Photo by Jack GouldPROLOGUE
I once worked for a World War II vet who lost his leg in combat. Everyone always has these stereotypes that old white people are the most racist, but he was the best employer I ever had. He paid good, treated me and my friends with respect, bought us hamburgers for lunch, and even let us eat in his air-conditioned office so that we wouldn't have to bake in the sun. He suffered a lot through life and, although I never lost a limb, I think he could relate to us. People who have suffered throughout life relate very easily.
—”Tio,”53
No matter what you're doing, you run. It doesn't matter if you're 100 feet or just two feet away, you run. Your life depends on it. Your life depends on a random stranger who could kill you, will probably disrespect you, and most likely will pay you much less than you deserve. But even those prospects are better than the ones you used to have. This is the life of los jornaleros—the day laborers. Best known for standing around on street corners looking for work, their life actually consists of running, figuratively and literally. Running from a life of poverty toward the promise of America that comes in the form of the bluest blue-collar work. Running from the danger of la migra and toward employers who are absolute strangers with a car, some work and some cash.
Even if the bulk of the jornalero's day is sedentary—i.e., hanging around a street corner, waiting for work—he must always be prepared to run. His day is constant anticipation. As I discovered over the course of three days as a day laborer, not running fast enough is the difference between a day of work and a day of painful waiting.
DAY 1: THE CHINESE MEXICAN
I worked for a couple of years at a factory, but they paid badly, and the conditions were horrible. You do the same thing over and over, get paid shit, and break your back for the same fucking wages regardless of how you do the job. Here, you can make much more than in a factory or in a restaurant. Yeah, it's hard work, but I do something different every day. But I have to do it good. If not, I don't work.
—Miguel, 31
I arrive around 11 a.m. outside a Home Depot in a shopping plaza on Brookhurst and Crescent. It's one of Anaheim's main gathering places for day laborers. Some of the few men remaining—maybe 20 altogether—have been waiting for work since 6 a.m.; by 10 a.m., most of the hiring is done; by 11 a.m., waiting for work is hoping against hope.
It's obvious I do not belong here, no matter how hard I try to fit in. I have the right outfit: shoes caked with dust, the thinnest T-shirt I own, battered work pants, and a hat that will be my only protection against the unforgiving sun. But I wear glasses. My hands are smooth and show no sign of hard labor. And my skin, while somewhat dark, owes its tan to indoor lighting.
Which explains what happens next: as I approach the day laborers, they think I'm looking for workers, not for work. A man wearing a soccer jersey approaches.
“You need one worker?” he asks me in English.
“¿Mande?” I ask—What?
A perplexed look crosses his face. He wasn't expecting Spanish.
“Are you looking for workers?” his friend asks me, this time in Spanish.
“No,” I reply, again in Spanish. “I'm looking for work. You guys think I'm some pinche gabacho?”—a fucking white guy?
Everyone laughs. The tension is erased.
“Nah,” he replies. “We thought you were Chinese.”
“I knew that you were born here,” one man tells me proudly after I reveal that I was born in the States and, yes, graduated from high school. “Ever since you first walked over here. You can tell if people were born here by the way they walk.” People “from here” walk more stiffly—supposedly. The men I speak to—all in their mid-30s—are curious: Why would an American-born Mexican with a high school education have to stand on street corners to find work?
I don't tell them I also graduated from college and am on my way to grad school. I act like they do. I don't use English at all, instead employing the singsong Mexican Spanish of the rancho punctuated with graphic swear words to make my points.
I also ask questions that establish me as naive. An older gentleman, noting my inexperience, offers advice. His name is Julian. He's a 47-year-old immigrant from Guerrero who has been working without papers for more than 20 years and is still looking to improve his life. “I'm going to computer classes to learn how to use a computer,” he tells me proudly. “I recently bought a computer for my daughters who are in college to do their homework, but I also want to learn how to use it.”
[
Julian shows me the finer points of getting a job in an environment in which work comes to those who run. He talks to me in an offhand manner, almost out of the side of his mouth, as he scans the street.
“You have to present a certain self-image,” he says. “A lot of these guys”—he indicates the others talking in small clusters—”they want to work, but it doesn't seem like it to prospective employers when they're standing around talking to one another. You have to be on the lookout all the time for work. Every person that passes by, every car, is a prospective employer.”
“But how do I know which people are actually looking for workers and which ones aren't?” I ask.
Julian looks directly at me, as if he is about to impart ancient wisdom. “Sometimes, the people are shy, and you have to approach them,” he replies. “Other times, they'll be more direct. Regardless, when they come, you run toward them like a motherfucker.”
I stick around until two in the afternoon. No one comes, and by then, I am one of the last jornaleros remaining. Men are returning from a full day of work, dirty but grinning. I notice that most pick up their transportation at the bicycle rack at the nearby Carl's Jr. As I drive home in the Camry that I parked far away, I feel spoiled.
