Wednesday, March 7, 2018


By David Bacon,
Truthout | Book Review - 3/6/18

Members of Unite Here 2850, the hotel union for the East and North San Francisco Bay Area, show their opinion of Trump in the march protesting his inauguration.

"From Mission to Microchip - A History of the California Labor Movement"
By Fred Glass
University of California Press, 2016, 544pp, $34.95

A recent New York Times article detailed the ways California as a state has become the Trump administration's bête noire. According to reporter Tim Arango, the morning after Trump was elected, "Kevin de León, the State Senate leader, and his counterpart in the Assembly, Anthony Rendon, said they 'woke up feeling like strangers in a foreign land.'"

In the past year, California has declared itself a sanctuary state. It raised the minimum wage and expanded worker protections. It legalized recreational marijuana. Legislators declared they would not permit offshore oil drilling. They proposed making state taxes charitable contributions to keep them deductible with the IRS.

It might seem strange to activists under 40 to think that Los Angeles was the "citadel of the open shop" for almost a century. That the city that elected Rendon and De Leon had as mayor a conservative ally of President Nixon -- Sam Yorty -- and the country's most active and violent police "red squad." That Berkeley sent an extreme right-winger into the legislature who headed up California's own "Un-American Activities Committee." That the state was ruled by agribusiness with an iron hand, and farm workers who went on strike were beaten and murdered.

Arango credits California's rebellion to its racial diversity and growing Latino population. There's no doubt that state Republicans sealed their unpopularity in the days of Gov. Pete Wilson two decades ago. Their campaign for Proposition 187, which would have denied education and hospital care to the undocumented, convinced hundreds of thousands of immigrants to apply for citizenship just to be able to vote against the juggernaut.

But there's another good reason for the state's current politics: unions.

California has 2.55 million union members, more than any other state, more even than all the jobs in Minnesota. Runners-up New York has 1.9 million and Illinois has 812,000. About 15.9 percent of California workers belong to unions -- unchanged for the last few years. Because of its large population and workforce, it doesn't have the highest density -- New York (23.6 percent), Hawaii (19.9 percent), Alaska (18.5 percent), Connecticut (17.5 percent) and Washington State (17.4 percent) have a greater percentage of union workers.

But the state's labor movement has been able to translate its membership into a solid voting base, which has made these political changes possible.

Members of the San Francisco hotel union, Unite Here Local 2, march in support of undocumented immigrants in a Labor Day march in 2006.

How California got from one place to the other is an important story. It's not just that we're faced with a political onslaught that wants to return to what California looked like a hundred years ago; we need to know how we got here, and what lessons we can draw from this experience.

That's the knowledge that Fred Glass gives us in From Mission to Microchip: A History of the California Labor Movement (University of California Press, 2016). Glass helped found the Labor in the Schools Committee of the California Labor Federation two decades ago. He then produced Golden Lands, Working Hands, which has become the basic resource for educators introducing class concepts into classroom curricula. His new book is based on the research he did for the video, and on the lessons learned in using it.

The book's title is too limiting, I think. You can't look at the history of unions and working-class struggle in California as something isolated from the broad social movements that have changed the state, and the book is a deep and entertaining examination of that relationship.

Glass sees racism, discrimination against women and anti-immigrant pogroms as the fundamental social barriers that had to be fought in order for a progressive change to take place. Strikes, organizing drives and political mobilizations, he shows, all took place within this broader context.

In looking at the role of immigrants, he notes,

The demographic trend by which immigrant workers have fueled California's population increases will continue, in California and increasingly in other states. The high proportion of immigrants who come to this land to work ensures that a sizeable number will bring along familiarity with, and often sympathies for, the goals of organized labor. In some cases, that will include histories of union involvement ... young workers of color, including a high proportion of immigrants, are the future face of the workforce and the electorate. Because the labor movement has understood this fact and designed its efforts around it, California's unionization rate remains at 16 percent while the national average is 11 percent.

Glass begins his examination with the original inhabitants and workers of California: the Indigenous peoples who were enslaved by the Spanish missions, and then "produced the surplus agricultural products" that supplied the military stockades and the beginning of foreign trade. It is an important point, not just because he shows, as does Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz in her work, the ghastly cost to Indigenous communities of Spanish and Mexican colonization, but because he sees in class terms the basic operation of the system: the production of value, and its expropriation by those with power. This class framework continues throughout the book.

Class conflict is, of course, part of the history of the United States and its capitalist system. The primitive accumulation of capital in California wasn't based on the chattel slavery of Africans, as it was in the US South. In fact, one of the most important fights as California was incorporated as a state in 1850 was to keep the slavers from expanding into its territory. Instead, the heaviest price was paid first by Native people, and then by the Mexican and Chinese population.

California became a state because of the gold fever, and Glass tells the story of gold's "discovery" at Sutter's Fort, and documents the terrible conditions for miners as they came pouring in. Yet the first miners were the Mexicans, who earlier traveled north from Sonora. They then found themselves foreigners in their own land after California and other states were taken from Mexico in the war of 1848. A guerilla war raged for several years, as those miners fought to keep their claims. The names of the many people hung in the gold fields were all Spanish, and California's first law was the foreign miner's tax act, intended to dispossess the Sonoran miners.

Glass balances his respect for the way workers then organized themselves over the following decades with a careful account of the attacks, especially on Chinese workers brought to build railroads and drain river deltas. He tells the story of the first teacher activist, and an early woman labor leader, Kate Kennedy, and the birth of the first unions -- for typographers, teamsters and carpenters.

Alexander Kenaday, founder of the typographical union, organized San Francisco's first labor council, and began the fight to get the eight-hour day in 1865, when the Civil War wasn't yet over. A long fight it's been. This year, California's legislature finally passed a bill giving farm workers and domestic workers overtime after eight hours -- people excluded from laws passed even at labor's moments of greatest strength. California is still the only state (except Hawaii) that has such a law for farm workers, and one of only a handful with a Domestic Workers' Bill of Rights.

Members of the janitors union, United Service Workers West, sit down in a downtown Los Angeles intersection in 2011, to protest the firing of immigrant workers.

In tracing California workers' and unions' long movement toward racial unity, a movement far from complete, Glass pays particular attention to one of the most important and formative efforts: when workers harvesting sugar beets in Oxnard organized the Japanese Mexican Labor Association and struck in 1903. They applied to affiliate their organization with the American Federation of Labor (AFL), and AFL President Samuel Gompers refused a charter because their union included Japanese workers. The head of the Mexican workers, J.M. Lizarras, supported by Socialist leaders of the Los Angeles Labor Council, replied, "We would be false to them and to ourselves and to the cause of unionism if we accepted privileges for ourselves which are not accorded to them."

Glass notes the role the Mexican anarcho-syndicalist brothers Ricardo and Enrique Flores Magón played in the growing Los Angeles labor movement. When they sought to build the Liberal Party to overthrow Mexican dictator Porfirio Diaz, LA's labor movement mounted their legal defense. The book makes plain that debates over the role of Mexican immigrant activists in the US and the need for cross-border solidarity were going on almost a century before NAFTA went into effect.

Glass covers the seminal events in the labor movement's growth, and in the debates over its tactics and political direction: the bombing of the LA Times (now in the midst of another union organizing drive), the rise of the IWW in the state's fields, the first unions in Hollywood, and finally, the great debate over industrial unionism in the wake of the Depression.

During Occupy Oakland in 2011, the unions of the Alameda County Labor Council organized a march in support of Occupy.

From Missions to Microchip doesn't just cover events, it describes the politics and political organizations of labor's activists and organizers, especially on the left. Communists organized the great strikes in the fields. Los Angeles's garment workers were organized by Socialists.

This complete way of telling labor's story is most important in recounting its two watershed political moments. Glass gives readers the San Francisco General Strike in detail, and the role of left-wing organizers, especially Communist workers, is clear. An organized left, and the struggles and debates it provoked, prepared the ground for the fight for unions along the waterfront, the rise of the International Longshore and Warehouse Union (one of the country's most progressive), and the consolidation of the CIO [Congress of Industrial Organizations] on the West Coast. San Francisco became a labor town, and has stayed a labor town, because of that conflict. In the middle of that strike, longshore leaders forged an alliance with the city's Black communities to end discrimination on the docks. ILWU Local 10 is a majority-Black union today as a consequence.

The other experience that shaped California unions, as it did labor throughout the country, was the Cold War. The story of The Hollywood Ten is, after all, a labor story. The Cold War and its blacklists followed, by no coincidence, the strikes to win unions in Hollywood, and eventually propelled Ronald Reagan into the White House. The expulsion of the left, and purge of Communist, Socialist and left-wing workers and leaders in the Cold War weakened unions across the country. California unions survived better than they did in many places. Although the ILWU was expelled from the CIO because of its Communist and left-wing history, it had consolidated control over the waterfront to such a degree that it couldn't be dislodged, and helped keep progressive politics alive in West coast cities.

