DRP

Joaquin Genrich, October, 1996
© 1996 Wayne M. Martin
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Ceci's Tale

Dahlia Torres was my guide through this excursion. Her history- For many years she dedicated every ounce of energy to teaching migrant workers English in the canyons of the farms in which they worked. Now she works as a representative for a school in Escondido that teaches migrants English along with a skill in order to give them better job opportunities. Her job is to go out and recruit workers for the school.
I accompanied her on one of these recruitment missions.
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THE HIRING CENTER

Located at the top of the hill, near a canyon shelter called La Posada, the center operates out of a trailer. Anyone in need of unskilled laborers for the day drive up to the center and tell the manager how many they need. The workers then get picked off of a waiting list that begins mounting at 7:00am. Dahlia and I arrive at 8:00am. It is apparent that most of the guys on the list having already been hired for the day since only a few are left hanging around. Dahlia says hello, looks around, and they say Yeah, they took them. Dahlia introduced me to the ones who came closer, shaking hands. The dynamics of our presence there were very interesting. I noticed FOUR DIFFERENT LEVELS OF ENGAGEMENT were occurring as we stood there. The first level was of these two men who stood directly facing Dahlia and I, arms crossed, one older man eager to speak, the other younger and much more eager to just listen. The talkative one was interested but made attending the school a far-fetched crazy idea for him. He felt he was already too old to learn English, it had been too difficult for him in the past. He said all of this smiling and with a banana peel in his pocket, a result of Dahlias advice that in America (as opposed to Mexico) we do not litter, we either put our garbage in the trash or put it in our pocket. The other man sat quiet and pensive, looking intensely at his hands. I could see thoughts of possibility stirring about.
Level 2. Scattered behind them were five or six men, mostly sitting,looking on from afar. I could not tell whether or not they were interested in the dialogue or if they were just watching. Perhaps w were appearing to them in such a way that they felt uneasy in approaching us. Or perhaps the idea of the school appeared to them in such a way that deterred them from coming any closer.
Level 3. To the far right, underneath a wooden roof sat two much older men that did not even bother to lift their eyes from their conversation. These men appeared to be completely embroiled within migrant life, too old to develop new skills and getting to old to use their old ones. Later I found out that one of the old men was blinded by glaucoma. This fact made the next part more interesting.
Level 4. During this time, I had also noticed a little man milling around, constantly slicking his shiny black hair back with a brush. very much concerned with his appearance it seemed, wearing a light blue, impeccably clean button down shirt, grey slacks, a brown leather belt cinched to the exact measurement of his tiny waist, and some shiny brown shoes. One of the contractors who drove up even shook hands with him, mistaking him for the manager. Everybody laughed. Abu was his name. Originally from Bangladesh, he was the most striking of all appearances so far. Abu did not appear to fit into the picture. Expecting only to find Mexicans or Guatemalans, or workers that were physically built to endure physical labor, Abu did not even seem the type to dirty his shirt. He told Dahlia in barely intelligible, accent coated English that he would go to the school only if they would guarantee him a job afterwards. Furthermore, he demanded clerical work, in office, not this kind of work, but I have no shelter right now, so I cannot go. Dahlia informed him of La Posada. The blind man left his conversation, grabbed Abu by the arm and said in Spanish, I will take you, I will take you, we leave this place to go down there at 3 oclock. The blind man spoke loudly and repeated himself often to compensate for his deafened senses.

So far these people appear to me as and ARE very decent, courteous, psychologically healthy and intelligent. We have this conception of the down-and-out here in the states as not so normal, maybe a little crazy. Although this might not be generally true, we often encounter homeless people talking to themselves or acting strangely. By contrast, all the migrant workers I met are psychologically stable human beings. And I have the feeling that this is true of most of them.
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HANDS & HEIDDEGGER

I could not help to take notice of their very special hands. They had an air of practicality that made them look totally functional, yet they did not look overused. Their hands are their invaluable instruments. Noticing this made me appreciate their hand gestures while speaking one hundred fold. Then I reflected on my hands or the hands others who do not engage in manual labor. I noticed them as Heiddeggers carpenter would notice the broken hammer. If we were to be forced into manual labor, our hands would act as the broken hammer, as an impediment. All of a sudden the hammer appears to the carpenter who would never have taken notice of it if it would have continued serving its usual purpose. So my hands appear to me.
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CURBSIDE

Dahlia and I drive around the area. Migrants littered everywhere on the curb of the main road, El Camino Real (the real road- symbolic?), and even on the streets that lead into the suburbs, hoping to get picked up to work. Park the car and walk over to this group of men on the main curb. Here I meet a middle aged man in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down after a drunk driving accident. Scripps had given him a different social security number than his own original. What does this tell you about the way these people appear to powerful institutions? (Oh, they are just migrants, their identity here is pretty insignificant, whats one SS# over another?) Cant find work due to disability. Does not know which SS# to use to collect insurance. Is it a ploy so that he wont collect? The other guys give him some money to eat.

