This post is dedicated to Aracelis “Sely” Ayuso and to all of the people who care about her.
“Livy, you look like a fairy. It must be your hair.” I let out a hearty laugh—a fairy? Really? Those were words I had never heard before. They came from the mouth of my smiling, 21 year-old coworker named Sely. We were standing behind the U-shaped counter of the bakery where we worked, where ten people at a time moved around each other through a chaotic, clumsy dance to serve coffee and pastries to the city’s elite. Every day, each of us had to wear a uniform meant to make us blend into this two-story, bustling place on 18th street. Day after day, I wrapped two aprons around my waist, wore a black t-shirt, and donned the dorkiest hat you’ve ever seen. Fairy attire, naturally.
Sely stood there in front of me and flipped my ponytail with a gentle flick of her wrist. “Yeah, it’s definitely the hair.” She continued, “I know you’re smart and shit, but if this medicine thing doesn’t work out, you should become a model.” I started cracking up again and told her that was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. We got back to stacking croissants in a perfect pyramid of butter-filled doom, and I was smiling.
This was the moment I thought about when I found out a few days ago that tragedy had struck. On July 12, 2014, Sely passed away due to a fatal subway accident on the platform of the Brooklyn-bound 4 train in Union Square. This jarring news weighed heavy on my heart, and I wanted to share the few glimpses of Sely that I experienced while we were working together. Some of us at the bakery only knew her briefly and in this context, like me. Her family and friends could say so much more, but this is what I know.
“Is that LIVY?” she would ask, with her head tilted, grinning.
While the rest of my coworkers and I usually would say hi to each other only once we found a break from the madness, she would always greet me this way immediately. It was like she was singing every time she said it, with a cadence so undeniably rooted in New York. It became a routine for me to tease her for shouting “cooaffee” instead of my Californian pronunciation of “coffee.”
Most days, she was lighthearted, silly, and kind of ridiculous. She always loved to talk about her adorable, three year-old daughter, Ashlynn. Sometimes she would seem tired, perhaps from things in her life I never knew anything about, but her spirit was always positive.
One day, however, her smile transformed into a look of concern. She had stepped off the counter to see if I was okay, because I had just stormed off and was pacing in anger. Five minutes after arriving that day, a customer had singled me out because of my ethnicity and my inability to give him a particular mug for his latte. His words dripped with entitlement, and for whatever reason that day I was just not having it. Of the 20 customers in line behind him witnessing this scene unfold, some glared at him with disgust. But not a single one spoke up to defend me. So I stopped what I was doing, and she ran after me. If it hadn’t been for Sely’s small gesture of compassion, I would’ve felt very alone.
There’s an essay by Rebecca Solnit, one of my favorite writers, in which she says, “The stars we are given. The constellations we make.” Sely was the kind of person who I would imagine as a star, a node that would branch off in all directions to form a network of connected, incandescent points in the sky. I am just one of what seems like many such points.
To me, remembering her means striving to live with the everyday kindness and disarming sense of warmth that she emanated.
This past year, I spent time volunteering with kids in Vietnam, traveling alone to Italy, and spending a lot of time making coffee. Openness is something that I keep returning to. One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned through it all is that openness is not just a nice quality to have—it does something. It does work. It effects change. Being generous, kind, and present creates opportunities for human relationships to grow and for communities to be created.
Sely was one of several people I met this year who reinforced that lesson. It was as simple as the way she said hi to me.
I wish to send my thoughts and sympathies to her friends, family, and cutie pie daughter in particular. May her life be celebrated.