“In the end, a man was born to fight, to continue to fight — to live, and to accomplish what he wants to accomplish. But always to keep fighting.” — Marco Moreno Gonzales, Textile Worker
REPORTER'S NOTEBOOK: Jon Miller
One of the dirty little secrets about the global economy is that expatriates from rich countries, no matter how humble their status at home, nor how limited their talents or meager their accomplishments, frequently end up living like aristocrats.
By "living like aristocrats," I mainly mean having maids.
I lived for eight years in the Philippines and five years in Peru, and in both places my family and I relied utterly on the labor and counsel of strong, loyal, intelligent local women. And while I traveled widely, and interviewed many leaders and experts, a disproportionate amount of my "inside" knowledge came from the people who waxed my floors and cleaned up after my kids.
Cora, our maid in the Philippines (we used the word "helper" there), had six children and a no-good husband who drank and beat her. She worked for us for the entire time we lived in her country; she saw us through the birth of our two sons, and we helped her through crisis after crisis. She had terrible luck, and often made terrible decisions. But she never gave up. She borrowed money to invest in a farm, and then in a college education. As the last of her children became independent, Cora earned her teaching certificate. She recently sent us a copy to prove it.
Rosa, who worked in our house in Lima, was raised in the Andes and emigrated to the city as a teenager. She had an affair with a policeman; in giving birth to her daughter, Ivanna, she lost her ability to have more children. The first time we met her she seemed wary and defensive. By the time we left Peru five years later, she was one of our most valued friends. Her generosity, competence, self-respect, and sense of justice still inspire me. Not to mention her ambition! If Rosa had been born in the United States, she would be president of something. She once told me that her mother was a beast of burden, passing her days carrying things back and forth. Rosa wanted more for herself and her daughter.
Which is a roundabout way of getting to Marco Moreno. Rosa and Marco became a couple while Rosa was working for us. I remember how she first described him. He was from a humble background, but had a strong family. He was working in factories, but he had big dreams. Most of all, she said, he was digno. He had dignity. That's about the best thing you can say about another person in Peru.
I didn't know Marco well before I returned to Lima to witness the opening of his and his brothers' textile workshop. He used to visit Rosa at our house, and I went to their place once or twice, but he'd always remained in the background. He's a small man, and quiet, with sad eyes and a guarded smile — not the sort of person you'd notice on the street. Yet when I finally spent real time with him, I learned very quickly how serious he is about his work, his family, and his life.
I also learned (although I suppose I knew it) that Marco's story isn't really about what it's like to work in the textile industry, or about the difficulties of starting a business in a competitive field. It's about human striving and endurance.
Rosa and Marco have been through a lot together, much of it unhappy. Their daughter Ivanna was raped by a neighbor at age 11; the rapist remained free because Rosa and Marco couldn't afford a lawyer. Ivanna has suffered from depression ever since, and twice attempted suicide. The first business Marco opened with his brothers failed during a thread shortage. Rosa was robbed on a bus at gunpoint. A favorite uncle was brutally murdered. Then Marco was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, a form of cancer.
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