August School Shoes

My mum, she didn't talk much about it, not at first. Or maybe I was just too small to understand. But later, when I was older, she'd tell bits and pieces, always when she was doing something else, like kneading dough for roti or ironing my school uniform. It wasn't a big story she'd sit down to tell, you know? More like fragments, little glass beads she'd pick up and turn over in her hand, then put down again. And I'd gather them, trying to make sense. She came in 2005. I was maybe three then. She would have been 51. Fifty-one, with me. And no husband. Can you imagine?

It was always about my brother, Josaia. He was older, born with… well, they called it a 'condition.' He needed special doctors, special treatments. In Fiji, especially in Lautoka, where we lived, there wasn't much for him. Not for his kind of help. Mum tried everything. Took him to Suva, to the main hospital, but they just shook their heads. They told her, "Mrs. Devi, there's not much more we can do here." She’d tried the traditional healers too, the dausoli. Burned herbs, chants, all of it. Nothing helped. His breathing was bad, getting worse. He was always weak, tired. Always. His body just… wasn’t right. He was seven then.

She was a farmer, my mum. Had a small plot of land near Drasa, outside Lautoka. We grew cassava, taro, some bele for the market. Hard work. Sunup to sundown. I remember her hands, even now. Thick, strong, with calluses like bark. She knew every trick for coaxing things from the soil. Which moon to plant under, how much rain was enough. She was good at it. But farming didn't pay for what Josaia needed. Nothing did. They said a special clinic, in America, could help. A specific kind of surgery. They said it was a chance. A small chance. But a chance.

So, the papers. Oh, the papers. That’s where the story really begins for her, I think. Not the leaving, but the endless, maddening paper. Application forms, medical records, financial statements. Every single document translated and notarized. The money for it was a nightmare. She sold her best cow, the milking one, to pay for the first round of visas. Then she borrowed from my mother's brother – my uncle, who had a small grocery shop in Nadi. He was kind, but he didn't have much to spare. She worked extra jobs, cleaning houses in the tourist resorts along the Coral Coast, washing dishes. She even cut cane for a season, something women rarely did. Her back ached, she’d say, like someone was twisting a knife in it, but she just kept going. Josaia was the reason.

She finally got a visa – a special humanitarian one, I think she called it. They were very particular. They needed proof she could support herself and us. She showed them the letters from the clinic, the estimates for the treatment. And then, the flight. She hated flying. Always has. Said it felt like being trapped in a metal bird. But she held my hand, and Josaia's, and just kept looking straight ahead. We landed in Sacramento in August. August 16th, 2005. I remember the heat. Not like Fiji heat, not humid. This was dry, baking heat. And the airport was so big, so much noise. So many lights. Everything was different.

First, Josaia’s treatment. That took most of what little money we had. And the charity organizations helped, yes, but they couldn't cover everything. Mum was always at the hospital. Always translating for the doctors. Always learning about oxygen tanks, medication schedules. It was all very complicated. The surgery helped, for a while. It wasn't a cure, never could be, but it gave him more time. Better quality of life. That was her goal. She achieved that. That was her victory.

But then, earning money. She had to find work. Fast. She couldn’t farm here. The land was all city, concrete. She didn’t speak much English, not fluently. Not the fast kind they spoke in the city. Her cousin, another relative who had come years earlier, helped her get her first job. It was in a meatpacking plant. A big one, out near Northgate Boulevard, off I-5. Swift & Company, I think. She worked on the processing line. Cold. Always cold. Twenty degrees Fahrenheit, maybe less. She wore layers and layers of clothes, but the cold still seeped into her bones. Her fingers would get stiff. Her feet were always aching. And the smell. Oh, the smell. Like blood and metal and something sharp, antiseptic. She said it was hard to get out of her hair, even after washing it twice.

She worked the night shift, midnight to eight AM. Forty hours a week, sometimes sixty with overtime. I was with Josaia, or with her cousin's daughter during the day. Sometimes a neighbor would watch us. I don't remember much of that time, just snippets. The way the light would hit the cheap curtains in our tiny apartment on El Camino. The smell of her uniform, even after she washed it. The sound of her coming home, her keys jingling at the door at 8:30 AM, her sigh as she sat down at the small kitchen table. She’d drink hot chai, even in the summer, trying to warm herself up. She made $8.50 an hour starting out. She’d say, "Eight dollars and fifty cents, Anaseini. Do you know how many Fijian dollars that is?" It sounded like a lot. But then, the rent was $750 for that one-bedroom place. And groceries. And Josaia’s follow-up medicines, which insurance sometimes didn’t cover, or only covered part of. It was always a balancing act.

Every August, it was time for school shoes. For me. Josaia was often too sick to go to school regularly, but I started kindergarten that first year. Then first grade. Second. Every year, in August, we went to Payless ShoeSource. Or sometimes Famous Footwear, if we saved up. This became our little ritual. She’d finish her shift, come home, have her chai, and then we'd take the 15 bus down to Arden Fair Mall. I loved the mall. It was so bright, so big. We'd go straight to the shoe store. I'd try on pair after pair. Black Mary Janes, white sneakers with velcro straps. She'd inspect the stitching, feel the sole. She always bought them a size too big, so they'd last longer. "You'll grow into them, beti," she'd say, squeezing my foot. She'd pay in cash, crisp bills she'd been saving up. That was a good feeling, the new shoes. It meant I was going to school, like all the other kids. It meant she was making enough.

As the years passed, Josaia got a bit stronger, sometimes. But he had his bad days, and bad weeks. He never fully recovered. He lived until he was fifteen. Nine years after we came. Nine years of special doctors, special nurses. Nine years of Mum working the line. She moved up eventually. Became a supervisor of a small team. Made $14.25 an hour by the time she retired from there, which was a good wage then, for that kind of work. The smell, she said, never really left her. But she got used to the cold. She learned to speak English very well, too. With a slight accent, yes, but clear and strong. She got her citizenship. She bought a small house, a very small one, in Florin. Her own house. She did it all.

After Josaia passed, the August shoe ritual changed. It wasn't about new school shoes for me anymore. I was older, I bought my own shoes. But every August, still, she'd get quiet. She wouldn't say anything, but I knew. It was the anniversary of us arriving, the anniversary of Josaia starting his treatment, the reminder of all the reasons. One year, after he was gone, she went to the mall by herself. And she came back with a pair of new shoes for herself. Sensible walking shoes, black leather. "For walking, Anaseini," she said, holding them up. "For walking forward." She still has them. She wears them when she goes to the temple, or to the grocery store. They’re a bit scuffed now, but still good. And every August, I think of her, in that cold factory, working for those new shoes for me, for Josaia’s life. And for her own, somehow, walking forward, step by painful step.