The Lilac Uniform

My mother always wore her lilac uniform.

The lilac represented her,

her state of work,

a hospital cleaner.

My mother always wore her lilac uniform,

on days with work,

on days without work.

Her pride, her outfit, were encompassed

in that worn lilac shade.

My mother always wore her lilac uniform,

even on the day of her termination.

We walked down that eerily hall together,

entered the dreaded conference room,

and foolishly clung onto the broken threads of hope.

My mother always wore her lilac uniform,

and so did her manager.

The manager plastered her face with smug grin,

ready for disposal.

My mother’s incoherent English

mixed with a generous helping of Vietnamese to her slurred efforts,

were fruitless defenses against their accusations,

the defining sheet was already placed on the table.

The fate of my mother’s lilac uniform was predetermined.

This meeting was nothing but superficial courtesy.

My role — a secondary translator for my mother,

who feared that the HR translator would not deliver on her role.

My stomach knotted into twisted demons of my helpless presence.

My mother always wore her lilac uniform

even whilst lecturing me the importance of hard work,

equating to success.

As I sat in that conference room, I realized the reality of the situation,

the twisted works of hierarchy that upholds society,

the hurdles one must embark to transcend classes.

The necessity of education,

the potential disposability of unskilled workers.

This was the world of disparities,

of adults.

My mother always wore her lilac uniform,

yet,

after that day,

her lilac uniform could no longer be worn.