Here, we also met Jose, the most charismatic and outspoken of them all. Not to mention, VERY intelligent. I call him the MOVIE STAR because he has the voice of an opera singer and reminds me of Pedro Infante, one of the most famous and prolific Mexican singers/actors of all time. He was quite handsome as well. When he speaks, he projects his presence in such a way that it dominates the whole scene. Therefore, he was the only one speaking to us for a long time until....
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THE POLICE

a police car pulls up onto the curb. What is going on? Am I going to witness a deportation? police brutality? Dahlia had warned me that anything can happen. We look around and see a tall, big-bellied, yachtsman/sailor type, ugly as a -@#*?! that these guys knew only too well, coming to meet the cops he called. The cops are - one Robocop, seems to be a powertripper and one female Erik Estrada. They approach the group and -@#*?! points to three guys and says These three. Story goes that he is accusing these three particular men of loitering in front of his deli store after having told them numerous times not to sit on the fence or litter and they repeatedly continue to do so. Robocop takes them over to the squad car and commands them to put their hands on the hood of the car. He straps on some blue surgical gloves (except they look 10 times thicker) in order to frisk them. I thought he was the biggest jerk of a cop I had ever seen. Hair perfectly gelled back, lips pursed, the I look so good in action attitude. Dahlia thought the same. They are clean. Erika looks through their wallets to check for documentation. I assume they are all legal since no one is being deported. Deli man is telling his side of the story to the cops, and Erika is translating it for them. One remains passive, another turns around and laughs at deli man and another is outraged. First of all, he is upset at being falsely accused and secondly he is afraid to sign the pink paper because he thinks it is an admission of guilt. The paper is only an agreement to appear in court on November 21. Robocop tries to say in Spanish Yo need to ayudar (help) this community. What if I need to save a baby choking on his food, huh? and you are here wasting our time. Por favor, sign the papers. Dahlia helps convince him to sign. Deli man leaves upon robocops request.
Robocop is no longer so robocop as we begin to realize that he is on the migrants side. Deli man has a bad history with the Carlsbad Police, incidents of violence due to discrimination (a mini-riot outside his store last year, that cost him about $10,000 dollars after a lawsuit) and constant complaints. Furthermore, it turns out that these three guys werent the ones loitering there that day. And to make the case more interesting, two of the guys had just arrived to Carlsbad for the first time that morning. So it could not have been that these three guys had been warned numerous times. Erika tells them that she thinks they have a good case against this guy, to appear in court and play by the rules.
The guys come back to the group . Dahlia commits herself to calling her lawyer friend to help them out. Jose, the U.S. government skeptic, gives a lengthy, histrionic speech about how the government is only there to benefit people like deli man and how lawyers only steal your money. He gave numerous examples of how this had happened to him. Dahlia assured the three guys that this lawyer was one of the good people. During Joses speech, a
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MIGRANT MAN/BIKE/LITTLE GIRL

appear out of nowhere. The man was walking the bike with the little girl, looking and feeling very pretty in a bright red sweater, white ruffled skirt and two neat Princess Lea buns in her hair. The reason this was interesting is because all along I had only been surrounded by men. The mention of a family was only heard deep within the elements of stories I had heard that morning. Up until this moment, the family had been an abstract entity.
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SENOR TORRES FARM

Dahlia took me to this farm where she used to teach English in its canyons. Senor Torres had become a very close friend of hers. They chatted about the blight that had decimated three-quarters of his tomato fields and about Paul Freeman, a greenhouse magnate. Mr. Freeman takes advantage of the migrants need to work and therefore does not feel obliged to provide safe working conditions for them. Dahlia was instrumental in building up a case against him and restricting his business privileges in Encinitas. Visiting Senor Torres gave me a more intense respect for the farmer. He was a special kind of farmer in that he ran most of the farm himself, with about twenty migrant workers that helped him. He spoke of produce brokers that cheated him out of money, and he made it seem amazing to me how someone can make a living like this. Not only because of the raw deals he was cut by nature and corrupt businessmen, but also because I discovered just how detached I had become form the source of our sustenance.

He let us take a box-full of reject tomatoes, still good but too irregular for VONS/RALPHS/boneys, etc.
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NOPALITOS AND THE READER

>From there we went to get some food at a Mexican restaurant/ market called Nopalitos (little cacti). We bought some carnitas and tortillas to take home and eat there. It was Thursday so stopped to get the reader. Did anyone see the cover page? The feature story began with something like Here ( you mexican), take $200 and go home. And the picture looked like it could have been taken at the Hiring Center (remember that?). I thought it was an amazing coincidence. Now check this ending...
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NOPALITOS AT DOROTHYS

Dahlia did not have a house key, starving as we were, we drove to Waynes who lives close by to see if anyone was home. We were ready to crash and eat. Nobody at Waynes, we drove back and knocked on her next door neighbors door. The door is being opened, gracias a dios. Appears Dorothy, a cross between June Cleaver and Audrey Hepburn and totally American. Very nice lady, invited us in and broke out some plates for us to eat on. All three of us sat down at her country style kitchen table. Before we knew it, Dahlia and I were recapping the highlights of our day to her. Dorothy was aware of the issues and so could participate in the conversation. Suddenly, after the food took its effect, I realized that it was as if we had entered another world. Knowing the issues and having an idea of migrant life was not the same as directly seeing it. Furthermore, we had Mexican roots, whereas Dorothy had none. These differences were exemplified. However, there exists a baseline similarity, that of standard of living. I realized I was reentering my lifestyle, having never actually left it. The world Dahlia and I had just been in was so far away, yet only a ten minute ride north.
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