Glass pays a lot of attention to the long history of farm worker unions, and makes it plain that the United Farm Workers (UFW) didn't rise from nowhere, but called on the experience that Filipino, Mexican, Black and white workers gained in organizing and strikes over previous decades.

Labor activists still debate many of the questions around the life of the UFW. Today we see the growth of guest-worker programs again, much like the bracero program whose end in 1964 set the stage for the great Delano Grape Strike of 1965. California's Supreme Court just upheld part of the state's farm worker labor law that requires the mandatory mediation of first-time contracts, the only law of its kind and one that most unions would kill for. The union itself is still active, but has far fewer members than it did at its height at the end of the 1970s. From Mission to Microchip describes the history and notes the debates, leaving it to the activist to plunge into them by reading further.

Finally, Glass takes the reader through the rebuilding process coming out of the Cold War: the organization of teachers (his own union) and other public employees, health care workers, janitors and drywalleros. The changing politics of Los Angeles, it makes clear, came as a result of the rise of Justice for Janitors, the hotel workers union UNITE HERE Local 11, and the organization of workers' centers among immigrants, women and workers of color.

With a history so filled with contention and debate, strikes and their violent repression, and conflict over racism and left-wing politics, it might be counterintuitive to think that California's labor movement would emerge strong and progressive. Yet this is what happened. From Mission to Microchip tells the story. Perhaps the lesson here is that left-wing politics, debate and class conflict are not harmful to workers and unions, but in fact the very things that help them find direction and organize.

That is a lesson that deserves to be in the classrooms where the children of working-class families lay claim to their own history.

Monday, March 5, 2018


By David Bacon
Capital & Main, 3/5/18

Paola, after the phone call

Paola was standing outside the West County Detention Facility, a prison in Richmond, California for 150 to 300 people awaiting deportation, when she got the phone call.  She'd been fearing it for days.  Florencio, her husband, was in another detention center in Arizona, calling to tell her that la migra (immigration agents) had caught him in the desert, walking north with a dozen others.

Paola (not her real name) hadn't spoken to Florencio for several weeks, not since the day before he crawled into the luggage compartment of a bus in Puebla in southern Mexico.  The bus, he hoped, would take him close to the U.S. border.

It had already been a harrowing journey for himself and Paola's brother Lorenzo.  "After we left Guatemala and crossed the river into Mexico, we wound up in a kind of camp in Chiapas," Florencio recalls. "There were hundreds of people there." When the day to leave on the long trip north finally arrived, the coyotes running the camp organized a kind of shape up.  It was not that different from the stories told by an earlier generation of migrants, the braceros (contract farm laborers), who remember being herded together at Mexican way stations, inspected and shipped to the border between 1942 and 1964.

Vigil participant

"Different coyotes called us by numbers, separating us into groups," Florencio says.  "Then they put 80 or 90 of us into the back of a truck.  There was so little space we had to stand pushed up against each other like sardines.  It was a bumpy ride, and soon people began to get sick and faint, especially the pregnant women.  They stopped the truck and gave us pills and lemons, but people were already throwing up and the smell was terrible."

The ride resumed, but after 12 hours the people inside began to bang on the walls.  Hearing the noise, the driver pulled over.  "He let us out and told us to run around a little," Florencio says.  "Then we got back in, and it was another 12 hours."  When the truck got to Puebla, Florencio called Paola to tell her he was coming.

During the vigil organized by Mujeres Unidas y Activas

He got through the next stage from Puebla hidden in the luggage compartment of a bus.  That took him to Sonora.  There, in a house near the border, the group faced another obstacle.  "The mafia guys came and told us they controlled this territory, and we had to pay another $1,000 to get to the line to cross," Florencio says. "Some of us knew this would happen, and we'd already paid the coyote. I don't know what happened to the others.  Soldiers came, but they didn't see any problems, and let us keep moving."

Not having money to pay at this stage could have been fatal.  In the last decade mass graves of migrants have been discovered across the desert of Mexico's northern states.  Many guess that these were migrants too broke to pay the toll.  Perhaps others were robbed and then killed.

For Florencio's group, actually crossing the line wasn't the big problem.  It was getting to a place north of it, where they could get picked up by a van to take them to Phoenix.  To get to the meeting place, they had to walk three days in the heat through rocks, sand and sagebrush.  "On the third day one boy from my hometown got pains in his stomach, and began fainting," Florencio says. "At first I said we had to stay with him, but the coyote said we had to leave him and that the Border Patrol would find him.  If we stayed we'd all be caught."

Paola and Teresa

In the end, that's what happened anyway.  The group passed across a freeway, but then Florencio began hearing helicopters.  They all ran.  He tried hiding under a bush, but an agent on a motorcycle found him.  He was taken to a detention center close by.  When he called Paola, it was the day of the monthly vigil in front of the West County Detention Facility in Richmond, nearly 900 miles north.

"I was there with people from the church who were helping us," Paola remembers.  "We'd been praying for people they knew who were inside, and we began singing.  Then my cell phone rang.  I was so afraid of getting that call, but I knew what it would be.  Then they were praying for me."  She collapsed into the arms of a church member next to her, both of them weeping.


At the end of the detention center vigil, the people assembled there clap, shout and make enough noise that the detainees inside can hear them.  "We want them to know we're here, that someone knows they're inside, and that our community cares what happens to them," explains Reverend Deborah Lee, director of the Interfaith Movement for Human Integrity (IM4HI).  "When we started in 2011 our idea was to put out a call to people of faith and conscience concerned about what was happening to immigrants, to bear witness and provide a way for them to act on that concern."

On the first Saturday of the month, a church or congregation brings its members to the center to bear witness.  For an hour they speak out, much in the style of a Quaker meeting, remembering migrants who've suffered as a result of U.S. policies of detention and deportation.  They sing, pray, make impassioned political speeches condemning the immorality of the center looming behind them, and talk about the reasons why people are forced into migrating to begin with.

As the years have gone by, the vigils have changed.  At first they were made up mostly of congregations from progressive, middle-class churches. Then some of those churches went from hosting vigils to providing sanctuary to migrant families threatened with deportation.  Churches have raised funds for bonds and emergency support, found housing and rides for released detainees, and accompanied newcomer families.  "Accompaniment," a term used by faith and solidarity activists, came out of efforts to protect activists in El Salvador from the death squads in the 80s.  People show their solidarity with those who are in danger by accompanying them, physically or by helping them survive.  Today it's applied to migrants as well - activists support a family by giving them sanctuary, helping them find food and shelter, getting them legal help.

As sanctuary congregations have multiplied to 32 throughout the Bay Area, migrants themselves have increasingly participated in the vigils.  "We always include testimony from directly impacted families as well as a call to action," Lee adds.  "We started very small-15 to 20-and now it's averaging 100 people."

Rev. Deborah Lee

Berkeley's St. John's Presbyterian Church helped Paola and her mother, who fled violence in Guatemala in 2014, gain refugee status.  The family then came to the vigil at the West County Detention Facility to speak out.  "Because these families are with us, they provide a first-hand account of why they were forced to leave home,"Lee said at the vigil, urging other congregations to get involved. "We hear the pain of the separation of their families in their voices and see it in their eyes."

St. John's was one of the first churches to give sanctuary to immigrants.  "In the early 1980s we saw people fleeing the wars in El Salvador and Nicaragua, and felt we had to do something to help them," says Fred Goff, a member of the congregation who brought Teresa and Paola to the vigil.

The vigils have grown to involve more than people of faith.  Some have been organized by immigrant community organizations, like Mujeres Unidas y Activas, which organizes immigrant working women in San Francisco and the East Bay.  Local high schools and colleges have organized others, and a Jewish congregation, Kehilla Community Synagogue, has started its own vigil on second Sundays.  When workers at a local foundry were fired for not having immigration papers, Lee and the East Bay Interfaith Immigration Coalition began meeting with them in the Lutheran Church near the University of California, Berkeley campus, working with a labor/community coalition called the East Bay Alliance for a Sustainable Economy (EBASE).  A few workers came to a vigil, and people of faith helped organize a community march and hunger strike to protest anti-immigrant firings.

During the vigil organized by Mujeres Unidas y Activas

After hearing from people like Teresa and Paola, Rev. Lee and IM4HI began holding meetings throughout the Bay Area to talk about the reasons for forced displacement and migration, and for the growth of the detention and deportation industry.  For two years she's organized delegations to Central America together with La Fundación SHARE, to support social justice movements there, and to give congregations in California a first-hand experience of the reasons why people leave home.

