In June 1972 when I first came to America, I lived in a room in Karl Meyer Hall, a residence for doctors in training. The housing was provided by my employer Cook County Hospital in Chicago. I was doing an internship that year with every 4th night on call (emergency duty) which meant about 36 hours of working more or less continuously.
While some of my colleagues from India soon moved out to apartments nearby or miles away, I stayed on at Karl Meyer Hall as it was a 2-minute walk to the hospital. Besides I didn’t know how to drive nor had I any money for several weeks except the five dollars that the Government of India had allowed me in foreign exchange.
My room, though quite small, was comfortable and took care of my needs at the time: a small desk, a bed, a chest of drawers, 2 chairs, a tiny closet, a bedside table with a telephone and a bathroom I shared with another intern – a common passage linking our 2 rooms to it. To me it was a luxury to have hot and cold water running, available then only at super expensive hotels in Bombay.
The County provided housekeeping services too. Juanita- a tall impressive lady, regal in her bearing, with a wide and friendly smile, was the housekeeper for my room. I don’t know how many other rooms Juanita was required to clean. I can still see her, dressed in her uniform, a bluish-green frock and white socks and shoes. The housekeepers came every week day, dusted and vacuumed the room, made the bed, changed the towels and emptied the trash among other things.
I soon realized how lucky I was to have Juanita as housekeeper. She kept the room in a ‘mint’ condition, making it a pleasant refuge when I came back to it after long hours in the hospital. Juanita and I would meet whenever I happened to come by in the afternoon on the days I was not on call. We would chit-chat about this and that.
In those days in India, we, or at least my family hadn’t heard of fitted sheets and had a folded charsa (a thick woven cotton sheet) at the bottom of the bed over the bedsheet (chaddar). So, I was used to rolling over with ease-the charsa covering me at night. I saw that Juanita tucked in the American version of charsa between the mattress and box springs. At night I would pull it out to conform with what I was used to in Bombay.
One night, too tired to pull the charsa out as I fell asleep, I then tried to pull it loose but could not. A bit irritated I got up to see why the charsa would not pry loose and saw to my amazement that Juanita had used large safety pins around the bottom of the bed to prevent me from pulling it out! The next afternoon when in my room, around the time Juanita generally came by to clean it, I asked her why she had pinned the sheet down. “You are such a wriggler. Every day you pull the sheet out” she said, “so I thought this way the sheet would stay in.” It became clear to me that her idea of a bedding and mine were at odds. So, I suggested she tuck the sheet in but leave an extra sheet at the bottom of the bed, hence her sense of order and my habits could coexist. With a hearty laugh she agreed.
As the weeks passed by, I observed that not every housekeeper was as meticulous or had such high standards as Juanita for whenever she was not there her stand in, a pleasant white woman, would clean the room haphazardly, an indication that Juanita was away.
One day Juanita told me she would be on vacation for a few weeks. “Are you going anywhere,” I asked. “Yes, to Arkansas, that’s where I’m from,” she replied. “How will you go there,” I inquired. “I’ll drive there,” she said.
“How far is it from Chicago,” I asked. “Oh, about 700 miles,” replied Juanita. “Hmm, that’s far,” I said, “I guess it’ll take 2 days?”
“Oh no” came Juanita’s quick answer, “I’ll be there in 7 to 8 hours.”
“How so,” I asked. “Well, once I’m in the car I hit the gas pedal and off I go, I go at 80 miles an hour!”
“Isn’t that too fast,” I asked. Juanita brushed my concerns aside, “No, it’s fine, I go just a bit over the speed limit, (it was 70) so it isn’t a problem.”
“Well drive safely, enjoy yourself and be back soon” I told her and she nodded happily.
After this I knew that Juanita had no more vacation days left for the year and would be the housekeeper for my room for the 5 to 6 months that remained for me to complete my internship at Cook County Hospital, a source of some relief and joy! A few weeks later I noticed that someone else was cleaning the room as Juanita’s high standard of maintenance was not evident. I wondered about this and hoped she wasn’t ill. Some days later, I happened to bump into Juanita’s colleague in the corridor. I asked her “Is Juanita not well? She hasn’t been coming these past few days.” The lady’s face changed into one of sheer horror. “Don’t you know?” she exclaimed, “Juanita’s daughter was killed by the police last week.”
I was stunned. It was some time before I was able to speak and ask what had happened.
“Well the police went into her building (Juanita’s daughter stayed on the second floor of a 3 flat) and as they were going up the stairs, they heard a sound coming from Juanita’s daughter’s door.” The police proceeded to spray the apartment’s door with a volley of bullets killing Juanita’s daughter. Shocked and uncomprehending how this could possibly be true, I finally stammered a few words asking the lady to page me when Juanita came back to work as I would like to meet her.
Several days later I was paged and went to my room where Juanita was busy with her work routine. On seeing me she sat down as did I. I sat there, not knowing what to say, feeling very inadequate and quite stupid and lowered my gaze to the floor. For a while neither of us said anything. Then Juanita said very softly “The Lord has strange ways.” I continued to be silent but a searing rage welled up in me. I was very angry with God and with the United States…”
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