Editor’s note: This commentary is by Kate Larose, who is the director of the Financial Futures Program at the Champlain Valley Office of Economic Opportunity. She lives in St. Albans.
[I] grew up in the San Joaquin Valley of California — one of the most productive agricultural areas of America. When I was 4 years old, my mother joined the Army Reserves to ensure that we could keep a roof over our heads and so that she could go to school. I don’t remember much about these years except spending a summer with family in New York (so that she could complete boot camp), and that several weekends a year she was required to be away for additional training.
One such Saturday, when I was about 6 years old, my mom found herself without child care so her boyfriend offered to help out. In addition to being the PE teacher at the local high school, he and his brother also coordinated transportation for migrant laborers to work on farms. I remember being woken up early that Saturday morning, excited to “go to work” with Alex. It was still dark as our car drove to the outskirts of town. We pulled up to one of the largest houses I had ever seen … a mansion with tropical flowers, fruit trees and huge iron cages full of parrots. I had driven past this house before and always imagined that a princess must live inside.
As we walked into the house I almost tripped over several people sprawled across the floor of the hallway, wrapped up in blankets and sleeping. I navigated my way through the house behind Alex as he yelled loudly at people in Spanish. The only word I could make out was “ándele” over and over again. We made our way into a busy kitchen. Women were preparing baskets of food. I was noticed, and given a breakfast burrito which I gladly devoured. As I ate it, I remember being surprised at how many people kept appearing … from the shadows, off of the floors, out of the closets.
We walked out of the house to a bus that was in the driveway. The bus was yellow, just like the school bus that I had always wanted to ride but never had a chance to, seeing as I lived across the street from the elementary school. We boarded the bus silently and in the dark. Even after the seats were all taken, more people continued to get on the bus and stood in the aisle. Something was shouted in Spanish, I heard the word “weta,” and suddenly the two people sitting next to me crowded into the aisle, leaving me with my own bench seat.
The ride to the fields seemed like it lasted hours. Years later I realized we had traveled to Los Banos, so it couldn’t have lasted more than 45 minutes. I remember feeling carsick sitting in back with the too hot heater on my legs and the cold air from the open windows giving me goosebumps. The smell of people pressed next to one another and the just cooked chorizo packed in the lunch baskets made me want to puke. I stretched out on my seat and tried to sleep.
After 30 minutes of being in the morning sun I was thirsty, exhausted, and starting to sunburn. My back hurt and my sack of green tomatoes was too heavy so I left it right there mid-row on the ground in the field.
When we arrived at the tomato fields I thought it might be fun to help. After 30 minutes of being in the morning sun I was thirsty, exhausted, and starting to sunburn. My back hurt and my sack of green tomatoes was too heavy so I left it right there mid-row on the ground in the field. I had to go to the bathroom. I walked up to the woman nearest me. She was quick at work with her two small children playing on blankets nearby. She shook her head and clucked her tongue as I inquired about a bathroom, and pointed to the nearby tomato plant.
I walked back to the bus in tears and climbed back in. I was not enjoying my day at work. The bus was sweltering inside but I really had to go. Desperate, I found a jar under a seat. It had something in it, but I don’t remember what. (Maybe someone’s lunch?) I dumped it out onto the metal floor and did my business, ashamed and wondering why the farm workers didn’t want a bathroom to use, and a sink to wash their dirty hands with afterwards. When the day was finally over, we piled back into the bus. My eyes were red from crying most of the day. As we pulled off of the dirt farm path and turned onto the pavement, my glass jar of shame slowly rolled from its hiding space from one end of the bus to the other. Clang, clang, clang, it went as it rolled across the floor. We all looked at that jar full of shit and no one said anything. Inexplicably, I felt anger towards an entire bus full of people from my spacious seat of privilege. “They made me do this,” I reasoned.
I felt this anger, in one form or another, for many years after that. So the things I grew up hearing seemed only natural and fitting to me. “Wetbacks like living that way.” “They bring it on themselves having so many kids like they do.” “If it’s so bad here, and the pay’s not good, why don’t they go back to wherever they came from?” It wasn’t until college when I was assigned to read T. Coraghessan Boyle’s “The Tortilla Curtain” that I started to reflect on my experiences, privilege, deeply seated prejudice, and misplaced anger.
Now I live in the farm country of northwest Vermont. Over the weekend I learned that there’s an entire population of migrant workers living among us, just miles from my doorstep. They put in long and grueling days as they work to make our economy a success while they strive to make a better life for their families. Inexplicably, we hate them for it from our seats of privilege. So much so that many of these workers — our neighbors — are afraid to leave the farms due to our collective anger. Sometimes this anger takes the form of cold stares at the grocery store. Other times it takes the form of an anonymous call to immigration so they get pulled over and detained as they traverse the back country roads. It’s three decades and 3,000 miles later. But I still see a jar full of shit rolling around and it’s time people acknowledge it. I, for one, am ashamed and want to make this right.
