Mark's Pages

I turn corner in the sky and find the maids.

Hundreds and hundreds of Filipinas on cardboard mats, grilling with tiny barbecues, smoke and delicious spices saturating the corridors. They've taken over whole blocks of pedestrian walkways, turning square miles into Partyland second floor above the street, a taste of home in exile.

They're horrifically exploited, racially oppressed, legendarily sexually abused. Sending their savings home to Davao and Cebu and Manila, supporting their parents and their babies, dreaming dreams of better futures.

Unhappy to see me: white man with camera. Intruding into a world temporarily theirs. I back away and leave as gracefully as I can manage.