Over many Saturdays, the vigils have provided a way for activists to reach out to people inside the center as well.  On a recent Saturday, Lourdes Barraza and her daughters Sofia, Isabel and Anna, waited to hear news of Fernando, her husband and the girls' father.  The following Tuesday would be Fernando's birthday, and he'd already spent three months inside, staring at the concrete walls of his cell.

Reverend Pablo Morataya gathered members of his congregation at the First Hispanic Presbyterian Church in east Oakland, a sanctuary congregation, as well as other pastors and lay ministers serving immigrant congregations throughout the Bay Area.  They went to the detention center to hold a vigil for Fernando.  "There are risks," Pastor Morataya says, "but for us it is a calling of our faith."

Rev. Pablo Morataya comforts Lourdes Barraza

At the vigil for Fernando, one of Lourdes' daughters had written birthday greetings on a large card, and placed it on an overturned milk crate covered with a cloth.  First one boy stepped forward and signed it.  Then two older congregants did the same.  Finally a line stretched out of people adding their names and greetings.

Despite the support and greetings for Lourdes and her daughters, it was still an awful experience to think of Fernando inside.  They'd tried to arrange bail for him so that he would be able to come home.  "But they told me he didn't qualify because he'd already been deported once," Lourdes explained. "He's been living in this country for many years.  He is not a threat to society. All he does is work, and all I do is work, too.  I don't know how we'll survive without him.  I need my husband and the girls need their father."

She broke down and began crying.

Lourdes Barraza speaks out in front of the detention center

In October Fernando was dropping off the youngest of their three daughters at her daycare center in San Jose.  As he pulled away from the curb, he saw he was being followed by the vehicles that figure in the nightmares of millions of immigrants-the green cars of la migra.

He must have wondered whether he could run for it, and what that might mean for his family.  He decided instead to pull into a shopping mall parking lot.  The ICE agents jumped out of their cars, put him in cuffs, and took him to a detention center.  When he was finally able to call his home, all he could do was leave a message:  "Don't worry. I am not going to get deported right away; just stay calm."

Children of a detainee

Quick deportation was indeed a big danger.  Fernando had been deported in 2012, Lourdes recalled. He was picked up on a Friday and in Tijuana by the following Sunday.  But he came back because she was here.  His family, his life - all were in San Jose, not Tijuana.  Like Paola and Florencio, the bonds of love and life would not and could not be denied.

To ICE, however, being deported once before makes you a criminal subject to jail and to their euphemism for deportation-"removal."  Since October Fernando has been imprisoned in the West County Detention Facility, nearly 60 miles from San Jose.  When he appealed to be released on bail, ICE field director David Jennings refused.

"I could not believe it was all happening again," Lourdes told Cindy Knoebell, a volunteer for Community Initiatives for Visiting Immigrants in Confinement (CIVIC).  "I told our daughters that their father had been detained and they completely broke down sobbing. My oldest is now on an independent study program because she can barely get out of bed in the morning. It is tough because I am alone now and have to take care of my daughters' needs without any help.  I am completely consumed by fear and anxiety. I worry constantly about how long I'll be able to keep a roof over our heads."

A daughter thinking about her father

Knoebell reports that Lourdes debated for a long time whether to come to the vigil and speak.  She'd heard about many other families facing the same disaster.  "But we have nothing to be ashamed of," she said.

Inside the detention center the monthly noise has not only let Fernando know there are supporters outside.  It has also encouraged detainees to begin protesting what they say are terrible conditions.

The West County Detention Facility is housed in a much larger jail, one of four Contra Costa County lockups.  Its official capacity is 1,096 people, of whom 150 to 300 are detainees in the facility run by ICE, which pays $6 million a year to the county for using it.  Some immigration detainees are held because ICE says they're in the country illegally.  Others are asylum seekers who are detained immediately on arrival in the U.S. or legal residents with past offenses (often very minor ones) that makes them deportable.

So they await a hearing before an immigration judge.  That hearing, however, is not the normal courtroom procedure one might imagine.  The judge sits in a room in the ICE building on Sansome Street in San Francisco.  The immigrant sits in a room at the detention center in Richmond.  The hearing takes place over the Internet.  If immigrants have a lawyer, their chances of staying in the U.S. are better, but odds are not good even then.

A vigil participant shows support for the people inside

People like Fernando wait, while weeks stretch into months and even years.

In October the immigration detainees went public about what that waiting is like.  In a letter written to CIVIC by one of the prisoners, Nancy Meyer, and signed by 27 others, women described being held in cells for 23 hours a day.  While regular inmates in the county jail section of the facility get classes and other resources, the immigration detainees don't.

The cells are grouped in pods, with a bathroom that is supposed to serve them all.  There are no toilets in the cells.  If the cell door is locked, a prisoner has to ask to be let out in order to go to the bathroom.  While Contra Costa County Sheriff David Livingston says doors are normally open, the women signing the letter denied this.  Instead, they charged, they're told to "hold it" and have to urinate or defecate into plastic bags.

Lourdes Barraza

One detainee told immigration Judge Joseph Park in October that she that she preferred being deported to staying in the jail.  In a phone interview with San Francisco Chronicle reporter Otis R. Taylor, Dianny Patricia Menendez said detainees put the plastic bags over a trash can in order to go to the bathroom.  Their one hour of free time to make calls to family or take a shower is often canceled, she added.

ICE did not respond to the allegations of bad conditions.  However, Taylor wrote that the detainees who spoke with him were later punished by being denied soap, shampoo and the chance to brush their teeth.

Immigrant women supporting each other

Senator Dianne Feinstein was one of several elected officials to protest.  She wrote acting ICE director Thomas Homan in December, saying, "It has been reported that the conditions are so deplorable that detainees are requesting deportation over pursuing claims in immigration court."  Criticism also came from U.S. Rep. Mark DeSaulnier (D-Richmond), State Senator Nancy Skinner (D-Berkeley), Assemblyman Tony Thurmond (D-Richmond), Contra Costa County Supervisor John Gioia and Richmond Mayor Tom Butt.

Outside the West County jail, a few minutes after Paola got the call from Florencio saying he'd been caught, she got a second one that frightened her even more.  Her brother Lorenzo was hiding in a small community between Tucson and the border.  He'd been traveling with Florencio, but the coyotes separated them in northern Sonora.

Holding hands is part of the vigil ritual

Once across the border, Lorenzo lost his own group, and a friendly resident gave him temporary refuge in a garage.  Terrified that the Border Patrol, which was constantly circulating in the area, would find him, he called Teresa.  At the vigil, church members began making calls to Arizona, trying to find help.  Finally a person was contacted who drove down from Tucson and rescued him.

It was only a temporary respite, however.  Not long afterwards Lorenzo was picked up and deported.  When he calls Teresa and Paola these days, it's from Guatemala once again.

Paola is comforted after getting the call

Since Florencio had tried to cross the border twice before and had been caught, he wasn't deported immediately when he was picked up in Arizona.  Instead, he was charged in the special court for immigrants in Tucson, Operation Streamline.  Afterwards he spent seven months in an Arizona prison before finally being released on bail while he appeals his deportation order.

To Rev. Lee, the stories of Florencio, Lorenzo and Fernando, with their repeated attempts to cross the border to reunite with their families, are a natural human response to separation.  She cited another example in an opinion piece she cowrote with Bob Lane, a faith leader at EBASE, for the San Jose Mercury News.  "Consider the story of Alfonso Martinez Sanchez, a 39-year-old father of five U.S. citizen children and his family's main breadwinner, she wrote. "Five years ago, a trip to a store to buy milk led to a senseless deportation. Alfonso repeatedly tried to come home to his family.  Wouldn't you?  The Border Patrol arrested Alfonso several times, but he never gave up on his family. He died of heatstroke in the desert trying to reunite."

"We are at your side!"

When Rev. Lee thinks about what's happened to Paola and Teresa, to Florencio and Lorenzo, to Lourdes and her three children, to Fernando, it's clear to her that for them to survive people have to act.  "We can't just watch the immigration policy of this country play itself out and do nothing, while ICE and the Border Patrol hunt people down and tear their families apart," she said at a recent vigil.  "The administration talks about our efforts to protect people and fight this detention system as though this was just a state or a city passing a law to defy their enforcement efforts.  What they don't understand is that these laws exist because our community is making a moral commitment and acting on it, and our representatives are responding to that.  Sanctuary isn't just a law.  It's our community defending people in danger."

Sanctuary is a vigil in front of the detention center.

