This is not my story, it’s hers. But being a part of her story has left me profoundly changed.

We sat in a playhouse at the top of a slide, two grown women on seats made for children, while joyful chaos buzzed around us. Mariela, a refugee from Venezuela in her late twenties and me, a lifelong Chicagoan. 

We communicated through the limited Spanish words I knew and Google translator when it got complicated. The result was Spanglish pantomime narrated by computer voice translations. On that day I learned more of her story. What she fled in Venezuela was shocking, the lengths she went to journey here astounding and her realization that life here would be a struggle was heartbreaking. Everyone in Venezuela thinks making it to the United States is like winning the lottery. She had been living in a nearby shelter with her two daughters, Melany, 8, and Mia, 4, for several months. The girls were playing house around us as Mariela and I discussed steps to making a stable home here in Chicago. The girls were serving us “food” made from handfuls of the helicopter seeds that fell from Maple trees. The park had piles of them and the girls delighted in how they spiraled down after you threw them in the air. For a moment, we set heavy topics of survival aside and joined the play. We all threw the helicopters in the air. I shouted, “Happy New Year!” They stared at me blankly. So I tossed another handful in the air and shouted, “Feliz Loca!” They burst into a giggle fit. Happy Crazy. It was a fitting exclamation for this moment in time. 

I met Mariela for the first time on a summer day at our neighborhood block party. She was looking for work, any work, with her two adorable daughters in tow. She spoke zero English, but my neighbors and I tapped into our high school Spanish and figured out she was staying in a shelter about 10 miles away and waiting for the girls’ father to catch up with them. There was something likeable and relatable about her and her interactions with her daughters. They were overjoyed that our block party had a popcorn machine. The neighbors, including a horde of kids, were welcoming. The girls returned to where we were sitting breathless from the bouncy house. Mariela handed out slips of paper with her phone number scrawled on them. I kept it for two weeks before I called to see if she’d like to come over and help me pull weeds. What harm could there be? I paid her $60 cash and she was grateful. I learned what snacks the girls liked and didn’t like. Hard pass on the Cheese-its, por favor give me more on the Froot Loops. The littlest one Mia found a set of butterfly wings that were actually a costume for our dog at one time. We put them on her and she danced around the backyard shouting “mariposa,” Spanish for butterfly. The girls were adorable, they had my heart from the start. What a joy to have giggling-sweet-affectionate little girls in the house. 

I sent them home with the butterfly wings, the box of Froot Loops and a game of dominoes. That was the beginning of a pattern that plays out like this: A helpful gesture is followed by a brief sense of satisfaction on my part, only to learn of the next even greater need immediately to follow. This series of events is not by design or anyone’s doing. It simply is. Their needs are deeper than I imagined and their challenges are relentless. I had merely boarded the roller coaster and now would do anything to keep them from falling off the ride.

My life was full prior to meeting la familia. (My name for them because they have an assortment of last names I have trouble remembering.) I had a demanding but fulfilling job as a Creative Director in a Marketing company, an amazing husband, a grown son coming into his own, a beloved dog, a great family nearby and an assortment of friends and neighbors whom I adore. I write, swim, go to yoga, get stressed out but get by. I wouldn’t have thought I had time and energy for a vulnerable immigrant family of four, but somehow space was made. It’s funny how that happens.

            One day Mariela had some big news. They had gotten an apartment through a generous housing voucher from Catholic Charities. After difficulties obtaining the key from a landlord who could most generously be described as indifferent, they were ready to move in and were literally being kicked out of the shelter that day.  Damian, her partner, had caught up with them in Chicago a few weeks prior. They had next to nothing. And I mean nothing. No beds, no blankets, no kitchen items, no towels, nothing. When you are used to being able to go in the kitchen and grab a can opener or a paper towel at any given moment, the dark pit that is having nothing is like quick sand. She texted me the news that morning and they’d be in the new apartment that evening, sleeping on hard wood floors.

            I had come to know a Facebook organization called the Refugee Community Connection (RCC), originated and perpetuated by an amazing group of volunteers, one being Nan Warshaw, music business professional and rock ‘n’ roll patron saint of refugees. Through Nan, I had registered Mariela and her family. It was at this point I discovered the power of this network.

            When Mariela told me what was happening I posted a request on the RCC Facebook page that morning before work started. I asked if anyone had bedding, sleeping bags, yoga mats, mattresses, or anything that would make their apartment more comfortable. I had no idea I was about to have my faith in humanity restored. The outpouring of generosity was swift and abundant. Before my workday was done, my husband and I went from wondering what we could fit in our Honda CRV to realizing we’d need to rent a cargo van. In various parts of the city, we received a queen mattress, two twin mattresses, a rug, a comforter, and even someone who offered to order all their sheets and towels from Amazon and have them delivered. I boxed up some basic kitchen items and off we went to help this sweet family have a good first night in their new home. 

            On our way home, my husband and I marveled at what had transpired. We were exhausted from picking up all the donations and helping to get the items to their third floor apartment. We were famished since it was now 9 pm and we hadn’t had dinner. But we had this warm glow of accomplishment and inspiration in the acts of goodness and kindness that so many people displayed. You could almost see sparks when we fist bumped. 

            But the feeling was short-lived when we found out a week later that they still had no electricity in their apartment. I came to take them grocery shopping, to fill up their new fridge. But we ended up getting non-perishable items like bananas and cereal and some battery-powered lights to stick on the walls. The pattern that’s now so familiar continued. A helpful act. A good feeling. Another urgent need.

            This experience has taught me a lot about giving. Why people give, what giving does for the giver and how it both enriches and overwhelms. I have gotten over waking up at night in a panic wondering if they have a can opener or band aids or a dozen other things. I’ve learned my own limitations in giving. I’ve learned there are many things I just can’t fix and that struggle is often unavoidable even for people who I care about. I hold an image in my heart of little Mia marching up her apartment steps in her princess rainboots shouting, “Sooosssy!” with glee when she knew I was waiting at her door. 

            Since they moved into their new apartment, I’ve had the privilege of sharing their first Halloween trick-or-treating in our neighborhood, their first snow which happened to occur on the same day, and all the wonder of seeing many firsts through their eyes. I’ll never forget them exclaiming “mira!” (look!) when snow dusted the street outside my car. They were so excited they video chatted their family back in Venezuela on the spot. We are like an extended family now. Once, thanks to a bad translation, they called me Uncle Suzy. The translator apps often have trouble with gendered words.

            They recently cooked us an authentic Venezuelan dinner and even sent us pictures of the seaside village where the recipes originated. Getting to know them has been a joy. After donation drives for school supplies and fulfilling an unforgettable Christmas, I still wonder if they will be able to clear the very high hurdle of making a sustainable life here. The legal fees for asylum application, work permits, looming rent payments. We talk about taking one thing at a time, one bright light at a time, one glimmer of joy at a time. This advice is as much for me as for them. Until the next urgent need arises.

Then I think about how it got to this. The punch in the gut is how downright wrong it is to treat human beings like they are political pawns. Really, any time a human being is de-humanized, you can be sure evil is at the heart of it. Making a political point. Trying to break sanctuary cities. Insisting all migrants are criminals, at least the brown ones. Detaining innocent people without due process. Breaking the promise of America and legally seeking asylum. It’s all at the expense of these lovely, hard-working people who just want a warm safe place to put their babies to bed at night.

A Feliz Loca to all and to all a good night.