God must have sent her. Reliving my past trauma

BY SIMONE J. SMITH

I don’t think being overwhelmed can accurately describe what I was feeling at that moment.

As I walked through the gate of the house, I took notice instantly of the large steel door that was looming the doorway. It was an intimidating sight. As I entered, it took my eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness of the room. The room had high ceilings, and it kind of reminded me of someone’s living room, except there was no furniture. There was a large group of women, all caught up in their individual activities.

To the left of me was a group of girls playing dominoes. To the right of me, in what looked like a makeshift kitchen, I saw another group of girls cooking. I remember thinking how delicious it smelled, and for the first time, I actually felt hungry. There were other girls scattered throughout the room, talking to each other, doing hair, and nails, or reading. They all took notice of me right away.

I stood there nervous, and unsure of what to do. Once again, all I heard was Spanish being spoken, so I felt slightly removed from what was going on around me.

“Hey,” I heard a voice say. “You must be Simone!”

I turned around, welcoming the familiarity of identifiable phonetic sounds. This is when I met one of the women who I know now that God had sent to help me through this situation.

First things first; she was one of the most beautiful melinated women I had ever seen. She had long, black locks, hinted with grey, and a little blond. She had golden brown skin that you could tell had become used to the Panamanian sun. She had a slight build, and you could tell she was a little older. It was not because she looked old, she just had this air of wisdom that could not be denied.

She was wearing a white Bob Marley t-shirt, and a pair of blue-jean cut-offs. What caught me most was her welcoming smile and pleasant demeanour. I would have never expected to run into someone with such energy in here. For the first time in a few days, I felt safe. She had that momma energy.

“Hi! How are you?” I replied. It felt good to speak to someone who spoke my language. Other than Angella, this was my first real conversation since it all happened, and although I didn’t know her, our shared language helped settle my spirit.

“It is nice to meet you Simone. My name is Andrea. You must have had a long day. Here,” she reached for my bag, “Let me take your stuff. You can put it near my cubby until we figure out your sleeping arrangements.”

I thankfully handed over my bags and followed her further into the house. As we walked through, I saw a row of showers to the right of me. “Obviously,” she began, “This is where we shower. I will advise you; the shower line gets long at certain times, so make sure that you are always prepared when they announce that we can take showers.

I saw about four shower stalls, and I understood right away why she had warned me of that. The small house was not very good, but there were easily about 60 women in there, and it seemed like some of the women were outside.

“How many women are in this house Andrea?” “This house holds about 75 women. This is considered the foreigner house. There are a lot of Americans here, a couple Canadians too.”

She made a left when we got to the end of the corridor and brought me into another room that had a row of bunk beds, each colourfully decorated.

“Welcome to House 9 Simone.” She put my bags down by what I supposed was her bed. “I have to go help prepare dinner, so you get yourself oriented.” With that, she gave me a parting smile, and walked back to the kitchen.

I stood there for a moment, and then I sat down on her bunk. Meeting Andrea had settled me down, but I knew that there was more to come. All I could think about right now was, what was for dinner?