I’ve known a woman for over 20 years who’s worked as the cashier in a neighborhood grocery store.
Anya is her name, and one of the most impressive people I know.
A beautiful Latino in her 50s with one son, who just had his 28th birthday, she raised on her own who’s also an amazing human being.
When Stephano was small, so he could go to a good grammar school, Anya, knowing little English, cleaned for the nuns at Saint Ignatius Loyola in exchange for free tuition. At night she ironed shirts to make extra money before getting her cashier’s job.
Stephano put himself through the University of Colorado in Boulder, working as a busboy then waiter at a local steakhouse.
When we met the other day, all I knew of her came flooding back. The many candles she’s lit for me over the years. That apple or Danish I’ll find in my bag.
“Did’a you eat loonch Suz’onna?” she’ll often ask, offering me part of hers.
All these magazine pieces profiling women of means and privilege don’t hold a candle to Anya, who rumor has it, ran across a field to hide in a truck when she was 18 to come to the Ou-nided-stets of Amedica, landing in Miami, or Mi’yom-ee as she so sweetly calls her first American home.
I’d like to write to Anna Wintour at Vogue or Oprah (and Donald Trump), and say, how bout doing a piece on a woman who had no one to help her, did everything herself managing to raise an upstanding son with integrity and manners, finally becoming a proud American citizen who has the right to vote.
Her story should sell quite a few copies, don’t you think?