Why Am I Back Here?

Every day it seems the expected ending date for cherry season backs up. The 10th. The 15th. The 21st. The 26th. July 1st. I put in 76 hours last week and I've done 41 in the past three days. I look at what I'm doing around the packing shed and wonder to myself why I ever came back. The answer is found in the eyes of the workers.


Last year I gained many friendships with the laborers in the packing shed. All of them are hispanic. Talking to a floor lady, I asked, "How many of these people have papers?" "None of them!" was the answer. I talk to Jaime the mechanics about the struggles of working awful hours and not having time to learn english. I talk to Asucena and Yajira about the expensive price of living and needing to work so much to pay their bills. I talk to Claudia, who tells me how great a job this is compared to McDonalds. It doesn't require education or experience or even that you speak english, you get lots of hours, and you get a couple of months off between cherry and apple seasons.


But I don't talk to them a lot about that. I mostly talk to them about their lives, what they do and what they want to do. Some people would like to do more, but some people are happy there. A lot of them have children that go to school and speak English and are making progress. They love their families. Most of them watch soccer, all of them listen to music and dance and have a good time. They're fun. And they're interested in me, too. Wonderful, simple, humble people. I came to love them last year, and they're the reason I came back.


The full-time production managers and marketing guys are different. When they talk it's always some vulgar, ill-mannered crazy story. They talk about hunting, fishing, drinking, womanizing, criticizing, etc. I'd rather not be there for that. My friends are the Mexicans.


They're why I came back. They make me smile. They're an inspiration to me. They ask me about Courtney and my wedding and how many kids we want to have and what I'm going to do after I graduate. I love speaking Spanish with them, too. They help me learn more, too, and always want to know how I learned it so well and want me to help them learn english. Now the white guys aren't all horrible people- even the worst of them is a good person, but there's a concern for the individual that isn't there with them. The language barrier promotes the Marxist idea that laborers are just an extension of the machine to which they are assigned. People are worth more than that.