September 12, 2012
At its
meeting in August of 2012, the AFL-CIO Committee on Civil & Human Rights
was given a presentation from the committee’s chairperson, AFL-CIO Executive
Vice President Arlene Holt-Baker, on her recent trip to meet with the immigrant
farm workers in North Carolina.
Sister Holt-Baker had been invited to visit the workers by Baldemar
Velasquez, the President of the Farm Labor Organizing Committee (FLOC). I, along with the other members of the
AFL-CIO Executive Council, was invited by Brother Velasquez to travel to North
Carolina to meet with the immigrant workers. I proudly accepted, and I made the trip late last month.
IFPTE and
FLOC don’t have many opportunities for interchange. However, I thought it was important for me to make the trip
for two reasons.
First, we
can learn much from this organization.
Although FLOC is a small and relatively poor national union, through
massive member mobilization and by following some rather ingenious strategies, the
organization has shown to have more muscle than one might expect. By raising public awareness on their
issues, they have put unexpected power into their struggles, and their union
has won some remarkable victories in the past few years.
Secondly,
and more importantly, theirs is a battle for basic human rights. Their struggle is not strictly about
immigration. It’s about whether
we, as unionists, as Americans, as fellow humans, will agree to the heartless
treatment of others. It’s about
whether we will stand by silently, while other people on American soil are
forced to endure inhumane treatment by those who so callously wield power over
them.
FLOC
President Velasquez started my trip with an extensive briefing, during which he
freely answered all of my questions.
Much of our
discussion centered on his internal strategies, and for the sake of discretion,
I won’t divulge any of that here.
To my
question regarding the workers’ legal status as immigrants, Mr. Velasquez said
that all of the workers we would meet are undocumented. Mr. Velasquez explained that it’s
nearly impossible to gain legal entry into the US as a farm worker. Those few who do get working visas are
only permitted to do so to provide the farm owners with a semblance of legal
hiring practice, and the handful of employees who are documented immigrants
serve as supervisors over the actual workers.
When I
asked why immigrants don’t try to enter the US legally, Mr. Velasquez explained
that such a thing is all but impossible.
In order to gain a working visa or a “green card,” foreign workers need
to have an employer-sponsor, and the farm owners have no interest in sponsoring
workers to whom they would be required to pay a minimum wage. Instead, the owners rely on a
well-funded and well-organized recruitment/smuggling ring that operates by extracting
a fee from each immigrant (money which is acquired by a loan from the ring
itself) and then, the workers are shipped to various parts of the country to
work as fruit & vegetable pickers.
In those rare instances in which a worker has a passport, the document
is often seized by the employer and kept until the worker has fulfilled his/her
obligation. In other words, the
worker is prevented from quitting.
I asked why
the undocumented workers don’t try to save enough money to go back home, and
then, come back to the US legally. Mr. Velasquez explained that such a thing is not
possible. In order to apply for a
working visa, a prospective immigrant must declare whether he or she has ever
entered the US illegally. A “yes”
answer brings an automatic and permanent denial of a working visa along with
any hope of legal re-entry into the US.
As to the prospect of saving any money earned, Mr. Velasquez told me the
workers are paid such meager wages that saving even a portion of it was simply
ridiculous.
When I
asked whether the farm owners know their entire workforce of farm laborers was
undocumented, Mr. Velasquez laughed as he assured me that, of course, they
know. That’s the way the farm
owners can get around any wage and hour laws, he explained. The farm owners depend on their
workforce being undocumented, and the workers’ substandard pay, along with the
absence of any benefits, is an essential element of the farm owner’s profits. Mr. Velasquez added with a laugh, “Besides,
a lot of people would object to paying double for a jar of pickles just to ensure
the workers get paid the minimum wage.”
As a side
note, Mr. Velasquez told me that FICA tax is withheld from the workers’ pay,
however, since the workers are undocumented, they don’t have valid US Social
Security numbers. So, the workers
simply give fake numbers. It’s a
sad but running joke that the undocumented workers are supporting the Social
Security benefits of American workers, while the undocumented workers have no
chance of receiving any benefits themselves.
We
discussed the value of the workers’ membership in FLOC. First and foremost, when a union has a
roster of the workers, the union demands that the workers are paid minimum wage
and receive fair treatment consistent with prevailing law. Union members have the right to file
grievances against their employer.
