gift of a rose.

So we’re there giving out roses in the red light zone.

It’s raining (which is unusual for this time of year) which meant the metrobus was sardine-esque, and so I had the unique experience of squeezing onto public transport and holding my breath so the doors could close behind me.

The leader of this red light project often says to the women we meet, ‘Our dream is to help you reach your dream’.

My shoes are filled with water, and we’re standing in a cluster of umbrellas while cars whiz past us on the highway in the rain. I adjust the bouquet of roses in my other arm as I feel some start to escape the bundle. I’m trying to focus and understand the conversation in spanish that’s happening in front of me even though the rain is pouring, the cars are annoyingly loud, and it’s pretty late at night so my Spanish brain is begging me to check out.

‘What are your dreams?’ we ask.

Someone’s sister wants to learn English, someone is trying to finish studying. Someone’s child is doing okay in school, someone just bought their first car. Meanwhile cars slow down beside us to inquire about who’s available. Surveying what, to their mind, is merchandise. Meanwhile, the woman in front of me shares how her day is going. Shares her worries… shares her dreams.

We gave her a rose for international women’s day. A gift. It feels paltry in comparison to the reality around us. Can the fragrance of this rose drift out onto this street and change the atmosphere? Change the ugliness, despondency, or blatant dehumanisation? Sometimes I’m not sure.

But when we gave it to her she smiled so big. So genuine. A different smile than the one the cars get.

To be told we want to help her reach her dreams is asking her to wonder where the ‘catch’ is. But when we show up in 2 weeks and ask her again, and 2 weeks after that and offer to help her access what she needs, and 2 weeks after that and celebrate the next win in her unique journey. They eventually stop being words in an awkward first conversation and become real friendship, real movement. Real freedom.

The smell of roses permeates the air then. My cheeks hurt from smiling because my Spanish isn’t that good and we’re laughing cos in so many ways we’re just two women in their early 30s who find the same things funny. My soggy shoes stop bothering me so much in that light. My tired late night brain is an easy offering. Especially if it results in hope by the gift of a rose.