California values

Thursday, March 1, 2018


By David Bacon
Truthout, March 01, 2018
Book excerpt from In the Fields of the North/En los campos del norte  / University of California Press

Watsonville, California. A farmworker pulls brussels sprouts from a stalk and tosses them into a bucket. These workers are paid according to the amount of sprouts they harvest.

Printed in English and Spanish, In the Fields of the North puts a close-up focus on people deemed disposable by many in the United States. Get the book now with a donation to Truthout.

In an exquisite synergy of documentary photographs, journalism and personal stories, David Bacon reveals the dignity and integrity of seasonal workers from Mexico who harvest much of the nation's fruit and vegetables under squalid conditions. In this excerpt, Bacon talks about his journalistic philosophy in an introductory chapter, "A Photographer Looks Through a Partisan Lens."

Eighty years ago, many photographers were political activists and saw their work intimately connected to worker strikes, political revolution or the movements for indigenous people's rights. Today, what was an obvious link is often viewed as a dangerous conflict of interest. Photographers must be objective and neutral, the word goes, and stand at a distance from the reality they record. But I believe our work gains visual and emotional power from its closeness to the movements we document. We are not "objective" but partisan -- documenting social reality is part of the movement for social change.

Can photographers be participants in the social events they document? As a documentary photographer and journalist, I don't claim to be an unbiased observer. I'm on the side of immigrant workers and unions in the United States and share their struggle for rights and a decent life. I take the side of people in Mexico trying to find alternatives for democratic political change. If the work I do helps to strengthen these movements, it will have served a good purpose.

For three decades I've used a method that combines photographs with interviews and personal histories. Part of the purpose is the "reality check" -- the documentation of social reality, including poverty, homelessness, migration and displacement. But this documentation, carried out over a long period of time, also presents some of the political and economic alternatives proposed by those often shut out of public debate. It examines peoples' efforts to win the power to put some of these alternatives into practice.

So for me photography is a cooperative project. When I began to work as a photographer and writer, documenting the lives of migrants and farmworkers, I took with me the perspective of my previous work as a union organizer. Carrying a camera became for me a means to organize for social and racial justice, the same goals I had as an organizer. Bob Fitch, who spent years in the US South as a photographer with the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, thinks about himself the same way. In the recent book, "This Light of Ours," he remembers, "I did various kinds of organizing for the balance of my life and photographed those activities as I went through. And I perceived myself as an organizer who uses a camera to tell the story of my work, which is true today."

Advocating for social change is part of a long tradition of social documentary photography in the United States and Mexico, and I hope my work contributes to this tradition today. San Francisco photographers Otto Hegel and Hansel Mieth took their cameras into the huge cotton strike of 1933 and the West Coast waterfront strike of 1934. They saw themselves as part of these movements. One Mieth image from the 1930s shows the shape-up system where workers were hired to unload ships -- a scene reminiscent of today's day laborers clustering around a contractor's pickup truck in front of Home Depot. Mieth's photograph became a symbol of humiliating conditions and an appeal to go on strike. She would be proud that longshore workers today have a union hiring hall and no shape-up.

For over a decade I've worked with the Binational Front of Indigenous Organizations, a Mexican migrant organization, California Rural Legal Assistance and Familias Unidas por la Justicia to document this contradiction. Our project, which led to this book, shows extreme poverty, the complete lack of housing for many people and the systematic exploitation of immigrant labor in the fields. But through the photographs and accompanying oral histories, migrants also analyze their situation and demand respect for their culture, basic rights and greater social equality.

At the end of the 1970s California farm workers were the highest-paid in the US, with the possible exception of Hawaii's long-unionized sugar and pineapple workers. Today people are trapped in jobs that pay the minimum wage and often less, and mostly unable to find permanent year-around work.

In 1979 the United Farm Workers negotiated a contract with Sun World, a large citrus and grape grower. The contract's bottom wage rate was $5.25 per hour. At the time, the minimum wage was $2.90. If the same ratio existed today, with a state minimum of $10.50, farm workers would be earning the equivalent of $19.00 per hour.

Today farm workers don't make anywhere near $19.00 an hour. In 2008 demographer Rick Mines conducted a survey of 120,000 migrant farm workers in California from indigenous communities in Mexico -- Mixtecos, Triquis, Purepechas and others -- counting the 45,000 children living with them, a total of 165,000 people. "One third of the workers earned above the minimum wage, one third reported earning exactly the minimum and one third reported earning below the minimum," he found.

In other words, growers were paying an illegal wage to tens of thousands of farm workers. The case log of California Rural Legal Assistance is an extensive history of battles to help workers reclaim illegal, and even unpaid, wages. Indigenous workers are the most recent immigrants in the state's farm labor workforce, and the poorest, but the situation isn't drastically different for others. The median income is $13,000 for an indigenous family, the median for most farm workers is about $19,000 -- more, but still far from a liveable wage.

Low wages in the fields have brutal consequences. When the grape harvest starts in the eastern Coachella Valley, the parking lots of small markets in farm worker towns like Mecca are filled with workers sleeping in their cars. For Rafael Lopez, a farm worker from San Luis, Arizona, living in his van with his grandson, "the owners should provide a place to live since they depend on us to pick their crops. They should provide living quarters, at least something more comfortable than this."

In northern San Diego County, many strawberry pickers sleep out of doors on hillsides and in ravines. Each year the county sheriff clears out some of their encampments, but by next season workers have found others. As Romulo Muñoz Vasquez, living on a San Diego hillside, explains: "There isn't enough money to pay rent, food, transportation and still have money left to send to Mexico. I figured any spot under a tree would do."

Compounding the problem of low wages is the lack of work during the winter months.  Workers have to save what they can while they have a job, to tide them over. In the strawberry towns of the Salinas Valley, the normal 10% unemployment rate doubles after the harvest ends in November. While some can collect unemployment, the estimated 53% who have no legal immigration status are barred from receiving benefits.

Yet people have strong community ties because of shared culture and language. Farm workers in California speak twenty-three languages, come from thirteen different Mexican states, and have rich cultures of music, dance, and food that bind their communities together. Migrant indigenous farmworkers participate in immigrant rights marches, and organize unions.

Indigenous migrants have created communities all along the northern road from Mexico to the US and Canada. Migration is a complex economic and social process in which whole communities participate. Migration creates communities, which today pose challenging questions about the nature of citizenship in a globalized world. The function of these photographs, therefore, is to help break the mold that keeps us from seeing this reality.

The right to travel to seek work is a matter of survival for millions of people, and a new generation of photographers today documents the migrant-rights movements in both Mexico and the United States (with its parallels to the civil rights movement of past generations). Like many others in this movement, I use the combination of photographs and oral histories to connect words and voices to images -- together they help capture a complex social reality as well as people's ideas for changing it.

Today racism is alive and well, and economic inequality is greater now than it has been for half a century. People are fighting for their survival. And it's happening here, not just in safely distant countries half a world away. As a union organizer, I helped people fight for their rights as immigrants and workers. I'm still doing that as a journalist and photographer. I believe documentary photographers stand on the side of social justice -- we should be involved in the world and unafraid to try to change it.

Copyright (2017) by David Bacon. Not to be reposted without permission of the author.

David Bacon is a writer and photographer, and former union organizer. He is the author of several books on labor, migration and the global economy, including The Children of NAFTA, Communities Without Borders, Illegal People and The Right to Stay Home.

Tuesday, February 13, 2018


By David Bacon
The American Prospect, February 13, 2018

In San Francisco, janitors and other workers support AB 450, a bill to protect workers during immigration raids and enforcement actions.

Labor historian Fred Glass, looking at the impact of immigration on California's labor movement, notes that many immigrants have arrived in the state with a long history of labor and left-wing activism. Unions have then called on that history and consciousness to aid in organizing drives among janitors, farm workers, hotel housekeepers, and others. "Because the labor movement has understood this fact and designed its efforts around it," he argues, "California's unionization rate remains at 16 percent while the national average is 11 percent." The state has 2.55 million union members, far more than any other.

To union leaders, that's also one explanation-in addition to the state designating itself as a sanctuary-for the announcement by the Trump administration that it is targeting California for intensive workplace immigration enforcement. "It's obvious retaliation for California standing up for immigrants," charges Wei-Ling Huber, president of UNITE HERE Local 2850, the hotel union in the East and North San Francisco Bay Area. "Its purpose is to create a climate of fear among immigrant workers in general, and to attack the unions that have defended them."

Last fall the state legislature passed a series of bills intended to protect immigrants, especially immigrant workers. One bars police from asking about immigration status and from participating in immigration enforcement actions with federal agents. A second requires warrants before employers can give agents access to workplaces and records of workers' immigration status.

