The Mexico City Reader

Maids II

There is no starker contrast in a typical Mexican home than that between the main bedroom and the room assigned to the servant, domestic worker, house help, or simply—as she’s called by employers with anglophile pretensions—la maid. Regardless of the family’s neighborhood , social class, or bank balance, the difference between these two bedrooms is appalling (the fancier the house, the stronger the contrast). Let’s pretend we’re visiting a maid’s room in a monster home located in any of our fancy neighborhoods: Lomas, Polanco, San Ángel, or Pedregal. We climb a spiral staircase—going up, around and around—until we reach the maid’s room. There’s a smell of ripe fruit, face cream— Teatrical Rosa—and freshly ironed clothes. The room, about nine by nine feet, is painted light blue. There’s a leak in the ceiling, and the walls are peeling. There are two fold-up metal cots. One of the beds is made; there’s no comforter but there’s a pillow embroidered with two doves holding a ribbon with the phrase “My heart is yours” flying over a red heart. The other bed is unmade, covered with sheets and an old blanket . The nightstand between the two beds is piled with stuff: a tape player, nail polish, two plastic curlers, several hairpins, a brush full of 251 Maids II   very black and tangled hairs, half a peeled orange, a stick of Mum deodorant , a small bottle of Nivea cream, an Avon perfume, a little vase holding three plastic flowers, and a coin purse. Between the two beds there’s a scrap of carpet (left over from when the living room was redone ) thrown over the linoleum floor. There’s also an old issue of Fotonovelas with Lucía Méndez on the cover. The walls are decorated with a photo of the pope, two calendars—one featuring the Virgin of Guadalupe , the other Luis Miguel—and two snapshots—taped to the wall—of the family’s kids. There’s also a huge wardrobe on the brink of collapse. One of its doors is open and we can peek inside: three pink-and-white checkered uniforms, an extremely old plaid skirt (a present from the lady of the house), four polyester shirts, six flowery dresses. The lower shelf holds several pairs of worn out-shoes (presents from the lady of the house), plastic sandals, and a relatively new pair of patent leather pumps. To the right there’s a K2 television set (property of the cook) on a low table covered by a lace cloth. The TV is surrounded by halfempty Orlane, Lancome, and Clinique face creams. The table has three drawers, all ajar, overflowing with sweaters, pastel-colored underwear, wrinkled aprons, pantyhose, socks, “I Love NY” T-shirts, and a stack of slips. On the floor, against the wall, there’s a row of empty Coke bottles and a tray holding a soup plate and scraps of stale tortillas. Next to the closet (used only to hang the family’s freshly pressed clothes) there’s an ironing board holding an imported Phillips steam iron and three recently ironed blue dress shirts. The laundry hamper is close by. The lady of the house has no idea that her white linen skirt is thrown together with her cotton blouses, the girl’s Spanish smock and school uniforms, three kitchen rags, a tortilla wrapping cloth, a pair of wool trousers, a cashmere sweater (dry clean only), and countless kids’ socks. Next door is the tiny maid’s bathroom. There are no tiles. It’s painted bright yellow and the walls are peeling. The shower is behind a moldy plastic curtain. Lukewarm water—the water heater is broken— spurts out of six of the showerhead’s countless tiny orifices. There’s an old sock draped around one of the faucets to keep it from dripping. The soap dish holds a sliver of Darling soap and an old scouring pad. The sink is always clogged. The toilet has no seat and is also clogged. There’s no toilet paper anywhere in sight. Leaning against the wall is a piece of broken mirror, a bit of Teatrical face cream, a bottle of egg-scented Vanart shampoo, three toothbrushes, and a capless, flattened tube of Colgate toothpaste. 252   Despite all this, the lady of the house often makes comments like, “Just imagine what their life...