These grievances often involve workers being shorted their rightful pay,
especially when the workers are paid by the count of produce picked in lieu of
being paid a set amount of money per hour.
There is no
protection against employer retaliation for workers who are deemed troublesome
because of their union activity.
In fact, there are NO laws that govern farm workers’ rights. Therefore, the union has no regulatory
body to which the union or the workers can file appeals or unfair labor
practice charges.
At the Work Camps
When the
day is done, the workers are sent to their work camps (I can hardly believe I’m
using such a despicable term), where they eat, sleep, bathe, and live while
they are employed on any given farm.
Mr. Velasquez and I, along with some staff representatives of FLOC and
some other worker advocates visited a few of the work camps. (We didn’t want to get in the workers’
way while they were picking produce, so we waited till they had finished their
work for the day.)
We were
lucky enough to be there when the temperature was only around 90. But this was central North Carolina,
and the temperature regularly swelters in the 100’s.
In short,
each complex was filthy and disgusting.
The grounds were a mixture of rutted and uneven rocks, stones, and
weeds. Gnats and flies were so
thick, we had to walk with our mouths closed, and all of us were continuously
swatting and waving our hands in front of our faces – as though that would do
any good. Of course, the
ever-present haze of flying bugs was always denser nearer to where the workers
had to cook and eat their meals.
Whatever else the workers ate, I have no doubt they couldn’t help but consume
some insects with their food.
The work
camps are made of rows of shacks that encircle a stony yard. The shacks rest on concrete slabs. The crude buildings are made of bare
wood with bare pipe in the few buildings that have running water (the kitchens,
the laundry rooms, and the bathrooms are all located in the same buildings). A lone fifty-gallon water heater is
used to accommodate up to 100 people, who all need to bathe, wash their
clothes, and eat in the same complex.
When the hot water runs out, the workers simply have to shower and do
their laundry in cold water. There
is no running water in any of the shacks used for sleeping.
We arrived
in time to find most of the workers had just washed after the day’s work. They were all incredibly friendly and
in good spirits, although none of them could hide the fact that they were
dog-tired. At this point in their
day, the simple act of sitting down was a joyous experience.
The workers
all knew who Baldemar Velasquez was.
If they didn’t know him, they’d all obviously heard of him, and they
accepted him like he was a saint.
I refrained
from waving the haze of bugs away from my face while I was talking with the
workers, because I didn’t want to appear perturbed by such a minor inconvenience
in the face of such appalling hardship.
At the same time, I couldn’t help but think of how my own family reacts
when there’s a single fly or a moth in the house.
The workers
all welcomed us and freely spoke with us.
We were careful not to take too many pictures of them without their approval,
and we were told beforehand (by the FLOC staffers) not to take photographs of
any of the children.
I sat and
spoke with a worker named C for a few minutes. Like all the other workers around him, C is a slightly built
man. He is small and wiry, without
an ounce of fat on him. As I sat
down, C glanced at the FLOC staffers, and I assume they nodded that it was safe
to talk with me. (The FLOC
staffers served as our interpreters.)
C said he was doing fine, except that he was incredibly tired.
They’d
picked sweet potatoes that day, and C lamented that it was a lot harder than
picking oranges in Florida.
“Why?” I asked. “Because of the strain on your back from bending down?”
“No. It’s because we have to pick while running
the entire day.”
It was explained
to me that with certain produce, like sweet potatoes, the workers are paid
nothing per hour. Instead, their
pay is based on the number of buckets of vegetables they pick. The vegetables must be ripe and the
skin cannot be damaged, so the workers need to pay attention as their fingers
sift through the plants. When a
worker turns in a full bucket to the supervisors waiting in the back of the
truck, the worker is given a ticket.
His/her daily pay is then based on the number of tickets amassed by day’s
end.
I asked how
much a worker receives for each sweet potato. The remittance varies, but it’s only a few cents. The price is higher if the workers are
unionized.
I asked C
if he planned to pick oranges in Florida when the season is right. He said he did, but not until the work
in North Carolina is done. I asked
him how he knew about the picking in Florida or where the next bit of work
might be. He didn’t seem to know how
to answer. He only said that the
word got around.
He said it’s
hard to get to Florida because the police are always on the watch for
undocumented immigrants. States
like Georgia and Alabama have laws similar to Arizona’s, where immigrants can
be apprehended simply for appearing to be undocumented workers.
