Please help me, I am at the Dallas airport.”
Carlos entered the restroom. “Everything ok?”
“Si, estoy bien.” He walked me out of the restroom, and I walked to the gate to wait for my flight. I asked Carlos why Daven acted like that. I did not understand.
Carlos said, “Kim told him that while he was in Africa, you did not help her and she could not sleep properly, and that was the reason why she was short on milk.”
I said, “Eso no es verdad.” I said, “Why did you not tell him all that you saw me doing?” During Daven’s trip, Carlos was at home a couple of times to check how everything was, and one time to translate for Kim that she wanted me to work until 10:00 p.m.
He said, “She is also my boss, and I was just interpreting for her. I cannot say anything.” Fuck you, asshole, pendejo. You are an immigrant, too, and life will pass the check later. Suddenly, I heard my name: “Ibis Noraas, we are looking for you. Do not move.” Carlos heard my name too, and he got up and commenced to walk away when ten officers started walking toward us. The officer, Martinez, introduced himself.
He said, “We received a call, and the person told us that you are in danger. What happened?” I collapsed in tears. I could not talk, and I had a node in my throat. The officer gave me water, and after a few minutes, I was able to tell them what happened. I pointed at Carlos, who stood far away from me and the police. An officer made him approach us, and they asked him if he was with me. He said yes, and Martinez asked him to step away from me and walk with him, but I did not even look to see where they took him. Martinez let me borrow his phone to call my friend Paula, and we called the agency that was located in L.A. where she worked. She had called the police and her cousin, who is a pilot, and by miracle he was there that day in Dallas. Thanks to them, the officer located me.
The officer advised that I should fly home, and that I would be safe there. I flew back to Colombia. The au pair agency in California said that the host dad had complained about my English. I countered that argument because they knew from the beginning. Cintia, the manager, said that no money would be given back, but if I wanted, my profile would be placed on the website again. I did not doubt it because I had not completed my goal, which was to become bilingual. After many emails and meetings between the agency and me, the agency finally agreed to publish my profile.
Some months later, I matched with another family, Holy, and it was a negative situation as well. I was with that family for seven months. My host mom asked me to leave again because I wanted to study, and I was not helping her on the weekends. I left for another family, Toure, and it was also a negative experience. Finally, I decided to go back to Colombia, and sought an F-1 Visa. My second visa got approved, and I moved again to the United States as an international student.
Ibeth Nore is a Colombian girl who moved to the United States 8 years ago as an Au Pair, and today she is waiting to be admitted to the New York Bar Examination to practice as an Attorney. She moved with the dream of learning English and returning to her country, but her passion and eagerness to grow and help other immigrants led her to start her career as a paralegal and then to earn her Master of Laws at Brooklyn Law School.
Running Toward Something That Never Came
By Valida Brulaj
I was running.
My legs hit the pavement hard, over and over, as if I could outrun time itself. The city was still waking up, cars rushing by, horns shouting into the morning, and the sky just starting to blush with light. But in my head, all I heard was one thing: Don’t be late. Don’t mess this up.
It was my first day of work.
Sixteen years old and already carrying the weight of someone twice my age. I had dreams, not the kind you tell people to sound impressive, but real ones. The kind that start with survival. I wanted to work. I needed to work. I wanted to prove I could take care of myself. That I wasn’t a burden. That I could become something. Someone.
Then, in one terrifying second, the world folded in half.
The car came from nowhere. I remember the screech of tires and the snap of my body hitting metal. My feet left the ground. For a moment, I was floating. Then, the ground punched me back down.
Everything went black.
When I opened my eyes, I was drowning in white. White walls, white sheets, a blinding ceiling light. The beeping of machines hummed in the background, and something sharp tugged at my arm: an IV. I blinked slowly. I couldn’t feel my legs. My chest ached. My head throbbed. But all I could think was, I’m late. I didn’t make it.
My mouth moved before my brain caught up. “I have to go,” I whispered. “I’m supposed to be at work.”
The nurse paused. She looked at me with pity. I hated that look.
I turned to the doctor, his face unfamiliar and distant. He was speaking words tumbling too fast for my ears to catch. I understood bits: “concussion," "head trauma," "observation,” but they didn’t feel real. They were just sounds, empty and floating above me.
I needed someone to see me. To understand me.
I tried Albanian, softly, “A jam mirë? Ku jam?” (Am I okay? Where am I?)
But no one understood. Their silence told me I was even more alone than I thought.
Then, a new nurse walked in. She looked younger, maybe a student or intern. She tilted her head and said, in slow, broken Albanian, “Je në spital. Je e sigurt tani.” (You are in the hospital. You are safe now.)
