Why I don't believe in coincidences

Ana Alverado has been sent to my office to get registered on the new time clock. Instead of a simple meeting, I have managed to make her cry. It's not even 10:30 am, yet it's a typical Wednesday here at United 1 Labs.

As the on-site supervisor for a manufacturing plant I have all sorts of interesting "to-do's," the most massive of which in my first week has been to register 200 or so Hispanic employees into our fancy, new time clock. The clock captures an image of each person's thumb so that he or she can clock in with nothing but a fingerprint. Unlike the old time cards, employees can't leave their fingers at home. Or so I hope.

So one by one I pull the ladies and gents out of production and start thumb-printing. It was all a very smooth process until Ana came along.

Ana is one of the oldest employees on the staff. Considering the difficulty and hot conditions of the product lines, I am surprised to see her there at all. She's in her mid-50's. She has salt and pepper hair that the color grey is trying to take over, but hasn't quite made it all the way. Her eyes are dark brown. They look calm and kind. She looks much older than she is, much like a grandmother. But you can see the age only in her face, as though it was put there by a great emotional weight.  

I register Ana, but before she leaves to return to production, she remains seated in the purple chair next to my desk. The wall in front of her is a wide, tall glass window, and she looks out of it a moment before speaking in Spanish.

"I have been with the company for 4 years. I work very hard, despite my age, and the gentlemen of the company congratulate me. I need help to get my vacation check. I do not want to take off, I just want to keep working and get the check. How can we do it?"

With plenty more employees waiting to give me their prints I really don't have much time for conversation. But something.. A little inkling that comes from no where tells me to spend a little more time with her. So I do just that.

I hear myself respond in my ultra-Gringa accent. "Is this your only job?"

"No," she goes on in Spanish. "I work at night, too, where I clean offices. I get home at about midnight, then I come back to the plant at 6 in the morning. Every day."

Her tone is not arrogant. She is not bragging, neither looking for sympathy. I don't even think she is proud. She is simply.. determined. And I simply cannot resist but press further.

"Forgive my frankness," I begin, "But may I ask what motivates you?"

Ana's eyes, creased with tiny, yet somehow darling wrinkles, change immediately. I have obviously caught her off guard. I am, after all, supposed to be an authority figure. My question has exposed my own vulnerability in acknowledging that I may benefit from what my employee, a subordinate, has to say. I probably shouldn't have asked it. But there is no turning back.

At that moment, as though this was the first time in a long time in which someone had shown an interest in her aspirations, her expression brightened. "What motivates me?" She repeats aloud, pensively, as though saying the question will help her process the answer. "Well," she begins. 

And Ana's story unfolds. 

We flash back to the night Ana plays over in her head every day without fail. Her dear son, a newlywed, called her on the way home from work. It was 11:45 PM on Thursday in Dallas. He asked her if she wanted something to eat, then suddenly said in a panic, "Mom, something is happening. Something is happening. I love you so much. Take care-" Then the phone disconnected. 

It has been two years since that night. To this day, when Ana is not working, she takes the bus to Dallas, where she posts flyers in local businesses and telephone poles. The flyers have a picture of her son, and offer a $10,000 reward for information that will lead to the arrest of the men who took his life that night. "The facts don't add up," she says in tears. "Why was the passenger door open if his car crashed? Did the car crash before or after he was shot? I have so many unanswered questions," she sobs through bloodshot eyes.

One year after losing her son, Ana became a widow when her husband was hit by a drunk driver. In fact, in a 5-year span, Ana has lost the people closest to her: her parents, son, and soulmate. 

Still, something keeps her moving. If she can just save a little more money, she can pay to bring her grandson back from Guatemala. He is a citizen, but has to pay a penalty for being out of the country so long. She has hope.. Something to work for. Her grandson, she says, is all she has left of her son. 

And so, Ana keeps on working. It doesn't matter that her hands and feet are tired, or that she hasn't had a day off for as far back as she can remember. She still has a reason to go on.

Seated across from Ana I realize that I am no longer the "Supervisora." That part of me has temporarily left my body. I have been reduced to a human, a mere mortal incredibly swayed by the strength of a woman who has been drug through hell and back, and yet finds a way to get out of bed every morning and work to the bone. I want to bust down the door to my boss's office, jump on top of his $5,000 desk, and demand four weeks of paid vacation for Ana, one week for every year she has been with the company. I want to overdraw my bank account to give her the $1500 she needs to bring her grandson back here. 

But what I want most is to go to the police station and demand to know what those pigs have done to find the pieces of shit who took her son to an ATM and then shot him twice in the back. Or have 5 minutes alone with the jackass who chose to drive drunk and change this innocent woman's life forever. They took more than two lives. They took Ana's, too. Her joy, her memories. God forgive me but may they meet an unbearable end.

Ana gets up to leave, and I stand up, too. "Please come and find me if I can help you in any way." 

Later in the day I thought long and hard about the kind of courage it would take to push forward despite those kinds of circumstances. A situation at work made me stay later than usual, but around 5 I was headed home. At the precise moment I was pulling out of the office I saw someone in the company uniform walking down the street. As I slowed down, I realized it was Ana. And I inexplicably knew, without a doubt, that we were crossing paths again for a reason. I drove her across town to her next job, and on the way, she could talk of nothing but her love for her lost son and husband. Her grief was almost palpable.

Then she said she was so glad I had stopped, because she had wanted to ask me for a favor, but wasn't certain if it was appropriate. With great humility she asked if I would spare just a few minutes every week or so to call for news about her son's case. She had been anxious for answers, but unable to communicate with the English-speaking investigator.

For the second time in one day, I watched Ana wipe tears from her face as she thanked me for listening to her. I told her it had been my pleasure. I've never spoken truer words.