DAY 2: THE MANIC HISPANIC
People who hire us don't care about legality or who has papers—and neither do the cops. All they want are people who can do the job at a much cheaper wage than a professional. They want to save the most money possible. That's why the police or the companies around here don't care. They're in on it, too. —anonymous, 18, Mexicali A Silverado enters the parking lot and is immediately surrounded by about 15 men. Just as quickly, one man climbs into the truck and shakes hands with the driver, an older white man who apparently knows him. There's nothing special about the worker, a guy with a scruffy beard and a hat that says, “Spice Girls.” The men surrounding the truck begin yelling, “How many workers?” and, “What kind of work?” But the driver waves them off. “Sorry,” he says. “I don't need anyone else. Maybe tomorrow.” I arrive at 8 a.m. Around 40 men occupy what they refer to half-jokingly as their oficina—their office—a sidewalk across the street from Home Depot. By unwritten agreement between the jornaleros, the police and nearby businesses, the sidewalk is the only area where men can look for work in the shopping center. No wandering around the parking lot. No hanging around inside the stores. The sidewalk is about four feet wide and a parking lot in length. But all the men gather on the first 100 feet next to Brookhurst, where vehicles bound for Home Depot—and therefore the possibility of work—first enter. The oficina operates like any office tower. For lunch, the men avail themselves of the Chinese restaurant or Carl's Jr. or the father-daughter team that comes around 11 a.m. selling peanuts, pumpkin seeds and CDs. Someone has tied around trees plastic bags that serve as trash cans to make sure no one litters. Bathrooms are located inside the Carl's Jr., which also serves as an air-conditioned haven—if you have the money—from the brutal heat that is just beginning. Most of the men spend most of each day waiting. To pass the time, they chat among themselves or just stare intently at the street. Everyone tries to squeeze into the minimal shade cast by a large sign and a few scrawny trees. Even in the early morning, the sun burns us all. The minute a car passes, everyone employs the same tactic: they rush to the edge of the sidewalk and lift their hands, trying to catch the driver's attention. They shout out their specialty or just the word “Work!” The negotiation lasts two seconds as a car passes or stops to pick up someone. But mostly, the cars drive on. When they do, the jornaleros go back to waiting for the next prospective employer. Sometimes that could be hours away. Friends who've worked in retail say humans—or at least consumers—are tied together like some multicelled organism, that we all show up in theaters and grocery stores or whatever en masse, leave together, and then return. Crowds flow. So does work. At 11:30 a.m., a line of cars pulls in looking for workers. I rush each car, but work goes to the swiftest. This is proved again and again. As soon as he picks a worker, the driver tries to leave, but all the men surround the vehicle, begging the driver for work. The drivers usually say courteously that they don't need any more workers. But sometimes, they delight in bringing more misery to the life of the jornalero. Case in point: a van stops in the middle of the street. The driver is a Latino—a conservative one, judging by the copy of National Review on the passenger seat. We swarm the van, but he angrily tells the laborers to go away. “Is there a Manuel around?” he asks. “I'm looking for a Manuel.” He speaks in English that is only slightly better than that spoken by the workers. “He's not here—hire us,” one guy tells the driver. “No, I want Manuel,” the driver replies. “He does a good job.” A younger man forces his way through the crowd to the passenger-seat window and boldly proclaims he could do better than this Manuel, whoever he is. “Oh, yeah? What can you do?” the driver asks him in Spanish. “Anything,” the boy confidently replies. “Can you drywall?” the driver asks. “Of course I can,” the boy replies. “What's drywall, then?” the driver asks. The boy begins to explain, “It's when you put stucco inside the house . . .” But the driver rudely cuts him off. “Sorry, you put stucco outside the house,” he arrogantly replies. Manuel finally emerges from the mass of men, gets in the van and leaves. The young boy answered correctly—in Mexican Spanish, you do indeed call drywall “stucco.” But the driver was listening for terms that only someone professionally trained would use, and most day laborers have probably never been professionally trained. Or perhaps he just delighted in tormenting someone. I talk to the rejected worker, a 19-year-old whose name I never catch. The men here care more about what Mexican state you're from, and I find out he is from the city of Toluca, just outside Mexico City. He has been here one week and has no relatives or friends in Orange County. The only thing the tolucense has done besides search for work is pay $175 per month upfront for the right to sleep on a woman's couch. Although he has just arrived, he already understands the rules of this workplace. “You have to be the first person to talk to the [employers] or you're screwed,” he says bitterly. “Every time a car comes, people circle it, and the driver cannot pick someone based on true talents or work ethic. He usually picks whoever came first. There's no order, and we end up screwing one another because we surround cars.” What's worse, he says, is that he knows no one. Day labor is pretty much like work anywhere in at least one respect, though: the more people you know, the better your chances. “A lot of people that come looking for workers want someone who has already worked for them,” the tolucense tells me. “And if that worker has a friend, the employer will pick the friend based on his word. If you don't have a friend here, it's nearly impossible to find work.” I have no blue-collar skills, nor do I have any friends here who can hook me up. This explains why I am unable to find work and probably explains his bad luck. He is I—although I am just pretending to do what he depends on for his survival. His backpack filled with various impressive-looking tools suggests he has real skills. Watching him close up his bag and turn back to the street, I think, “If I were really in his situation, I would probably be homeless.” That thought has not left my mind. DAY 3: WHITE PEOPLE RULE You have to be there constantly. I go there from eight in the morning and am usually the last person to leave. Some people start leaving at the lunch hour; I leave at 4 p.m. Maybe I didn't get work today, but maybe somebody saw me standing there for a long time and they'll remind themselves, “That person wants to work, and next time I see them, I'll hire them just because they stood there for such a long time.”