In October Thomas Homan, acting director of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) of the Department of Homeland Security, accused legislators of "codifying a dangerous policy that deliberately obstructs our country's immigration laws and shelters serious criminal alien offenders." Then in December on Fox News, he threatened, "We've got to take these sanctuary cities on." Finally, at the end of January, an ICE statement announced that the agency was auditing the I-9 records that document the immigration status of workers at 77 northern California employers.

"The actions taken this week reflect HSI's (Homeland Security Investigations) stepped-up efforts," according to an email from an ICE spokesperson to ABC News. James Schwab, ICE's public affairs spokesperson in San Francisco, did not answer the phone or return phone messages from this reporter.

While ICE would not identify the employers being audited, workers throughout the area have alerted their unions and community advocates of audits in progress. In an I-9 audit, ICE agents review the information provided by workers when they fill out the I-9 form as they're hired, stating their citizenship or legal immigration status.  ICE then compares it with its database, trying to determine whether any of the workers are undocumented and therefore lack legal permission to work. Agents then give the employer a list of those workers and demand they be fired.

The process implements the "employer sanctions" provision of the 1986 Immigration Reform and Control Act. While the Act provides for fines on employers who hire undocumented workers, few employers pay penalties, and even if they must, they generally treat it as a cost of doing business. Even fewer are charged with violating federal law.

Last year, ICE said it conducted 1,360 employee audits, but from October 1, 2016, to June 24, 2017, arrested just 42 people in management for violating sanctions. Workers caught up in the audits, however, lose their jobs and the income that supports their families.  In some cases, they are also held for deportation.

"Workers encountered during these investigations ... are also subject to administrative arrest and removal from the country," according to ICE spokeswoman Danielle Bennett. In January, ICE agents didn't stop at audits, and in 98 7-Eleven stores detained 21 workers for deportation. A large number of those stores were located in California.

Among the 77 companies targeted in the current wave of northern California audits are unionized construction firms and building service contractors in the San Francisco area, and two furniture factories. Workers report workplaces being audited as well in Silicon Valley and Sacramento.

California unions, however, are not unprepared for such actions, and many have a long history of resisting workplace immigration enforcement. "We are training our members on the ground," explains Anand Singh, president of UNITE HERE Local 2 in San Francisco. "We're using this moment to go back to them and make sure they're clear on their rights under our union contract. Because we're negotiating this year, we're also going to strengthen what we have."

The union began including provisions protecting immigrants in the 1990s. By the terms of the contract, the hotels have to notify the union if they're contacted by ICE, and the union has the right to represent workers in any case related to their immigration status at work. If a worker changes status (by getting a legal residence card, for instance), they can change their employment information without losing seniority. If a hotel is sold, any new owner has to accept the documents provided by workers to the old owner.

One section of the agreement states, "Except as required by law, the Employer shall not permit the agent(s) to enter the premises without a valid warrant or, in the case of the inspection of the I-9 forms, without 72 hours notice." That language, and provisions like it in the contracts of other unions, became the model for AB 450, passed by the California legislature last year.

The main initiative in drafting the law came from the state's janitors' unions, United Service Workers West and SEIU Local 87, which have been the target of many raids and audits over the last two decades. AB 450 requires employers to demand judicial warrants to enter a workplace or inspect records, except in the case of I-9 audits (where ICE is not legally required to have them). It also prohibits employers from reverifying immigration documents on their own initiative.

Workers themselves have also taken action to stop reverification. When one northern California hotel changed hands, and the new operator demanded new immigration documents from some workers, all the union members refused to fill out any company paperwork, even to sign the company rulebook, until the demand was dropped. "Solidarity is important, and there are things people can do to protect each other," says Huber.

When reverification led to the firing of a dozen workers at a local recycling plant, after they'd filed suit over illegal wages, most workers went on strike briefly to defend them. Eventually the company's workers voted for a union and negotiated a contract with substantially higher salaries and greater job security, even as the union raised funds for food and rent for the fired workers.

Agustin Ramirez, an organizer for the International Longshore and Warehouse Union who helped those workers, suggests, "In the contract, unions should have language that protects workers. They should help workers get prepared for possible raids by having emergency plans ready, like for the care of children. But we have to realize that most workers don't have unions. The big question is what can we do to let immigrant workers in general know about their rights, and to make them feel that they're surrounded by a supportive community. If we just keep quiet, or fight this union by union, workplace by workplace, we'll get crushed. We have to make immigration enforcement as public an issue as possible. The law of the street is often the most powerful weapon we have."

The national Jobs with Justice coalition has prepared materials to help unions and workers face audits and raids. Its Buffalo chapter defended workers detained in a raid at four restaurants in 2016, and came up with a list of ways to win community support in such situations. On Long Island, in addition to accompanying workers to deportation hearings, JwJ activists are approaching employers to warn them about ICE audits and raids, assuming the employers don't want to lose their workforce. JwJ distributes a Worker Defense Toolkit, and has suggested language for union contracts to protect immigrant workers. "But it's hard to stay ahead of the fear," admits Natalie Patrick-Knox, JwJ's immigration and worker rights organizer.

San Francisco JwJ organizer Kung Feng helps coordinate a broad rapid response network, Bay Resistance, that mobilizes people for marches and lightning demonstrations. "Sanctuary and worker protection laws are important," he emphasizes, "but we are really each other's sanctuary.  Sanctuary is a community-building project, not just a law."

Singh notes that audits are just one form of attack by the Trump administration on immigrant workers. "A lot of young workers who qualified for DACA [Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals] are in our workforce and workplaces now," he says. "If Trump cancels their status, they lose the right to work and can be deported.  We've also tried to rally people to oppose Trump's cancelling TPS [Temporary Protected Status] for Central Americans and Haitians. That is a workplace issue for us too, with a real impact on our families."

The industry in California most vulnerable to workplace enforcement is agriculture. Over 700,000 people work in the state's fields at peak employment, and according to the U.S. Department of Labor, about 55 percent are undocumented.

On February 1, workers at Bee Sweet, a large citrus grower near Fresno, were notified that ICE was auditing company records. They were given five days to verify their immigration status. According to Manuel Cunha, president of the Nisei Farmers League, audits are going on at seven other San Joaquin Valley farms.

Of Bee Sweet's 500 workers, at least 40 left their jobs when they learned of the ICE inspection. Company president Jim Marderosian says he was audited once before in 2013, when he fired 150 employees. "What good does it do to make these workers lose their jobs?" he told the Fresno Bee. "Some way or another, they are going to have to feed their families."

On February 6, community activists from Faith in the Valley held a rally outside the Bee Sweet packing shed. Stan Santos, a member of Communications Workers of America Local 9408, represented the local labor council in supporting the workers, who have no union. "People are very scared," he charges. "Since ICE has all the records, they know where people live. Some workers are afraid they'll be visited at home." In Trump-era ICE raids, when agents show up at the door looking for one person, they often interrogate and then detain other family members as well.

"Creating fear and anxiety is the biggest impact on workers," according to Armando Elenes, vice-president of the United Farm Workers. "People get afraid to demand their rights, or even just to come to work." The UFW spearheaded the successful effort to win a law in California last year giving farm workers the same overtime protection other workers have had since the 1930s.

"Growers fought us hard on that one," he says bitterly, "and were happy to contribute a lot of money to Trump and to the Republicans who still represent the San Joaquin Valley in Congress. Now they complain about immigration enforcement, but they're reaping what they sowed. Unfortunately, the real impact is felt by the workers, not the growers."

Immigration enforcement in the fields, however, is connected to the growing push among Republicans in Congress to relax worker protections on the H2-A visa program, which allows growers to recruit workers from other countries to work in U.S. fields., with few protections. (If those workers complain about violations of their labor rights, they can be, an almost always are, deported.) The U.S. issued 160,000 H2-A visas in 2016 last year, mostly from Mexico, and growers were expected to bring over 200,000 workers in 2017. "There's a huge explosion in California," Elenes says. "ICE does audits and raids, and then growers demand changes that will make H2-A workers even cheaper, by eliminating wage requirements or the requirement that they provide housing.  Reducing the available labor and the increased use of H2-A are definitely connected."

One bill, introduced last year by Representative Bob Goodlatte would allow guest worker recruitment without contracts guaranteeing wages, housing or transportation costs, as the current program requires. It would cap the number of such workers at half a million. Another, by Representatives Chris Collins and Elise Stefanik would put the H2-A program under the Department of Agriculture, with much more grower-friendly enforcement of minimal worker protections. A third, by Representative Rick Allen would limit guest worker wages to 115 percent of the minimum wage.

"Growers don't want to look at how they can make the workplace better and attract more workers. They just want what's cheaper for them," Elenes charges.

