Zully

"I-38."

"Bingo!"

Some lucky senior just won a Bingo game and a round of applause from her companions. That is such a nice way to be serenaded as I walk down the hall of the Biruta Street offices for the second time. The lockers are still decked out in colorful paper and paint, but this time I do not need an escort to find the elevator or the Hall of Honor. The second-floor hallway is void of people when I emerge from the slowest elevator in Summit County. As I approach the little table and chairs in front of the wall of plaques, however, Mary Case comes out of a door marked Administrative Offices. She is buttoned into her long wool coat and carrying a paper shopping bag.

"Hello, Mary!"

"Hi, Sharon! Let me find Zully; I think she's in here..."

We shake hands, even though Mary seems distracted and rushed. As we walk into another office, she mumbles about having to go to a doctor's appointment this afternoon with her sister. She introduces me to a thin, pinched-looking woman named Chloe who is seated at the first desk we come to, and asks her if Zully is in just now. Chloe affirms that she is, rises to shake my hand, then stands there looking awkward. Mary and I start to walk around a small wall made up entirely of beige metal filing cabinets and are stopped by a petite woman in a giant, chunky, cream-colored sweater.

"There she is! Sharon, this is Zully!" Mary seems quite relieved to have found her target.

"Hi! Is it Zooey?" I ask, smiling, as I shake her tiny, cold hand.

"Hi! It's ZOO-lee," she replies, also smiling, without a hint of irritation at my mistake. Mary attempts to smooth things even more.

"Is that short for something?" she asks

"Yes; it's short for Zuleika," Zully replies. 

We bid good afternoon to Mary, who scoots to her appointment, then we continue around the filing cabinets to the little corner cubicle that is Zully's desk. Zully has smooth, caramel-colored skin and hazel eyes flecked with green. She speaks animatedly about her work with immigrants, her hands moving constantly, sometimes clutching her heart, sometimes working the air in front of her as she explains the varied and often unexpected situations she must deal with every day. She is from Puerto Rico, came to Akron to pursue a Masters in Social Work twelve years ago, is married, and has two small children. Occasionally, she corrects herself for verb agreement or for a more precise word, but her English is excellent. The soft ds and ts of her accent are soothing and liquid sounding.

"And that's a little bit about me. Would you like to tell me something about you?"

I give her the bare bones, with a few well-placed details: I am also a student at the University of Akron, studying creative writing; I've lived in Akron for twenty years, and am very interested in immigrants and immigration reform. I tell her that growing up in Stow, everyone looked just like me, and it wasn't until I moved to Akron that I started seeing people of all different colors and nationalities all around me. I also tell her about living briefly in France, and how that experience opened my mind and heart to the importance of service work, how we were poor growing up, and my parents didn't have time or money to volunteer, but that I'd like to do some giving back now. 

She listens intently, leaning forward. At regular intervals, she smiles easily and naturally, her eyes wrinkling a bit at the corners, conveying genuine kindness.

We get along easily right away, largely because Zully seems to be a generous and gregarious person. We discuss the fact that most of her clients are undocumented, so there is a need for creative solutions to "the fires I have to put out every day." I tell her, very honestly, about my feelings toward undocumented workers: that they are people who only want to live and raise their families and be happy, just like anyone else. I also tell her--again honestly--my opinion that, if it weren't for greedy corporations who only want to increase their profit margins, there wouldn't be such a need for undocumented workers, and jobs with a living wage and healthcare might be easier for everyone to find, including immigrants. Then she tells me something that really piques my interest.

"You would not believe some of the stories I hear from these people! Especially the women from Colombia! Aye! Such stories! Awful stories, but what stories! I go home everyday and am just so grateful for everything I have. Even when my children misbehave, I am so thankful!"

Now, that is intriguing. I have to stop myself from asking her to recount one of these "awful" stories to me. I did not bring a notepad or pen, so I wouldn't be able to take notes. Never gonna let that happen again!

After about fifteen minutes, a rather frumpy middle-aged woman in a pretty violet blazer appears in the gap between the wall and those filing cabinets. She says hello to Zully while her eyes flit to me several times. I smile and wait to be introduced.

"Hello, Diana!" Zully has such enthusiasm when she speaks. "Diana, this is Sharon, the woman who wants to volunteer with me!"

