“They’re People”
I visited a farm yesterday for my job.
I watched as a young Mexican guy cleaned up around the milking stations. He looked afraid of me.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Good,” He said.
Once he saw that I didn’t want to question him about why he was working there, he smiled. He was wearing all the proper PPE. I pointed at my own eye protection. (He was also wearing glasses).
“That’s good. Smart!” I said.
He nodded. His smile grew even wider.
I turned around and the Mexican kid’s boss was standing behind me.
“Thanks for doing that,” she said. “He’s a good worker. They really love when someone tells them they’re doing a good job.”
Over the summer, there was trouble at the farm. A car was parked on the side of the road. The hood was up, and the exasperated driver was throwing his arms in the air as if he were in an absolute mess.
Four of the Mexican guys who worked at the farm ran to the car, looking to help. The man flashed his badge, two other guys jumped from the car, and they detained the four men who’d left the farm to help.
They were returned to Mexico.
“They were our best guys,” the boss said. “It was complete horseshit. They trapped them.”
I had watched the men run the equipment. I gave them safety training through a translator. I even provided each with a forklift certification card so they were in compliance with OSHA.
“You guys can drive!” I said.
The translator told them.
“Smiles all around.”
“But man, you guys have some funky ass names. Took me an hour to make the cards.”
The translator did his thing and the joke went over well.
“A lot of them send like 90% of their pay home. Some of them were cops, or worked in hospitals in Mexico and they make way more here milking cows. All they do here is work. They go from the barn to the house. Maybe they drink a few beers at night. Maybe they don’t. They’re always here in the morning.”
That depressed me.
Seemed like a tough way to live.
“The culture differences are astounding,” I said.
“If someone gets sick in one of their families back home they won’t get treated until the bill is paid up front. These guys pool their money to help. It’s amazing, actually.”
I felt more sadness.
“They’re people,” she said. “I know we have to be sensible, but the answer ain’t in treating them like the cows they’re milking.”
I finished my tour through the milking area.
Stopped in front of the kid again.
“You’re doing good,” I said. “Bueno!”
“Gracias,” He said.
He smiled again, but he didn’t hold my eye. He looked down and away, as if he were ashamed.
He didn’t have to feel shame.
But some of the people here should.
I watched as a young Mexican guy cleaned up around the milking stations. He looked afraid of me.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Good,” He said.
Once he saw that I didn’t want to question him about why he was working there, he smiled. He was wearing all the proper PPE. I pointed at my own eye protection. (He was also wearing glasses).
“That’s good. Smart!” I said.
He nodded. His smile grew even wider.
I turned around and the Mexican kid’s boss was standing behind me.
“Thanks for doing that,” she said. “He’s a good worker. They really love when someone tells them they’re doing a good job.”
Over the summer, there was trouble at the farm. A car was parked on the side of the road. The hood was up, and the exasperated driver was throwing his arms in the air as if he were in an absolute mess.
Four of the Mexican guys who worked at the farm ran to the car, looking to help. The man flashed his badge, two other guys jumped from the car, and they detained the four men who’d left the farm to help.
They were returned to Mexico.
“They were our best guys,” the boss said. “It was complete horseshit. They trapped them.”
I had watched the men run the equipment. I gave them safety training through a translator. I even provided each with a forklift certification card so they were in compliance with OSHA.
“You guys can drive!” I said.
The translator told them.
“Smiles all around.”
“But man, you guys have some funky ass names. Took me an hour to make the cards.”
The translator did his thing and the joke went over well.
“A lot of them send like 90% of their pay home. Some of them were cops, or worked in hospitals in Mexico and they make way more here milking cows. All they do here is work. They go from the barn to the house. Maybe they drink a few beers at night. Maybe they don’t. They’re always here in the morning.”
That depressed me.
Seemed like a tough way to live.
“The culture differences are astounding,” I said.
“If someone gets sick in one of their families back home they won’t get treated until the bill is paid up front. These guys pool their money to help. It’s amazing, actually.”
I felt more sadness.
“They’re people,” she said. “I know we have to be sensible, but the answer ain’t in treating them like the cows they’re milking.”
I finished my tour through the milking area.
Stopped in front of the kid again.
“You’re doing good,” I said. “Bueno!”
“Gracias,” He said.
He smiled again, but he didn’t hold my eye. He looked down and away, as if he were ashamed.
He didn’t have to feel shame.
But some of the people here should.
Comments