Singh outlines the basic elements of change supported by his union, UNITE HERE: "We need to protect family reunification and an amnesty for people without papers," he says. "But we need deeper changes beyond that. Employer sanctions, which set up workplace audits and raids, need to be abolished because they criminalize work. And most important, we have to deal with the root causes of migration. The poverty and violence that forced Haitians to come still exist. Trade agreements like CAFTA and NAFTA still push people from Mexico and Central America. Mass deportations just deepen this crisis. We can't look at immigration policy in a vacuum."

No one knows better than union activists that there's zero chance for this kind of basic immigration policy reform in the present Congress, especially with Trump as president. But many caution that fighting the immediate audits and raids has to be connected to a longer-range direction and goal. "Right now it's a free-for-all, and they're coming after all workers," Huber says. "So we have to educate people, hand out know-your-rights materials, and provide legal aid. But we also send people to D.C. to lobby on TPS, for instance. We supported shutting down the government to win protection for DACA recipients. We have to keep firm in our political efforts."

"Basically, we need to protest," Patrick-Knox concludes. "With the Republicans controlling Congress, we aren't going to get basic reforms now. But political protest will make a difference, and can help swing things back. Change, when it comes, can happen quickly."

Friday, February 2, 2018


The Indigenous Roots of a Migrant Farmworker-The Story of Gervacio Pena
Text and Photos by David Bacon
Gastronomica, Spring 2018

Gervacio Pena speaks.

As consumers we know that what we eat appears in the stores when we need it. We know it must take the labor of people to get it there. Thanks to the media we know that most of the people who put food on our table are immigrants from Mexico. And many of us remember that Cesar Chavez led a movement half a century ago to change their conditions.

But how much do we really know about the lives of the people who feed us-today? Where are the workers who fill the fields coming from? What causes them to leave home? How does it feel to do some of hardest labor we can imagine?

To find answers to these questions, we need to hear the voices of those who do the work. One of those voices belongs to Gervacio Pena. Today a large and rising percentage of agricultural workers, the people whose labor provides the fruit and vegetables we eat, migrate from small towns in southern Mexico. In the rows of wine grapes of Sonoma County, where Pena has worked for many years, you are as likely to hear Mixtec or Triqui-indigenous languages that predate Columbus-as you are to hear Spanish.

Pena was born in the municipio of Santiago Juxtlahuaca, in the Mixteca region of Oaxaca, from which indigenous people have been migrating to the United States for decades. But despite their dispersal, as he describes, they have found a way to unite, not just around language and their towns of origin but through their identity as indigenous Oaxacan migrants.

Mixtecos in their migration overwhelmingly belong to transnational communities-they retain ties to their communities of origin, and establish new communities as they search for work. Their ties to each other are so strong, and the movement of people so great, that people belong to a single community that exists in different locations..

These networks have a profound impact on work, families, social movements, and cultural practices. Traditions become a rich source of experience on which migrants draw as they seek social justice, and to preserve their culture, in the places they go.

As Pena says, migration has complicated social costs and benefits in communities of origin. It threatens cultural practices and indigenous languages. Emigration often seems, especially to the young, a profitable alternative to education. It exacerbates social and economic divisions but has become an economic necessity.

Yet while people decide to migrate to the United States for overwhelmingly economic reasons, the pursuit of work is not the sum total of their existence. As social beings, people create community, and pose challenging questions about the nature of citizenship in a globalized world.

Gervacio Pena has been active in the social movements of farmworkers and Latinos in California for many years. David Bacon interviewed him, as he sat in front of the tent where he lives on the Russian River.

I am from Oaxaca, from the Mixteca region. I'm forty-nine years old and I've been living in California for at least thirty of them.

What has happened to my hometown, Santiago Naranjas, is the same story of many others that have sent so many of their inhabitants to the U.S. When I was a student the number of people living in town reached three thousand. Now there are more houses but fewer people, because so many of us don't live there anymore. About forty percent have migrated to the north of Mexico and to the U.S.

Some streets have been paved and we have sewers now. There is drinking water, electricity, and telephone service. In my youth these things didn't exist. Then most houses were made of adobe. We had one. When they widened the street, they tore it down, and now our house is made of concrete. Concrete houses are much hotter, and those little adobe houses were a lot cooler. They were built with taller ceilings and there was more ventilation. Some houses now have air conditioning but a lot don't because electricity is expensive. Sometimes in search of something better you don't take account of what you already have.

My father worked with my grandfather. In our town the first thing you learn is to farm. They would plant vegetables and corn on the mountain. ["on the mountain" OR "in the mountains"] They raised hens and turkeys. What they produced was to feed themselves. Then when my dad got married he learned to build houses-at that time still with adobe and tiles. Although he did not go to school, he learned to measure and use lead and a level, and became a master of that trade.

When he came to this side of the border he also worked in construction, even though he did not speak English. He would sometimes fix walls or floors before the building inspection, so the project could pass. But the contractors exploited him, and would pay him as little for that as they could.

Today people say, "We work very hard here in the U.S. so I want to have a big house in my town when I return." That is always the dream. We don't really believe in the American Dream. Instead our big dream is to return to our small town and have a place to raise a family or retire. Our migrant families always have that idea that one day we will return and we want to have something to return to.

The Mixteca region of Oaxaca is one of the poorest areas in Mexico. Indigenous Mixtec, Triqui, and other groups from this region now make up a large percentage of the migrants who have left to work in the United States. Zacarias Salazar plows his cornfield behind oxen, in the traditional way with a wooden plough. Because of corn dumping enabled by the North American Free Trade Agreement, it is almost impossible for Salazar to grow and sell corn in Mexico any longer, and his crop is now mostly for the sustenance of his family. 

Santiago Naranjas is an indigenous town, governed by habits and customs (usos y costumbres). Most of our land is common, not private property. Your home belongs to you, and is protected for you and your family. But the fields and the mountains are worked only by the community, and with the permission of the community. If you are going to plant crops or cut a tree you have to ask for permission.

Our elders had to fight to save our lands from being sold to wealthy people. In years past the caciques (community bosses) could buy or claim land. They would do whatever they wanted. The elders thought it was better to keep our common lands. Elsewhere in the district of Juxtlahuaca land was divided up and sold as private property. Powerful people would forge crooked papers and dispossess farmers who borrowed money from them to plant a crop. If the harvest was too small they lost their land.

In the oldest communities, like Santo Domingo and Santiago Naranjas, the federal government agreed that the town land wasn't private property. Since our lands are held in common our towns are governed differently. Sometimes powerful people arrive in the district and try to maneuver to buy land. They pay to get a property title, register their ownership, and say the paper protects them. That is illegal, but we still have the risk that someone will buy everything.

In my town they don't allow someone from outside to buy land. That does not mean that other people from other towns can't come live there. They would have to serve the community for a certain number of years and provide a certificate saying they don't have a criminal record. Then they could be citizens of the community as long as they participate in the assemblies and in the usos y costumbres. Some people marry someone from our community, and we don't prevent them from being part of the town. Some from outside have even done well because they start a small business.

Santiago Naranjas is a peaceful town. There isn't much violence. At the time when they were delineating what was common land there were people who had property inside the commons. They wanted to create an ejido (a different form of rural land ownership) instead. There were fights about that.

Now water is becoming scarce. There's more awareness of the need to treat the waste so that contaminants don't reach the subsoil or pollute the water. Before there was more water in the valley, and people could plant more. Now there are more houses and fewer places to farm. You have to go up into the hills. But if you don't prepare the land well you only produce two or three harvests and then the erosion starts. So this is not very sustainable.

Honorina Ruiz, six years old, ties bunches of green onions together in a field farmed by a U.S. grower in northern Mexico. Her mother Esperanza and brother Rigoberto work with her. This is the same work that Gervacio Pena's family did for many years, and is part of the experience of thousands of Oaxacan migrant families.

Our town is trying to preserve the land and forests, but deforestation is also decreasing the amount of land for planting crops. Our forests are more or less preserved now with more supervision of the commons. We cooperate on projects with other towns, but often they're not well planned and there are landslides and more erosion.

People have migrated away in large numbers, but a lot of people have been called to return. There is no law that says they have to, but many want to continue to be a member of the community. Officials send announcements, asking people to return to serve the town. If you serve as municipal president, it's for a year. For other posts it is three years.

People arrive with new ideas to improve planning or for another way to organize the town. Often they have seen projects that have worked in other places. The difficult part is to start them up in our community because people in the town don't want to create something new. Mostly these projects have not had much acceptance because they also involve a lot of resources and money.

A lot of our families in Santiago Naranjas are dependent on our jobs in the U.S. Many people in the U.S. have made a better life for themselves here. They've brought their family to the U.S. and have no plans to return. They don't want to become involved in what is happening in the town.

