Last night I received a text from our Ayi. She’s a tiny little woman, literally about half my size, though we are almost exactly the same age. Her text was short and to the point: she won’t be returning to work next week. Instead, she is moving to Xinjiang. My heart dropped, because I’ve come to care deeply for this woman and because she has made the juggling of graduate studies on top of everything else in my life, doable for the last six months.
I visibly groaned as I read her messages while the family assembled at the table for dinner. “But we’re doing fine, mom. Aren’t we? You have us.” A sweet sentiment from one of the kids. It’s true, we are doing fine. It’s true, I have their help in many ways. But next week when they head back to school and my class ramps up, those couple mornings a week that Ayi would watch Zoë were critical.
I also couldn’t stop thinking about the forces that are causing her to make this move. Recently divorced. Two kids in high school. The pressure of impending college tuition and the promise of high wages for migrant work in the northwestern province. I read a few articles about the type of work being offered in that region, and none of it sounds very nice. I’ve seen the women working on construction crews in our neighborhood, carrying heavy loads of sand or debris up narrow ramps onto large trucks caked with dust. I’ve seen the makeshift migrant housing that sit on the perimeter of any large scale building project, underwear and worn blue pants hanging from lines strung across the windows. I don’t know exactly what work she will find there, but I wish she didn’t have to go.
That is where my thoughts sit this morning. A mixture of admiration for her grit and willingness to sacrifice, disappointment that she won’t be part of our lives, sorrow over the circumstances that she faces and my inability to help. And always, a good dose of perspective shot straight through my own life as I face all that I’ve been given.