Krista Beth Driver - Mani/Pedi: A True-Life Rags-to-Riches Story

MANI PEDI

Copyright 2019, Krista Beth Driver

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2019

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-63152-626-8

ISBN: 978-1-63152-627-5

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019941663

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Berkeley, CA 94707

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Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

The famous words on the Statue of Liberty

Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

Emma Lazarus

I was failing kindergarten, which Im still unclear on how thats even possible, but apparently they thought I might have had a learning disability because I couldnt cut with scissors or some such nonsense. So they sent me to a psychologist to be tested. I remember being intrigued with her beehive hairdo (this was in the 70s) and irritated by her line of questioning. At one point she asked me, What color is a banana? To which I promptly replied, White. She leaned toward me, peered over her cat eye glasses, and triumphantly declared, No. A banana is yellow! Not to be outdone, I stood up and placed my hands on my hips and said, No maam, a banana is white, the peel is yellow!

That is how I view the world; I look below the peel. I engage with life by seeing statistical probabilities and analyzing the algorithms of everything around me. Ive always had an intrinsic fascination with the study of human behavior, and Id like to say thats what led me to get my doctorate in psychology. The truth is, I pursued my degree simply because I had a high school teacher tell me that I would never make it in college. So... I went to college and upped the ante by earning a doctorate before my ten-year high school reunion just to prove to her that I could.

But I digress. I really want to tell you how this book came to be. It was twenty years ago, and quite by accident, that I stumbled into the most fascinating human study of my life, while sitting in the plush massage chair at my nail salon.

Twenty years ago, while I was sitting in the chair getting my manicure and pedicure, I did what came naturally to meI observed the people around me: men and women, young and old, white, black, and brown, ranging across the socioeconomic spectrum. They were ordinary people, though some may have been extraordinary, I didnt know. All I could say about them was what I sawhow some used the time in the spa as their quiet time, even sleeping. Others were oblivious to everything around them as they flipped through magazines and books. Then there were the talkative onessome friendly and some, unfortunately, rude.

As I people-watched, I began to wonder about their lives and did so through my statistical analysis lens. I would start with a statistic and work my way around the salon. For example, one in three women will be victims of some sort of physical violence by an intimate partner in their lifetime. I counted the women in the salon; I studied their faces and wondered who would be the one out of three.

One in five women will be raped by an acquaintance in their lifetime.

I peered closely at the women, counting again, wondering who would fall victim to that statistic.

My study didnt focus on the women (and many times, the men) alone; if there were children in the salon receiving services, I included them in my mental analysis:

The average age of entry for girls into sex trafficking is twelve to fourteen-years-old.

My heart ached as I wondered would any of these children become victims to that? That thought was almost too dark, even for my morbid sense of curiosity.

Week after week, I returned to the salon. Week after week, I asked myself the same questions, each time with a new audience of customers. Then one week, I had an epiphany. As I sat studying the men and women, I realized that I hadnt included any of the technicians in these reflections that I did each week. It was almost as if my eyes didnt see them, as if they werent in the room, completely invisible to my mind.

Why had I done that?

Looking around again, I noticed that I wasnt the only one practically ignoring these women who were providing some of the most intimate of services to us. Even in many faiths, the washing of someones feet is considered an act of pure love. Yet, as these women washed and cared for my feet and hands, I had ignored them. Not on purpose, but the result was still the same.

Thats when my focus and attention shifted to the women who worked in the salon. Again, I thought about the statistics that I knew, but now my wonder was deeper than that. Now, I wanted to know who these women were? I was absolutely sure that most were not American by birth, so where had they come from? Of course, I knew that most were Vietnamese, but I wanted to really know where they came from? What had they been through? Why did they leave their homes to come here? Why were they in America?

All kinds of questions and stories swirled through my mind as I became determined to excavate the stories of their lives.

So, I began my research, casual at first. I opened a dialogue with them in the way that many therapists do: So, tell me about your childhood.

At first, the women were timid, as if they werent sure they should speak or that they could trust me. One woman said to me, You are the first person to ever ask me about my life.

With the passage of time, the floodgates opened. Soon, they began to tell me so much, the words pouring out almost faster than their thoughts. It was as if their stories had been dormant inside of them, waiting for a time such as this. As if with their release, they could relieve themselves of some of the sadness and burdens that theyd carried with them from their homeland.

Like Connie, whose story sounded almost like a major motion picture. All of the women who worked in the salon were Vietnamese. Connie however, spoke Vietnamese, but she was clearly African American.

Her story: her father was an African American soldier who left her behind after his tour of duty in Vietnam. So, she lived with her mother until she was ten. That's when her mother died. There were no other family members to help Connie or to take care of the final arrangements for her mother. So, she ended up carrying her mothers body twelve miles to the place where bodies were taken care of.

Like Connie, the others began to share the most intimate and inspiring stories of family and faith, poverty and promise, tragedy and triumph.

There was Ket Nguyen, who called herself Kathy in the salon. (The women all took on American, more familiar names for their customers.) Ket was a thirty-seven-year-old salon owner who came to the United States from South Vietnam in 1989.