I grew up speaking Mixteco because my dad and mom spoke it. I started school at the age of eight or nine. My mom and her brothers went to work in Sinaloa and saw that I needed to speak Spanish. I'm glad I learned to communicate in another language, but I feel fortunate that I also learned my own language within my family.

In Mixteco towns everyone has to participate in the dances and the festivals. You learn by looking at those who dance. It has changed, though. It is not precisely how Mixtecos lived many years ago. But the festivals have helped preserve the feeling of belonging to a community. When you know what you have lived as a community, it helps you survive in a society that dictates a different conduct or religion. Our traditions made us feel good.

Gervacio Pena in front of his tent by the Russian River.

When I was young there was no television. You listened to the radio, but it was in Spanish. When we got television later I could see programs like the novelas. But they don't show much about living in a small town. They're more about the city. In the last decade American movies have also arrived, which catch the attention of youth. So they don't live completely in the small town anymore, even though they are right there. They have a window to the world.

It's not good when it creates a mentality of competition, that I can do something better than others and I don't need them. Respect is lost for older people. Now there are young people who don't speak Mixteco and think they know more than their uncle or father because they speak Spanish well. But they only speak Spanish. At school this is what they are told. They don't need to know about their culture or history-just learn to speak Spanish well. I started to migrate at an early age but there was always that connection of not forgetting your family. I speak Spanish very well, but my color-no one can change that.

This is the risk with our youth-the mentality that they should show off and dress well. Now everyone is ordering clothing and athletic shoes used by great artists and players. You can dress like that but it does not change your life or make you a great athlete. It is not bad to have access to better communication, to receive news every day of something happening in another place in the world. But the media is filled with the idea that everything is fashion. When young people have a lot of distractions they forget to participate in the community or the festivals or the culture.

Young people now sometimes do better in an academic sense because their parents have emigrated. They've been able to provide an education and pay for school supplies. But do young people learn how to earn money to support a family, to take care of a place where they were born? They think, "I don't have to do that because my father is going to send me his biweekly pay. Now I have to buy this and that shoe."

In Santiago Naranjas, though, we have always had teachers who tried to teach students something different, and who were involved in the teachers' movement. My aunts were part of that, one from the teachers' union and the other from another union.

A big movement like the teachers' fight always has repercussions everywhere. People say teachers are lazy, that they don't want to teach the children and just want to make more money. They don't understand what the teachers want. The teachers are fighting so that the children don't lack an education, not just about their jobs. In rural areas the teachers always give more time than what they are paid for. They usually have to use part of their salary for basic supplies for the children-something to write or color with.

A striking teacher from Michoacán demonstrates in Mexico City in front of a line of police. Mexican teachers want to defeat proposals to remove job protections, and at the same time want economic reforms that would give students an alternative to forced migration to the United States.

When I was in school education was only in Spanish. In third grade the teacher did not want one word in Mixteco in the classroom. He'd fine us five or ten cents, which was a lot at that time, for each word he heard in Mixteco. The director, who was Mixteco, approved this. The rule prevented me from speaking my tongue. I felt oppressed.

I like the idea proposed by the teachers' union of a change in the education system that would make it more respectful of indigenous culture and language. Teachers who work in indigenous areas and communities understand the kind of reform we need. The politicians in the Mexican Congress or the state capital never go to those communities.

The structural reform the government has proposed would not help our children. That reform has removed much of the history of the indigenous heroes, of the fights we've had in Mexico. They are removing the only thing that could give value to children's education. They only want to prepare children to know the things needed to work in the places that are going to hire them. But these jobs they're being prepared for pay the least. Instead, we need to create a critical consciousness, to encourage students to question what they really want to do, and what can help their family and community. If they only prepare kids to assemble things in a factory, they will just become robots that use their hands but can't think for themselves.

After my father began emigrating he separated from my mom, so I only knew him for my first three years. He left to work in Baja California and Sonora. He didn't speak much Spanish and had to use hand signs to ask for something to eat or drink. He was ridiculed by people who thought he was ignorant because he didn't speak the same language they did. He worked building and fixing houses, and later crossed to the U.S.

He worked in bad conditions, but he thought he couldn't protest because he wouldn't be given any work. I didn't really agree, maybe because I was more educated. I believe if you keep quiet you let it happen. This country gives us an opportunity to work, and we all want a better life. We all want our family to live in a healthy environment. So if the conditions do not allow that we have to look for a way to organize. No government, however good it may seem, is going to give something to the community or to our families.

I came with my uncles and my mother to Sinaloa when I was seven. They picked tomatoes, cucumbers, and eggplants that were exported to the U.S. They worked on the outskirts of Culiacan. Nogalito and El Chaparral were labor camps. There was no school close to the camp, and I was not yet old enough to work. They would leave me in the camp, or if they worked close by, I would go with them.

A meeting of workers in the Graton day labor center.

There were no houses. We arrived before the picking started, and made the walls of our shack from tomato boxes and the bags that held fertilizer. They'd keep the wind out and give us shelter from the heat. In some places the bosses built barracks, partitioned with cardboard. People would start cooking inside at three in the morning, and at four they'd leave for work. The smoke would fill the inside of the barracks. The roof was made with tarpaper and cardboard, which got really hot. The smell was very strong and so was the heat. Much later they started to use metal roofs, but these were also very hot.

There was no drinking water in the camps. Everyone drank from the irrigation canal. To get the cleanest water you had to go up where no one was bathing. We would get water where they were growing rice, because we thought the rice plants filtered it. The water runs through the rice field because that is how it is cultivated. But we didn't know that they put fertilizer in the water. Airplanes would pass over to fumigate the tomatoes nearby, and the pesticide would fall more in the rice than the tomatoes.

When he harvest started in Sinaloa recruiters would come to Santiago Naranjas. The people who were the poorest would say, "Let's go." They would make announcements on a speaker on a car they'd drive through the town, saying there were good jobs in Sinaloa and work guaranteed for seven days a week. You had to agree to work at least four months. They would promise to bring you back to Santiago Naranjas and pay for the trip, but that never happened.

Then they started to bring people to Baja California-to Ensenada and San Quintin. They'd recruit people in Sinaloa so that they didn't have to go all the way to Oaxaca to get them. They'd promise that if you finished the season in Baja California, they'd bring you back to Sinaloa so you could continue working. In Sinaloa and Baja California the children could already work at eleven years old. Some children did not grow quickly as a result. Because they were small the manager would say, "You don't have to fill the bucket up-with three-fourths it's fine." Very considerate. And the poor kids, well, they would fill it up to only three-fourths but they earned only half of the wage.

I finished high school in Oaxaca, in Asunción Ixtaltepec. I wasn't living with my family, but with a group of youth who had the opportunity to finish high school. This group was formed by the Marist brotherhood. The director of their order had told the brothers, "We cannot commit ourselves more than just a little," and the brothers answered, "If you understand the gospel and if you want to make a real change for these people, you have to do more than what the church permits." So they left their congregation and went to indigenous communities where they saw the most need. They tried to help people learn carpentry and beekeeping, or how to farm in cooperative groups. One of them became my godfather when I left elementary school. My best present was receiving half a dozen books from him.

They gave me the opportunity to keep going to school. I'd never been on my own but I liked it. I was doing well in school, but my mom was still working in Sinaloa. In one of those labor camps she hurt her arm. She let me know that she couldn't work anymore, and was not going to be able to support me while I kept studying. I was sixteen or seventeen. I felt that if my mom was hurt then I was old enough to work. I decided to stop studying for a few years to work for her and the family.

Gervacio Pena speaks at a meeting in the Graton day labor center.

After '78 or '79 my uncles started to come to the U.S. I got to Baja California in '85. I wanted to cross to the U.S. right away, and I tried four times but couldn't make it. I didn't have money for a coyote. I thought I could do it on my own, but I found myself in the desert for the first time. Once I gave money to a man who was going to help me cross at Nogales, and he accompanied me to the fence. Once I stepped over to the other side, I turned and he wasn't there. I had to walk alone in the night. I said to myself, "Well, what could happen?" I woke up in Green Valley and went to wash in a stream and saw the sheriff. He turned me in to immigration authorities.

A family member from my town also took people across, but still they got us. Each time we crossed, robbers took our money. They called us Baja pollos (Baja chickens). They were youth born in the U.S. who did not want to work. They would tell us in Spanish, "Come this way because there are no migra [border patrol] here, and where you are going the migra will catch you." But it was just a trick to take the little money we had. Eventually I got this idea that even if someone is a pocho (an Americanized Mexican) and speaks your language, you should not trust him.