Something inside me cracked. My chest tightened and my eyes filled before I could stop it. I hadn’t cried when I got hit. I hadn’t cried when I couldn’t move. But hearing those words in my language, my language, unlocked something raw. I nodded, unable to speak, my throat a knot of emotion.
Then came the moment that changed everything.
I turned my head to look at her but I couldn’t see.
Not really. Everything was blurred, smeared like paint on glass. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, blinked again. Still nothing. A smear of light. Colors without edges. I told the doctor, “I don’t see. I don’t see anything.” My voice broke. My hands shook.
He tried to calm me. “It’s temporary,” he said. “The medication, the trauma, your vision should return soon.”
But even then, I knew something was wrong. I could feel it. My eyes were swollen, hot, burning. Blood vessels burst. My sight had disappeared like a candle blown out in the dark.
Lying in that bed, blind and broken, my mind was louder than ever. You were trying so hard. You were just trying to show up. And now… now what are you?
The room felt smaller by the minute. My body was trapped, but worse so was my future.
A few days later, a man from the company came to visit. I recognized the logo on his jacket, even through the haze. I tried to speak, to explain, to apologize, my English clumsy and desperate. I told him I had wanted to be there. That I had tried. But the kindness in his face had already faded. He handed me a form and said something about moving on, filling the position.
The job I had nearly died trying to reach was already gone.
The grief hit me in waves. First shock, then sorrow, then a kind of quiet rage. Not at the man. Not even at the driver. But at life itself. At how unfair it all was. How quickly a dream could vanish. How no one teaches you what to do when you’ve done everything right, and it still falls apart.
I stayed blind for a long time. Long enough to learn what it feels like to be completely helpless. Long enough to listen to my thoughts and not like what I heard. I questioned everything. Was I enough? Would I ever be? What’s the point of trying if the world can take it all in one second?
But slowly, painfully, I began to heal.
My vision came back in pieces. First shadows, then shapes, then the full painful truth of what I’d survived. But something inside me stayed changed. I was no longer just a kid trying to grow up too fast. I was someone who had seen the edge, fallen off it, and crawled back up.
That day still lives with me. It visits me sometimes in dreams, in flashes when I cross the street, in moments when I think about giving up.
But it also reminds me that I didn’t quit.
I still dream. I still run but not out of panic anymore. I run with purpose. I run with the knowledge that life can knock you down at any second and you still get to stand up.
I never got that job. But I got something else.
A story. A scar. And a strength I didn’t know was mine.
Valida Brulaj is a passionate writer and dedicated student who values knowledge, growth, and creativity. She holds degrees in Psychology and Political Science from her home country and is currently continuing her academic journey in the United States.
As a new resident of New York City, Valida is deeply committed to pursuing her goals with perseverance and heart — whether in her studies, her writing, or any endeavor that brings her closer to her dreams.
Writing is an essential part of her life, offering her a space to reflect, express emotions, and connect with others through meaningful stories and insights. She writes consistently, viewing the creative
process as both a spiritual and intellectual journey.
Through her work, Valida hopes to inspire others to follow their own paths with courage, nurture self-awareness, and believe in the power of dedication and dreams. In her free time, she enjoys reading, exploring art and nature, and finding inspiration in everyday life.
Hell on Earth
By Vero Henintsoa
The painkiller can’t stop her throbbing head. Wearing a dark navy suit, a white polka-dot shirt, and nude sheer and black heels, Joy is ready for the most hectic Tuesday of the year at the United Nations in New York. It’s the third Tuesday of September, the opening of the “high-level debate of the United Nations General Assembly,” an annual meeting gathering of the leaders of 193 countries around the world in the city that never sleeps.
The day before, Monday, September 20, 2021, was already a strenuous day for Joy, Head of the Mission of Madagascar to the United Nations, and her small team composed of five people. They worked almost 24/7 a week before due to last-minute decisions from the officials and the seven-hour time difference between New York and Madagascar. Their newly elected President of the Republic landed at 4:00 p.m, at the JFK airport, with twenty people, including ministers, journalists, and his close colleagues. He led a meeting at the Peninsula Hotel Midtown, right after his arrival, to finalize the schedule during his stay. The run of the show for each day, meetings to be attended by the president, and every single detail were discussed, mainly for the opening ceremony on Tuesday.
Today is the big day. Joy is willing to stay strong, deliver, and give her best with the help of her team, though her headache seems unbearable. Performing well without any mistakes is very important for the first participation of their head of state in this high-level meeting. It’s a sine qua non condition to avoid being repatriated before the end of the normal tour of duty.
With an agonizing feeling, a feeling like her head is going to explode and her brain will splatter out of her skull, she takes another Advil, pours a multivitamin powder into her bottle of water, and drinks. Come on, Joy, you will make it. Tonight you will have a better sleep.
