Immigrants are a Pillar of Our Society

Incidental friendships, hard work, and a game of soccer.

We took a holiday break on Blue Planet Stories. It was eventful three weeks when, among other things, Alex and I were married. Now, we are excited to be back for the new year. The podcast returns in two weekends, but I am back to writing my social commentary through narrative nonfiction.

I wrote this story last week. Although, it occurred two decades ago, it is most relevant today.

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We ignore much of what supports our lives. We photograph the arches of beautiful bridges but seldom notice the stout columns lifting them into the air. We enjoy the roof lines of cathedrals without heeding the beams on which they sit. We eat fruit from the trees without much thought of the people in the hot or cold fields that nurture them from saplings.

They are there. Men, women, and children in a large group, picnicking. The four blankets, laid out side by side, carpet the grass in a square. The adults sit on the circumference facing in and talking in rapid Spanish, sharing food on large common plates. The children run around, playing, although a few older kids sit with their parents, proud to be a part of the circle.

They are the migrant workers who come to Wisconsin to work at the nursery for the summer season. Busses bring them in late March and April, then take them south in October where more work awaits in a counter season somewhere in Alabama, or Mississippi, or Louisiana. They come with families. The men work the fields in the tree nursery, many women too. The kids go to the local school.

My job is half a mile from here. I work for a different company in an office away from the chill of May air. But I walk along the nursery on my lunch breaks to clear my head. I like the deliberate geometry of pruned rows, the order enforced by hundreds of hands with sheers and shovels, and an eye for incidental design. The tiny spruces and young apple trees in careful groups reorganize my mind and calm the boiling stress of deadlines. I can smell the fresh dirt here. I can smell life outside the spreadsheets.

I saw this group three Fridays in a row. Each time, I walked too far from them, on the other side of the railroad tracks. Today, my path along the saplings takes me right to them.

The banter stops when I approach, and one man rises with a smile. He waves to the kids to slow down. They stop and look at me curiously.

“We are having lunch, Señor,” the man says. He is young, in his twenties, with a thin beard covering his chin. He looks apologetic, congenial.

“Looks delicious,” I say. “These are your kids?”

“Miguel’s and Johnny’s,” he points at the two men in their early thirties. He points at the kids, “and nieces and nephews.”

His English is easy and almost unaccented, which may be why he speaks for the group. I wave hello to the kids.

“We will be back on the pruning in a few, Señor.”

I startle at his assumption. But then, I am a white man in clean clothes walking through their fields.

“I don’t work for the nursery,” I say.

He smiles broadly, “Oh, Señor is no boss!”

I shake my head, and he repeats it to his family, “Señor is no boss.” I am uncomfortable that I disrupted their lunch. I say I hope for the dry spring, wave at the kids, and move on.

The interaction is on my mind for the next week. Their assumption of who I was, and the man’s implicit apology is a brush with the order of things. The workers and the bosses divided by clean clothes and their citizenship. Divided by an accident of birth. The boses in a place of opportunity, the workers searching for a place where they can find it. Dumb luck.

Next Friday I fly to some metropolis to do business for my company. Then the same the following week. When I am back and walk the paths again, the families are on their blankets, sharing food, laughter, and life. They see me, and the young man with good English yells, “Señor no boss,” in greeting. I smile, and we chat. He is Jesse. They are from Texas, it turns out, but from Puerta Vallarta, on the Pacific Mexican Coast, before that. They like the work. It pays well, and the company is fair.

In a few weeks, it is hot, and as I walk by, the kids yell, “Señor no boss”. It became my nickname. Jesse stands up and hands me a plate. He points to a spot on the blanket. I eat the rice and veggies with chicken, and I ask questions. They ask questions of me. The eldest of the children is captivated by my work in software and the travel it demands. He wants to make video games, he says. He also wants to go to Europe to watch the English play soccer. Futbol, he says.

A white Ford F-150 truck slowly bounces along the rows of the trees. It stops and a man in boots, jeans and half unbuttoned shirt steps out. It is Dave, I have seen him around town. He grabs a box and gives it to the kids. Donuts. The kids each take one. Dave waves to me and to the group, then drives off.

“Foreman,” Jesse says, “a good man,” I ask what makes him good. And he shrugs, “It is very hot, but he always keeps his truck’s windows down. He sweats with us, and he knows the work. He knows our names. To him, we are people.”

“Other foremen like that?”

Jessy shrugs, “Maybe half.”

The men on the blankets look down, the women busy themselves with clearing the plates. Only kids still seem happy with their donuts.

For the next three weeks, I avoid the walk. Their welcome and their offer of food raised a self-consciousness that I cannot explain. I feel inadequate walking by with empty hands. I think of that strangeness, how their welcome is driving a confusing wedge. I share my reservations with a friend. She listens, thinks, then shakes her head. She says I am raising a false barrier and that those people are genuine in their welcome.

Next Friday, I walk by with a box of croissants and pastries. I see them and give them the box. The kids are happy with the treats, and we again share a meal. Next month, I travel, week in and week out, and then the weather turns cold. The families are gone.

They are not there next summer. I run into the foreman Dave at a gas station and ask him about the group. He purses his lips and says that sometimes they are sent to Mexico, but then sometimes they come back. I know he is talking about the Immigration and Customs Enforcement raids, so I don’t ask. It is a fraught topic in some parts. But then I chance it, and ask him what he thinks.

“Everything grinds to a halt without these workers,” he says simply.

My software company has grown and we move our office to a city twenty miles away. It is away from the fields, away from the wholesome work on the land. The next summer, I forget my walks.

But another summer later, when I ride my bike from a pick up soccer game, I slow by another group of soccer fields to glance at the speed of men on the pitch. This is the local Latino League. It is a serious affair. I stop and watch; then I hear a yell, “Señor no-boss!”

Jesse runs over and bumps me on the shoulder, then drags me with him to the blankets where his family and a few others are setting up for the game. They are playing in an hour. Jesse drags me onto the field to warm up with them, and I serve balls and kick practice corners. They are too skillful for me to play with them in a game, and I don’t speak Spanish. So, I say my goodbyes before they start. As I leave, I ask where he has been. He had to go back to help his uncle and aunts for a season. Was it his choice? I ask. He shrugs and says that everything worked out for the better.

Next Sunday, I make plans to go apple picking at a local orchard with my girlfriend. I imagine the trees there were raised by the hands of my acquaintances. I imagine my trip as a way of silent thanks, though self-indulgent it maybe. But the Sunday morning is cool and rainy. I look outside and make coffee for two, then climb back into bed to read. I have a choice to stay dry, but if it rains tomorrow, the crews will still go out to the fields. All over the States - working, growing trees, picking vegetables, managing cattle. All to fill our shelves and our fridges. Even the fridges of those who shout that those workers do not belong here. The shouts of ignorance between the bites of their apples.