LaToya S smith

While growing up, I lived with my family in a sleepy little apartment on the south side of Delray Beach, Florida. My mother worked as a domestic aide in order to take care of my brothers and me. Her clientele consisted of the Jewish elite just a little way over the tracks in Boca Raton. Not even seven miles south, the pristine and placid enclave might as well have been on another planet.

Sometimes, my mother would take us to work with her. On the way there in a moldy taxi cab, or the back of my stepfather’s smoke-filled station wagon, we would be given a list of things we could not do and a description of all the things we could not touch.

The homes my mother kept clean were opulent mansions, with marble columns and more bathrooms than bedrooms — a detail that still puzzles me at 41 years old.

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Our rental had one tiny bathroom that always smelled of ivory soap and Clorox. I spent a great deal of time in that bathroom. It was my stepfather’s favorite way to punish me for making too much noise when he was trying to sleep.

I cannot recall exactly how many hours each day my mother spent keeping those rabbit hole homes clean. What I do remember is—the people who owned them were kind to us.

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Every time we had the displeasure of being dragged there, we were given butterscotch candy, sandwiches, or other food items. To this day, I live for matza.

Best of all, we were given books.

While my mother swept and shot us glances filled with fire and brimstone, I would get lost in the shelves. We couldn’t touch the Japanese porcelain dolls, or play in the bathroom with walls made of mirrors, but the bookshelves were a safe zone.

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I read books about sharks, dogs, and birds. Yellowed copies of Reader’s Digest, National Geographic, and the iconic Vogue magazine were my friends.

“If I had a book in my hand, I could ignore the fact that my mother was cleaning someone else’s home.”

The brocade dresses and heavily made-up faces fueled my imagination and helped take my mind away from what I considered a paltry existence. If I had a book, I could ignore the rough curtains at home, covered with dust, haunting me daily.

I felt sorry for myself, and more so, my mother.

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Why I Write

I write for the other baby turtles in search of a nice place to hide.

“I write for the other baby turtles in search of a nice place to hide.”