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."