My uncles in San Quintin told me the grape harvest in California was over, but that they'd take me with them after New Year's when they went back. They had better coyotes, and with them I finally crossed in 1986. We got to Los Angeles, and from there a van took us to a ranch here on the west side in Sonoma County. When I saw the vineyards with no leaves I was shocked. I thought, "There isn't going to be a harvest because all the plants must be dead." Then my uncles told me it was just winter, and that they'd revive in a few months. It was actually pruning season, with plenty of work.

When I crossed in '86 I was eighteen. I was only going to come to the U.S. for two years, but I stayed. My father lived in Fallbrook, near Oceanside, but I never asked for his telephone number. I never wanted to contact him because of my pride. I thought how great would it be if a family here adopted me.

My uncles found a place to rent-a small trailer. With three of us in it, we couldn't even move. We were like sardines. Some cousins from Oregon arrived and they parked in some trees nearby, to sleep in their car. That night the owner came and asked who they were. When my uncle said they were cousins, the owner told him they'd have to pay rent too. Then some left with the car, and the ones who stayed behind slept in a wrecked car inside a stand of prickly pear cactus. But it was property of the owner too. When a week had passed, he came for the rent. I think we paid about thirty-five dollars or something like that.

I worked about nine years in the fields, but I did not like it very much because in Mexico I was a student until I was seventeen. My uncles would train me and tell me how to do the work. After ten hours all day in the sun, when I would come from work all my bones hurt. My uncles would make something for dinner but I'd go to sleep instead of eating. The next day very early I had to go to work again.

Day laborers check in for jobs at the Graton center.

If you were new you had to learn about pruning by working a week without pay. After I was there for a week the manager did not like my work and didn't hire me. So my uncle found me another job with Pablito, a foreman from Putla. It was my first job.

When we came here we would hear people say we could earn a lot, that everyone pays above the minimum wage. But you cannot buy a lot with that wage at the market and the price of everything keeps going up. Rent has doubled and wages have not risen fifteen percent.

A few years ago we stayed below Forestville, by the river. The boss gave us a trailer, but for only for two months. It only fit twelve or fifteen people, but we were twenty, sometimes even thirty. Some would sleep under the trailer. Others would put up a tarp to shelter from the wind at night inside the rows of vines. The boss came and said, "You can't do that because it damages the grapes. You can stay in your car but move where you cannot be seen from the road." That was his solution. There were many families living like that. There still are. It is normal.

A week after the harvest ended he came to take the trailer. Some workers were returning to Oregon and others to Southern California, but some of us didn't make enough money for the trip and we had nowhere to go. We were still sleeping in the trailer when the tractor came and hooked up to tow it away. We hear the noise and ran out asking what's happening?

In Graton and Forestville, close to the river, people always live outdoors near the grapes. The boss does not say anything before the harvest, but after it is over he does not want workers there. Supposedly they are at risk of flooding, and he says he is only helping them. Somehow he always finds the risk after the harvest.

I helped a group of people living next to the Russian River in Geyserville. They were Triquis, Chatinos, and Mixtecos, and with Lorenzo Oropeza, we tried to create a committee of the Binational Indigenous Oaxacan Front (FIOB). They participated for a while, but a good committee was never established. Instead, people wanted to form groups just within their own ethnic communities. Maybe they had more trust in each other. That was when I started to participate in organizing the labor center. There I saw an opportunity to grow and represent workers.

Workers distribute food at the Graton center.

Before the labor center started there was a big camp right next to a vineyard, with a lot of people living under the trees. During the harvest workers accept these conditions which people see as inhumane or unsanitary. Some want to be close to their job. Others feel it's temporary and don't care. Maybe some growers cannot provide housing directly, but they can pay enough so that workers have the money to rent a place. After all, they depend on the workers' labor.

Many workers have always lived outside because of high rents. When we first came here we thought we'd earn as much as we could, and save as much as possible to send to our family. Living outside, without paying rent, was a sacrifice we made. But sometimes we don't consider the cost to our health in the future. Our families are happy to receive remittances back in Oaxaca, but they do not know the conditions in which we are living.

Before, living outside was more of a choice and we accepted it. It was not right, but at least we knew it was just for the moment. We never considered it permanent. But now it is getting worse. When families get an eviction notice where are they going to go? There are no places with an affordable rent. If you have a place you can't complain that something needs fixing because you are scared. If you complain you'll be forced to leave. You will not find another place to live.

When I got here I discovered that the fruit is better cared for than the worker. The rules say the boss has to provide shade, but that shade is not enough for more than three or four people, and the working crew can have at least eleven. Sometimes it seems more for an emergency-if someone faints and has to be put in the shade. It is not a general protection for everyone who works there. And now employers want to harvest the grapes at night, so after working all night you're still in the field when morning comes. You work at night and sleep in the day. You don't really rest because your body is used to sleeping at night and being awake in the daytime.

Everything has changed a lot. Supposedly we live in a country of opportunity. So why do people have to sacrifice themselves, give their lives to a job, and yet they don't even have a dignified place to live?

We organized the Day Labor Center in Graton to help the people who were living outdoors under the trees, as well as the people who wait for work on the corner. Most are people who are just arriving in this country. They don't yet know how to get work or get connected to our community. It opened because of the efforts of local people with good hearts, but we also needed to convince the business community to find a location for it. We started renting a place, and now the labor center owns it. It's small but it's something that did not exist before.

An English class for day laborers, teaching survival skills when facing police or the migra.

Everyone has the opportunity to go there, and everyone has the same needs. We all want to work, but work is scarce and it's hard for people to get hired in a regular job. Many companies have started to check for valid Social Security numbers. People without them get fired or can't get hired in the first place. Other companies look for an excuse to lay people off if they think they're organizing a union. Many workers at the center worked in the construction industry, and that crashed in 2007. Without the center, people who don't have a Social Security card can't find jobs easily. Often they have to pay a bribe to get one. For all these people the center is a safe space.

At the center you register for work. Membership is not required. You get a card and you have the same rights as anyone, so long as you follow the rules that the workers themselves adopt. Everyone comes wanting work, but you have to have patience because there are days when there is only work for a few. So we have a fair way for everyone to share. People also learn about ways to organize themselves. Sometimes we go to marches and protests. Right now we are supporting the farmworkers. There's education for people to learn English and the rules for living here. Now that we got the driver's license law passed, the center helps people pass the test. I don't really need the center to find work. I like it because I see it is giving opportunities to people who are like I was when I got here.

A majority of the people in the center are indigenous people from Mexico. The number of people from the south of Mexico is growing because people have made connections here for work. At first some thought that indigenous people were given an unfair priority. But it is not like that. Everyone has the same opportunity. Lately people from Samoa and Fiji are coming and registering. I'm glad we are growing like that. Our community is getting more integrated and we're learning how to live with other cultures. That gives me a lot of hope that one day when we organize a union, we will not look at the color of your skin. We want people to be conscious that everyone has rights and that organizing can change things for the better.

I think we really need a union, and we work for more representation in the unions that are already established. We need allies also with base groups of religious communities. We are fighting for justice. We know we live in a capitalist society, and that to get a decent wage we have to fight for it. I do not think that is taking something away that belongs to the boss-it is demanding something that they have always taken from us.

When the center started there was nothing like this. At the beginning I would go and listen. I was not out in front. But now they've elected me to represent them. I'm learning to organize women and men to work together, to find allies and plan strategy to expand centers into the rest of this county. There is no center on Fulton Road in Santa Rosa, and that would be a good place to start. We want places like this in every region of the country. There should always be a place for people to get support and help each other. I feel good that I have been able to give my little grain of sand.

My mom and sister still live in Oaxaca. I don't have any children, but I have nephews and nieces. Some are in school and they tell me when they need money to buy school supplies. I always help them, but I want them to study. A large part of what I earn is for them. We are squeezing everything here to send money to make life in Mexico better.

Justino Santiago, an immigrant from Etla, prunes grape vines in the Salinas Valley.

Last year my community, Santiago Naranjas, asked me to serve in a position in the town. I have permanent resident status in the U.S. so I can come and go. But this position is for three years. I am going, but it will be very difficult to be there that long. Where am I going to work and who is going to take care of my expenses? Maybe they will give me permission to come back to the U.S. from time to time.

I remember my grandfather who lived to be 102 years old and never had a lot of money. He would plant vegetables and trade them for fruits or other things he didn't have. The only thing he would buy from the market was a kilo of sugar and half of salt. He would raise his hens and his turkeys. He had a place to collect water that would fill at night, and every day he'd water his crops. He was not missing anything. He did not have much to worry about, like where to migrate or how to survive. I always have those memories in my heart and mind. What more do we need?

Santiago Madrigal prunes grape vines in Sonoma County.