My mother's hands: the Domestic Worker's Union

Dear God:

Like all children, I held my mother's hand as sign of assurance against a fall; a touch of loving; a way of being; the last time I saw her I was flying in from a rally of protest with a brief layover in her city. With the fervor of a prodigal son or better yet a prince returned, she made a fuss about me. (I am the baby you know.) We embraced; she sat me down and gave me that stern look and as always told me to be careful and not to make the president too mad. "Yes, ma'am", I obliged. We made chit chat about my siblings-some blue, all black.

And so were her hands. I rubbed them-tortured with calluses. Her knees ached and soul tired of scrubbing rich white folk floors. My mother is a "domestic" - like her mother and her mother before. I saw my mothers' hands again last night. Though not all black, they were blue. Reminding me from whence I came, they danced and sang calypso; testified before you, elected officials, and labor leaders.

I call on you now to protect them in the dark corners of their labor houses. May the children they serve hold their hands and feel their souls.

I talked to mother this morning and said it is OK to make the president really mad, for her. (Did I mention that I am the baby?)

Lillian's son,