Sable Monroe

When my grandmother came to America, I was 16.

She didn’t have any immigration status.

And it wasn’t just her.

At the time, I didn’t have status either.
My younger brother didn’t have status.

The only people in the house who were documented were my mother, who had a green card, and my stepfather, who was a U.S. citizen.

So the kind of care people imagine when they hear “America” didn’t really apply to us.

Her bottom dentures were broken.

There was no money set aside to fix them.

So she couldn’t eat properly.

She would complain about indigestion and heartburn because she couldn’t chew her food the way she needed to.

Looking back, I don’t understand why her dentures weren’t handled before she came.

Back home, something like that would have been simple to fix.

I’ve seen it done years later for a couple hundred dollars.

So I know it wasn’t impossible.

It just wasn’t done.

And once she got to America, it never became a priority either.

She went to clinics.
She had been to the hospital before.

But it wasn’t consistent care. It was whatever could be managed.

Most of the time, I was the one taking her.

I would get out of school around 3:00 or 3:30, bring her with me, and take the bus to the clinic before it closed around 5:30.

That’s how she got care.

Not because there was a system in place.

Just because I could get her there.

The house itself wasn’t stable either.

There was a lot of yelling.

She watched her daughter get hands put on her.

One time, someone threw dirty dishwater in her face.

I was 16, and I knew exactly what I was looking at.

I knew it was wrong.

What I didn’t have was any power to change it.

And it wasn’t something that could be talked about.

It was easier to act like it didn’t happen.

And when she started getting confused, it wasn’t met with concern either.

There were moments where she didn’t know where she was, or couldn’t keep track of simple things. Moments that should have been taken seriously.

But instead of care, it became something to laugh at.

My mother would mock her. My stepfather would join in.

What was clearly fear and confusion on her end was treated like entertainment.

And I remember thinking, even then, this wasn’t right.

Looking back now, it makes what happened later feel less sudden.

That was her life in America.