The farm
owners who freely and openly exploit the undocumented workers are never
arrested. Although the farm owners
knowingly violate US wage and hour laws (to say nothing of the blatant disregard
for common decency and humanity), the owners are never brought to justice. Nor are the recruiters and the
smugglers. Instead, only the
workers, who are forced to toil, as indentured servants, are the ones treated
as criminals.
I asked C
if he prefers working in Florida.
He said, no, he’d prefer to do construction work, and he wanted to go to
Texas, but there isn’t much construction laborer work there right now. He said he’s got a wife and three
daughters living there, and he’d like to see them again soon. His eyes brightened at the thought, but
then, they watered up on him.
We switched
the subject and went back to discussing North Carolina. C is well aware that his living and
working conditions are horrible.
He did his best to shrug it off.
I asked him what happens when he gets sick; on the days he can’t work. He thought it about the question and
answered with a laugh, “I can’t let myself get sick.”
We met with
a worker named J. J had sliced his
foot earlier in the day, and he’d tried to continue working on it, but it got
too painful, and he had to leave the fields after only a half-day. He seemed furious with himself for
getting injured and needing to miss a half day’s work. (I didn’t ask how he was transported
back to the work camp in the middle of the day or what he’d eaten, having
missed lunch in the field.) One of
the FLOC staffers checked J’s injured foot. There was nothing resembling medical supplies anywhere in
the camp. J said he’d found some
ointment (that was intended for insect bites), and he’d applied some of that to
his sliced foot. The cut didn’t
appear to be too deep, but J seemed to be a lot of pain and had a hard time
standing on his injured foot.
The inside
of the shacks used as living quarters are about 12’ x 16’. These were the ones we saw. There are smaller shacks, but they were
locked, so we didn’t see the insides.
The walls of the shacks are bare, except for partial sheets of
particle-board that cover random portions of the wall. There are no light fixtures. The floors are concrete. The unshaded windows are about eight
feet off the floor, so while they provide light, the only thing that can be
seen through them is the sky.
The workers
are provided a cot with a bare mattress.
No blankets, sheets, or pillows.
A wooden cabinet, about a foot high and a foot deep and about three feet
wide hangs above each cot.
Everything in life that the worker owns is stored in his or her
cabinet. When we were at the
camps, there were six cots in each shack, but when picking season is at its
peak (and when the weather is hottest), as many as ten workers reside in each
shack.
We visited
other shacks and other work camps.
The stories were all similar.
Outside of
the work camps were signs telling us that trespassers were not allowed on the
property. We ignored the signs –
as did the clouds of gnats and flies.
The
bathrooms were too disgusting for the written word to fully describe. Some pictures of the filthy conditions
can be found on my Flickr site. http://www.flickr.com/photos/87121719@N05/sets/72157631523119617/
I apologize
for the poor quality. The pics
were taken with my phone. Here are
some better ones that were taken by Ron Carver – a photographer and an organizer with a significant amount of talent. https://picasaweb.google.com/102605406681426731989/FLOCDelegationAugust2012?
authkey=Gv1sRgCIXDm4Pv_e23Og&feat=email
On the way
out of the last camp, we stopped in a tobacco field. Mr. Velasquez had me pick a couple of ripe leaves from some
plants. The leaves were covered
with a filmy substance, and when Mr. Velasquez saw me rub at the stickiness on
my fingertips, he explained that the stuff on my hands was tar from the
tobacco. He said that after a day
of picking tobacco, a worker’s hands and clothes will be completely black from
the tobacco tar. The clothes
cannot be worn again until they’re washed, or the tar will cause the worker to
become violently ill.
When I
rubbed the stickiness between my fingers and thumb, one of the FLOC staffers
warned me not to touch my face until I had washed my hands.
“And
whatever you do,” he quickly added, “don’t rub your eyes.”
I thought
of a worker in 100-degree weather, toiling under the hot sun. And I thought of a person’s normal
reaction when sweat runs into the eyes.
Two of the
people who accompanied us on the trip were young workers from the Japanese and
the Taiwanese embassies. Both
repeatedly exclaimed their horror and their near-disbelief that such deplorable
living conditions exist in 21st century America.
At the
moment, I don’t know what else to do about the outrage I feel, except to tell
as many people as I can about what I saw and learned in North Carolina.