Diana sets her Diet Coke on a bookshelf so she and I can shake hands. Her hands are ice cold. When she turns to go into her office, she is stopped short. The door is locked. Zully and I both exclaim, "Oh!" and cringe a bit. I hate it when things like that happen. Diane goes off to find someone with a key and Zully and I continue chatting. 

I tell her I am fluent in French but only beginning to learn Spanish, and this seems to delight her. When we exchange phone numbers in our respective smart phones, she says the numbers in Spanish. I understand them! And it feels like an accomplishment. More, I am able to tell her my number in Spanish as well. Now, it seems, we are friends.

When Diana returns, we all three go into her office, which is only slightly larger than Zully's cubicle, with the added bonus of two windows. Zully briefly brings Diana up to speed: I am the woman who wants to volunteer with the Spanish Outreach program.

"Has she signed the confidentiality agreement?" 

Diana's eyes once again flit to my face, even as she directs her question to Zully. Neither of us is sure if I signed such a document the last time I was here. Diana proceeds, undeterred, to recommend that I begin, as Mary had suggested, with clerical work. She prefaces her recommendation with the requisite litany about how the various Catholic services and organizations have merged over the last two years. As was the case with Mary, Diana seems to be recounting these changes more for her own ears than for mine. The apple cart must have really got upset for these ladies.

"So, we have to create a file for each of our clients, no matter what services they use, that is identical. Once we get that information organized, we can better serve their needs." 

She seems to truly believe this. Zully, who I can tell much prefers face-to-face client work to paperwork, as do I, handles this little bureaucratic stumbling block with aplomb.

"So, once I call Mary tomorrow, to make sure she has signed the form," here she mimics form-signing with her hands,"maybe we could meet again next week or the week after and Sharon could come with me to start getting to know some of the clients?"

She asks rather than states, even though she and I have already agreed that this is how we would like to proceed. 

"Perhaps, once the form is signed, Sharon could spend one day a week helping to get these files created," and here she looks me full in the face for the first time since we sat down. "This could utilize some of your skills, Sharon, as I know you spent some time working in a doctor's office..."

Yes, I affirm that I have, indeed, some office experience of that type. I don't want to make a big issue of working directly with people right now. Zully seems just a little cowed by this administrator. I can already feel that my allegiance is going to be with the tiny Puerto Rican woman who feels the pain of her clientele so deeply, and not with the overweight bureaucrat who is more concerned with files. But it's early in the game; I'll start with filing if I have to. These interpersonal tensions are to be expected. 

I smile and nod. Zully and I go back to her desk.

"So, let's see," Zully digs in her zebra-striped tote and pulls out a personal calendar, not much different from the one I use. I'm inexplicably happy that she keeps a hard-copy calendar, rather than a digital one in her phone. 

"Now, you can do mardis y viernas, yes?" 

She hits me with her 100-watt, green-eyed smile. I am overjoyed that I understand the words for Tuesdays and Fridays! I am already on my way to being trilingual!

"Si!"

We decide on a tentative meeting here this Friday to get started on the filing work, then a field visit to a client's doctor's appointment next Friday. And Zully makes herself a note to follow-up with Mary about the confidentiality agreement. This feels like a good balance for both of us. I refrain from verbalizing my slight resistance to the administrator, but I think Zully understands. It is the first of what I'm sure will be many tacit understandings between us.

Zully walks me down the hall to the elevator and we chat some more about our personal lives. She lives north of the city, not far from the border with Stow, where I grew up. She mentions that she loves the Spanish mass at St. Bernard's, but that her kids go to St. Joe's because it's closer.

"St. Joe's? In the Falls?" I ask. "My parents were parishioners there for years before my dad passed away three years ago!"

"Oh, yes! I just love that church! And Hayden adores the school. He just loves it!"

"My mom volunteers in the library there," I offer. I can tell that we both feel good about the relationship we are embarking on. We shake hands again as I get on the elevator.

Downstairs, a man in a leather cowboy hat sits in a wheelchair across from the double front doors. I smile as we make eye contact.

"Nice hat!" I say, then I run my hand across my forehead as if I were caressing the brim of a hat because I cannot tell if he has understood me. He looks Hispanic and younger than most of the seniors around here by at least twenty years. I smile again and turn to exit.

"Thank you!" I hear behind me as the glass doors close behind me.

De nada, I think to myself.