Joy is standing under the famous “white tent,” a spot for Very Very Important Person’s (VVIP’s) arrival, within the UN premises, with her foreign minister and the assigned protocol officer from the United Nations. A bunch of colleagues who are also waiting for the arrival of the head of states, crown princes, or prime ministers, are standing there. As usual, the UN Secretary-General, Mr. Antonio Guterres, and the President of the General Assembly greet those high dignitaries from 8:00 to 8:45 a.m., prior to the opening of the annual meeting.
She glances at her watch. It’s 7:30 a.m. “It’s time to give a quick call to Ms. Anita,” muttered Joy. Anita is a close colleague of the President of the Republic, responsible for the coordination of his schedule, and focal point with the Secret Service.
“Good morning, Madam, I hope you had a restful sleep. I’m calling to kindly remind you that the president and his delegation should leave in the next ten minutes to be on time for the greeting ceremony by the UN Secretary-General and the President of the General Assembly at 8:15 a.m.,” she said over the phone.
“The president won’t go anywhere before 8:00 a.m. He’s going for breakfast right now; he has a motorcade. The Peninsula Hotel and the UN are less than three miles. We will make it in less than fifteen minutes by car,” answered Anita. That being said, she hung up the phone.
Joy is voiceless; she didn’t expect such a reaction. “What the hell is going on in her head? They won’t be here on time with this traffic and will miss the greeting ceremony,” she wondered. She suddenly remembered an important detail Mr. President had pointed out the day before during their briefing.
“J’assisterai à la cérémonie d’ouverture. Veuillez demander la photo auprès du Protocole des Nations Unies après.” I will attend the greeting ceremony and need the photo right after. Kindly request the photo at the UN Protocol as soon as it’s done, the president instructed Joy. This is well noted, Mr. President.
Trying to keep calm and zen, she takes a deep breath. She profoundly inhales through her nostrils, then exhales through her mouth. Together, Joy and her minister are observing the scene occasioned by the arrival of the motorcade of worldwide leaders through the driveway at 43rd Street, 1st Avenue, and their drop off by the black sedan at the allocated spot. The scene is almost like the arrival of stars on the red carpet. The Presidents of Argentina, Egypt, France, Senegal, South Africa, Namibia, El Salvador, Guatemala, the Prime Ministers of Canada, Singapore, Luxembourg, the Crown Prince of Monaco, Bhutan, just to name a few, successively arrive. Observing the scene, the foreign minister couldn’t help asking Joy: “Are the president and his colleagues coming soon?”
Without having the chance to reply, men in black suits with black sunglasses ask delegates inside the white tent to get out for security reasons. “We are kicked off like rubbish,” remarks the foreign minister with mixed sarcasm and anger in his voice.
“Honorable Minister, for security reasons, the UN Security and the Secret Service close the tent when the President of the United States is arriving,” Joy explains, trying to calm the Minister. “It’s usual, they act as such with the head of state and high-level threats like Iran, Turkïye, Russia, Ukraine . . .” The white tent opens, and the delegates come back in. “To reply to your question, Ms. Anita said they will arrive at 8:00 a.m.,” she avoided repeating what Ms. Anita really said, adding to her migraine. Right away, another voice announced,
“Everybody, please get out.” They went out, and the President of Turkïye arrived.
Time flies with the series of high dignitaries’ arrival almost every 5 minutes. At 8:30, an officer from the UN Secretariat announces loudly, “The Greeting Ceremony is over in fifteen minutes, the Secretary-General and the President of the General Assembly will head to the General Assembly Conference Room.”
Oh my gosh, there’s no chance the president is going to miss the greeting ceremony. She starts to panic but tries to remain calm.
Thankfully, her headache has disappeared because of the painkiller. However, her heart beats faster and faster, trying to find a way to get out of her chest. Her legs are tired from standing for almost sixty minutes. Calm down, Mama, everything is gonna be okay. Joy avoids losing her temper and keeps a smile on her face.
She calls Anita before the minister asks her to do so. It doesn’t go through because of disrupted networks. It’s common when the POTUS is around. Suddenly, Joy’s phone rings. It’s Anita.
“We are stuck in heavy traffic. Ask the Security Service to open the road, let us pass, and be on time for the Greetings Ceremony. It’s an instruction from the president. You have to execute and deliver,” screams Anita. She hangs up the phone right away without any chance of dialogue. Anita thinks New York operates like in her country, where the road is closed and traffic is disrupted hours before the passage of the motorcade of the President of the Republic.
Bloody hell, what does she have in her skull? Certainly not a brain. “Why does she ask me to call the Secret Service, when the agents of the Secret Service are with them in the motorcade?”
