By Alex Distefano
By Scott Snowden
By Anna Merlan
By Steve Almond
By Jena Ardell
By Jon Campbell
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Tessa Stuart
Two visits and 10 hours of waitingonly to be turned awayat the city's Family Assistance Center on Pier 94 did not undo Jane D. Nor did the dozen ID checks, the barrage of 'do you speak English?' queries, or the requests for the social security number she once bought and fears might not be legit.
The teddy bear, in the end, was what pushed Jane D. to tears. It came with the first form of aid she'd been able to wrangle after a week of struggling with bureaucracy, a plastic bag filled with donated giveaways at Asociación Tepeyac de New York, a migrant labor rights organization. Also in the bag was a 300-minute international calling card, which along with the stuffed animal made Jane D., 39, think of her two young children in the Philippines. She mothers them in carefully clocked, 15-minute phone calls and works here to support them. Or did work, until she lost her nanny job in the September 11 attacks.
She had cared for the five-year-old daughter of a couple who lived on Church Street, just off Chambers, and worked near the World Trade Center. She was headed to work that morning when the towers collapsed. And like nearly everyone who survived that day, she fled.
She has since tried numerous times to contact her employers, but has failed to get through on what no longer seems to be a working number. "They never called me," she said. Declining to imagine the worst, she theorized they might merely have moved out of the city without bothering to notify her. She considered going to their home, but was deterred by the police checkpoints in the areathe word in immigrant communities is that the authorities are cracking down on illegals in the name of heightened security. For this reason, she also chooses to withhold her full name.
Jane D. is hardly the only one in New York out of a job, as the line of thousands at last week's Madison Square Garden job fair made clear. Nor is she the only nanny. In serious need of money, she hit the placement agencies just days after the attacks, only to learn that "no employers are calling [them], because of the tragedy," she said. "A lot of employers died. Or a lot of employers are moving out of the city, leaving us jobless. [The agencies] said, 'Let's just let this settle and then we'll give you a ring.' And they never called."
Owners of several job agencies last week said her experience was not uncommon. "There was a slowdown, definitely," said Manuel Posadas of First Resources. "The economy plays a big role; timing plays a big role," he said. At even the Pavilion Agency, which caters to New York's "super wealthy and famous," there's been some impact from September 11, according to co-owner Clifford Greenhouse. He said one recent applicant was an office worker who'd lost her job and had gone to the agency seeking domestic work. And one of Pavilion's nannies lost her position with a Tribeca couple when they decided to relocate to California.
Jane D. said she knows she is one among many whose downgraded lives here have "affected entire families abroad." She came here last May on a tourist visa "because of economic reasons. We don't have work in the Philippines. You have a [college] degree, you end up unemployed." She met many nannies and housekeepers who share her circumstances at CAAAV Organizing Asian Communities, a Bronx-based nonprofit that mobilizes for domestic workers' rights, among other activities.
In fact, there were dozens who appeared to be immigrants on line for financial relief at the Family Assistance Center last week, despite the utter lack of public assistance legally available to most of them. Unique life circumstances threatened to disappear in a sea of low-income need, as individuals became numbers on manila folders.
Jane D.'s caseworkerswho took the native Tagalog-speaker's imperfect English to mean imperfect intelligence and addressed her accordinglynever learned that she had been a student activist at the University of the Philippines in Manila and an organizer for political prisoners during the Marcos years.
Deaths in the family pulled her from political work in Manila and back to her hometown, a rural farming village eight hours away, where she pitched in with her rice-farming parents. She married a man named Larry who, from her lips, is always "my dear husband," and with whom she has a five-year-old son and 10-year-old daughter. Grasping for a phrase in English that would adequately express her sadness in their separation, she settled for "It's breaking my heart."
"Last night, we were on the phone," she said. "I heard my daughter saying in the background, 'Mama, Papa is crying.' "
But with two elderly parents to supportshe blames International Monetary Fund policies for the high-interest-rate farm debts they've incurred over the yearsand ambitions of sending her children through college, she is in an anguishing bind. Unable now to earn the money she came here for, she is also unable to return until she does.
Matt Braslow, a young volunteer with the American Red Cross, knew none of this when he sat down across from Jane D. at Pier 94 on the afternoon of October 12, nor did he ask. He confessed to being absolutely stumped when she explained her dilemma: Nannies don't typically get paid in checks or get formal contracts when they are hired, so she could not produce the required proof that she had lost a full-time, $10-an-hour job. Moreover, Braslow had thought of another reason for her not to get aid.