An honest day's work is always noble. But there is something about being a domestic worker in New York that ignites discussion and debate. Is it demeaning? Frankly put, should young women leave their homes in the Caribbean to take care of other people's children? You ask different people and you may never get the same answer.
"We are brilliant people in Trinidad," says Lisia James from Laventille, "but when we get here we get sidetracked and end up doing degrading things like domestic work–only for the money."
She is at the Domestic Workers United Office in Manhattan. She was just fired from her work after "giving these people seven really good years." She may not have another option though, and is looking for another family to work for. "I am not going back home empty handed–but to tell you the truth, no amount of money is worth your self respect." Christine Lewis is an activist in the organisation, which she calls "a progressive movement." She is Trinidadian, a published poet and writer. She is candid and spirited, was raised in San Fernando, and understands the ups and downs of being a domestic worker in New York. "I came here twenty years ago. I did not become a domestic worker overnight, but my money was running out and I also overstayed my time in the country. In this job you end up doing things you did not sign up for, like walking your employer's dogs.
"But at the end of the day, I truly believe that no job is degrading. The hours are very long, sometimes sixteen hours a day, but we are care-givers to these families. In fact, many people start as domestics and go on to bigger things," she stresses. The paradox of this line of work is obvious, as Christine moves on to discuss the ugly experiences that workers face.�"The abuse can be hurtful and traumatic. We have women told that they are nothing but house workers. Employers have also used racist remarks. We have a case now where a worker was pushed down some stairs." She continues: "There are also employment agencies that promise domestic work, take your money and you never hear from them again. That's why this organisation is so important. I would never be involved in it if I thought otherwise."
Faceless and marginalised, The Domestic Workers United was founded in 2006 by a group of nannies who, with strollers and babies in tow, began discussing ways to empower themselves. Collaborating with other women's groups, its philosophy and modus operandi took shape. Its members are primarily from Caribbean and Latin American countries–many witnessing the burgeoning clout of the organisation. It has filed lawsuits on behalf of victimised members and has won, including a landmark case against a diplomat who refused to pay wages owed to his domestic worker. "We are really here to end exclusion," Christine states. "In 1938 there was the Fair Labour Standard Act which was vindictively revoked because it would have protected African American farm workers–this would have included domestic hands."
Pricilla Gonzales, Director of Domestic Workers United, calls the recently passed Domestic Workers Bill of Rights, "reparations for decades of injustice, and struggle for dignity, and recognition of the invaluable contribution domestic workers have made to families and society at large." She is quiet, unassuming, but her words are replete with revolutionary fervor: "We are prepared and looking forward to many more years of struggle and victory." The phones ring incessantly and the office is abuzz with anticipation. The Bill is only weeks away from being signed into Law. It will ensure paid vacations, sick days, and personal days. Workers will also be protected from discrimination and unfair firing, and given ample notice if they are to be terminated. Should one then recommend this line of work for the thousands of Caribbean immigrants in New York?
Christine raises her hand and strikes her palm forcibly on the desk, and says unswervingly: "Oh yes...after this Bill becomes Law? Yes!"
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(Glenville Ashby is a foreign correspondent for the Trinidad and Tobago Guardian)