—unnamed immigrant, 29, Jalisco “They sure know how to enjoy life,” an older man says sarcastically as four Anglo men run around the block with their shirts off. Day laborers do not enjoy the luxuries of fashion, health-consciousness and other problems unique to middle-class life. Their lives depend on waiting, out-standing—literally standing longer than others—and running fast. According to a 1999 study by Dr. Abel Valenzuela of UCLA's Center for the Study of Urban Poverty, about 20,000 day laborers operate in more than 90 sites in the Los Angeles/Orange County area. Almost all of them—98 percent—are from Mexico or Central America, and about 95 percent of these entered the country illegally; most of them remain without papers. Half the workers surveyed said employers had abused them at least once, usually in the form of nonpayment or insufficient payment. Fully half of them have been doing this for more than 10 years. The other half have been doing it for less than one year, suggesting that a large portion of workers—like the tolucense—are recent immigrants living lives as tenuous as his. These men are workers, plain and simple. They might have personal lives, but their existence revolves around finding work, no matter how long it takes. “You can never lose hope,” says one gentleman, whose choice of a Mighty Ducks hat and a Kings T-shirt attests to his unconcern with sports rivalries. “I was once underneath the shade, the only person left, and was about to leave until I heard a honk. 'You want to work?' the guy asked me. Of course I did. I worked for five hours and received $60 for an easy job.” His story is interrupted. As he's speaking, everyone starts pointing toward the street. I have let my guard down; a truck has arrived. I rush to find work. I can't see the driver, but the men start shouting, “¡És un chino!“—he's Chinese. What difference this makes does not occur to me until a guy tells me afterward. “White people are the best [to work for] because all they ask is that you do the job right and they'll pay you,” he says. Chinese, the catchall phrase in Mexican Spanish for Asians, “are more demanding, and they pay cheap.” Prospective employers usually act nervous. They'll slowly drive down the street, probably debating whether they should stick to their anti-immigrant rhetoric or hire cheap help. Then they'll pull into the parking lot after making a couple of circles, still debating their hypocrisies. But the chino manifests authority, as if he has done this many times before. “I give eight hours, $8,” the man says in broken English. “Three workers. Construction.” A clamor breaks out among the men. “$10, two workers,” one man shouts. “No, eight,” the Asian holds steadfastly. “Eight hours, I guarantee.” He picks a guy with a ponytail, who immediately asks the old man to hire his two friends. “Who are your friends?” the old man asks. Everyone shouts, “Me, me!” but the ponytail guy picks his friends and they get in the truck. Those who remain try to shrug off their disappointment. “$8? That's too little,” one says. “I'm sure I can find someone who pays more later on.” Though the rejected men are devastated, the chosen are transformed. It's an amazing and heartbreaking contrast. The chosen jornaleros' faces are full of life, and they always start small talk with the person who selected them. Although the job will probably be backbreaking and they will no doubt be paid badly, anyone who remains on the sidewalk would kill to trade places. There is no such thing as “unskilled workers” here. Everyone has a specialty—drywalling, construction and its myriad requirements, gardening. Some can do everything. But woe to the man without a skill. He is never picked. I am never picked. As I leave the sidewalk for lunch around 1 p.m., the irony does not escape me: I am college-educated, young, and sound of mind and body. But in this world, any of these men has more to offer a prospective employer than I do. EPILOGUE I always try to help others out. Sometimes, a person will come with a job that I cannot do. But maybe I know someone there that can do it. I'll yell out to the person that they have a job there. Sure, there's competition for work here, but I'd rather make sure that others get a job I can't do than leave that job unfilled and deny someone their day's wages.—”El Pansón” [“the Guy With the Huge Gut”], no age given, Michoacán “So do you want to work or not?” Leaving for lunch put me in a perfect position to get to a truck before anyone else. I immediately ask the lady driver what type of work she has. She is looking for people to pull weeds in her garden, something even I could do. Here, at last, is an opportunity to work eight hours at $10 per—a king's income here. I flash through the advantages of saying yes, but I refuse the job. It wasn't the weeding; I've been pulling weeds all my life and know the basics of front-yard horticulture. But I can't bring myself to take the job. I would be robbing these men of money they need to survive, especially one that pays this well. I walk away as others crowd around, a few of them winners in this rudest lottery. Sure, it's a hard job, but I suffer through it to show my children what type of life not to have. Lots of Americans, they've been here forever: their parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and so forth. They're used to a life of luxury. If a little kid breaks his toy, he just waits until his parents come home so they can buy him a new one and throw the broken one away. We immigrants, on the other hand, come from a life of hardship. We appreciate the United States more thangabachos. All of us here, we just want to work. —Enrique, 38
