Ode To Lalia

I was standing outside of the grociery store with my clipboard in hand, ready to register anyone passing by. I spotted a woman in her early 70s walking up and I stood in her path. Her face was worn, her palms wrinkled and her fingers long. She had callouses on all the tips of her fingers and her eyes were dark, unfathomable. The whites of her eyes were veined a cloudy red. I asked her if she was registered, and she replied in a slow Creole accent, "I don' know. I'm new ceetizin. Three day ago."

My hands flew in the air, "Congratulations! Did you see this form when you became a citizen?"

She paused a moment and shook her head at my clipboard, "No, I no register."

"Well, then: The best part about being a citizen is that you can vote. Let's get you registered!"

She frowned at me, "I jus' move. I no know my add-dress, no yet. I come here eva-ry day. Bee-tweyn sax and sevuhn. I come back with my info-mation tomorro."

"In case anything happens, can I write down your name and number?"

She pursed her lips and sighed , "Lalia. My noomber ist..."

The next day I was standing outside of the same grocery store, signing up volunteers and registering voters. It was 7:30. No Lalia. I headed back to the office with the filled out forms and noticed my note to myself: "Lalia: Did she come? - If she didn't 561-555-5555!"

"Hello! Lalia?"

"Hey."

"I didn't see you at Winn-Dixie?"

"I know. I so tired: my bones felt achy. I could not walk ovah. Maybe anotha time?"

"How about I come over to your place? I can register you at your home."

There was the silence of thought, followed by a short mumbling in Creole and then in quiet reservation she said, "Okay."

I could hear the life of her place as I was walking up to the door. The arguments of soon-to-be-exes and the playing children down the street all echoed through the apartment halls. Lalia's tired face greeted me. "Come in."

The room had white walls but the the dim lights gave the apartment an amber glow. It was as if my eyes were looking through old film. There were wrappers of McDonald's take-out on the ply wood table and the kitchen looked unused. Voices rambled quietly in the living room with the light of a television flickering around the corner like a campfire at the end of a long, winding cave.

Lalia waved me over to her couch. I sat down and we went over the details of her voter's registration. She struggled in spelling the words out; I could tell she had only heard them. I helped her write her information in after she spelled out-loud.

Lalia looked over to me, "What party?"

"I'm a democrat."

"You are a good people." She checked the box for "Democratic Party."

Her signature flowed down at the bottom. Lalia paused a moment and sighed, "Fourteen years in 'dis country and now I am free."

She had lived the life of an immigrant. I could see it in her eyes, even if I didn't completely understand it.

"I'm really proud I got to register you, Lalia."

Grinning in an understanding - motherly - way, she gave me a hug, "Thank you."

As I turned to leave she gave me a look of frustration and asked me, "I no know how to... how to dee-cide. How to... how to dee-cide for vote info-mation."

I noticed her cable service guide on the table. It had sixty three channels listed like the pay-per-view menus on the back of a "Do Not Disturb" door hanger. I circled CNN, MSNBC and PBS in red ink. I left Fox News blank.

The door shut behind me and I could hear the latching and twisting of an array of locks. I got back into my car and before I could turn the ignition I was bawling out snot and tears. I was leaving to my comfortable office, then to my comfortable rented home, while Lalia didn't have much at all. I was overwhelmed with the realization that even though I could share a moment, I would never truly understand. I felt guilty, upset, but most of all sad.

Then, somehow, through the pain and sadness, that moment reminded me of something. In the form Lalia had signed she was declaring something: her inherent right to be heard equally. Lalia might be poor, barely speak english, and have a sad little apartment, but when we walked into the ballot box she would be just as rich, eloquent and human as anybody else. Lalia reminded me of that, and I don't think I'll forget her for it. Thank you, Lalia, for reminding me of what it means to be an American.