Despite her anger and frustration, Joy stays calm and reports to the foreign minister. It’s 8:45, the greeting ceremony is ending, and the motorcade of the President is still on Park Avenue, 45th Street. “I’m afraid we will call it a miss.”
“It’s okay, we can’t do anything to change it. Instead, let’s give him a warm greeting here,” responded the minister to ease the atmosphere.
During the briefing the day before, the president’s schedule had been decided. On Tuesday morning was this missed Greeting Ceremony, followed by the opening ceremony and morning meeting at the General Assembly Conference Room. In the afternoon, he has a bilateral meeting with the Secretary-General. The drop off at morning time was the “white tent,” known as the VVIP’s arrival; and in the afternoon, it was the Secretariat entrance by the roundabout and the fountain.
Everybody, including the Secret Service, the president’s colleagues, and Joy’s colleagues, has this detailed schedule with the drop-off time and venue.
With the sun’s rays and a breezy wind, we saw the motorcade of the President of the Republic entering the UN Gate after another motorcade of the Prime Minister of Mauritius.
“Ready?” Joy announces to the minister, “Here they are.” And they waited. Two minutes later, they still couldn’t see where the motorcade had disappeared.
Joy’s phone rang out of the blue. Anita was on the line. “Where are you? There’s nobody to greet the president; he’s angry, that’s unprofessional.” Keeping calm, taking a deep breath, Joy politely responds, trying to contain her emotions.
“Madam, we are here at the VVIP’s drop-off. We saw the motorcade entering the UN Gate. We are walking–”
“It’s a long walk for the president,” interrupted Anita.
“They were dropped off at the wrong place, at the Secretariat’s entrance,” Joy reports to the minister, who also loses his temper. “What the heck is going on? We agreed last night, it’s the VVIP’s arrival in the morning and the Secretariat entrance this afternoon,” admitted the minister.
Joy got back her confidence. “I didn’t do anything wrong, somebody else misunderstood.” The minister and Joy are now able to see a lady with a walky-talky in front of four men in black with black sunglasses surrounding the president. Behind his inner circle is a small lady with high heels. Anita.
Noticing the crew, the minister runs to greet them. Joy follows him, walking behind. “Good morning, Mr. President,” the minister greets him, shakes his hands, and almost bows.
“Good morning, Mr. President, welcome to the United Nations,” seconds Joy. She walks in front of the president, acting as protocol officer.
They pass by the white tent and take the escalator on their way to the General Assembly Conference Room. “We are going directly to the Conference Room. The meeting has already started,” Joy says in hushed tones to the president. She installed the president, the minister, and four other collaborators in the room, and waited outside with the Secret Service.
It’s 9:15 a.m. Shirley, the head of the Secret Service, requests to be informed at least two hours before in case the president needs to get out of the UN premises as a matter of organization and for security purposes. “This is well noted, I’ll text Anita right away to let her know,” acknowledged Joy.
“By the way, why didn’t you drop off the president under the white tent as agreed last night?” she questioned. “Just because Anita instructed us that the drop off would be the UN Secretariat in the morning and the white tent in the afternoon,” replied Shirley.
They were sitting in the corner of the hallway for almost three hours. Joy takes a sip of water to moisten her dry mouth and follows the meeting online via www.unwebtv.org so as to understand the move and the ongoing debate.
Joy’s phone rings. Anita’s message comes in. “We are leaving in 15 minutes. Inform the Secret Service and get the car ready.”
That’s too much. Is she serious? Joy had just reported to her via text message the request made by the Secret Service. Joy feels that an elephant is sitting on her chest. Her level of stress is at its peak. She feels out of breath, unable to utter a word, and explain anything. Is that a panic attack? Trying to remain calm despite this pressure, taking a deep breath, she replied and texted her: “I will inform Shirley accordingly.”
She calls Shirley while apologizing for the short-term notice despite their last conversation. Hum, noted, but my team needs at least 25 minutes. The motorcade needs to be swept again before getting into the UN. “Hang in there,” she texts back to Anita.
The motorcade is parked under the white tent, and as per the rules, can’t stay there more than ten minutes. Along with Shirley and two Secret Service agents, Joy and the presidential crew are on their way down. Anita and the president mumble, “We don’t need the motorcade, we are going to take a walk to go to the Tudor City Restaurant.”
One more unconventional change. What was supposed to be an exciting experience turned out to be hell on earth. Everything is torn apart. The back-to-back meetings with the time difference, the efforts and hard work to prepare a perfect visit for the president, which spoiled her summer, were in vain.
Joy can’t wait to finish this first day. Hopefully, better days will come. The delegation remained in New York until the end of the week.