2008 Woodie Awards
Harvesting Hope
Not much has changed for farm workers since 1930'sNot much has changed for farm workers since 1930's
Magdalena Reveles
Issue date: 11/22/02 Section: News
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A migrant farm worker lies on a dirty floor, sleeping on a bunch of soiled clothing that is doubling for a mattress. He seems exhausted in the dark dingy room. Here and there, paper bags holding belongings lie near by. His brother, Enrique Rodriguez, a migrant worker all his life, continues the tour of his home that he rents for approximately $425 a month.
"We pay so much, and the landlord does not want to fix anything. Look over here-- come on," says Rodriguez angrily.
The kitchen, which is beyond the tiny living room that is covered in darkness except for a shaft of light coming from the open front door, also has corners filled with belongs lying on the dark brown floor. It is cold and already chilly inside, and it is only 4 p.m. as the sun is quickly going down.
In the kitchen, a dim bulb lights the small 10-ft by 15-ft space. The 64-year-old farm worker points to the stove that is encrusted with soil and grease. It has no knobs. He complains that it is dangerous and has told the landlord about it repeatedly. Near by, a dented aluminum pot holds rice, which will be dinner.
Rodriguez completes the tour by showing the main event: the bathroom, which has leaking fixtures. The bathtub has a steady stream of liquid going down a crusty drain.
"I am a good man that has led a good life and never done any bad or criminal things. I just want to live in a better place. I pay my rent on time," Rodriguez waves his hands in the air in exasperation.
Outside, his roommate, Andres Jimenez, also a farm worker, sits in a rickety chair clutching his face. He explains that he hurt his eye while working. He is being treated for his injury but still can't see. Suddenly the pain becomes overwhelming, and he starts to cry, saying in between sobs that he is worried he may never see again. Rudolfo Rios, who also lives in the apartment complex, tries to comfort him.
Rios, who has also worked all his life as a migrant laborer, and was also a bracero, also has little to show for his hard work. His weather-beaten face and worn, knarled hands catch the last rays of the sun as he comforts his friend.
"We pay so much, and the landlord does not want to fix anything. Look over here-- come on," says Rodriguez angrily.
The kitchen, which is beyond the tiny living room that is covered in darkness except for a shaft of light coming from the open front door, also has corners filled with belongs lying on the dark brown floor. It is cold and already chilly inside, and it is only 4 p.m. as the sun is quickly going down.
In the kitchen, a dim bulb lights the small 10-ft by 15-ft space. The 64-year-old farm worker points to the stove that is encrusted with soil and grease. It has no knobs. He complains that it is dangerous and has told the landlord about it repeatedly. Near by, a dented aluminum pot holds rice, which will be dinner.
Rodriguez completes the tour by showing the main event: the bathroom, which has leaking fixtures. The bathtub has a steady stream of liquid going down a crusty drain.
"I am a good man that has led a good life and never done any bad or criminal things. I just want to live in a better place. I pay my rent on time," Rodriguez waves his hands in the air in exasperation.
Outside, his roommate, Andres Jimenez, also a farm worker, sits in a rickety chair clutching his face. He explains that he hurt his eye while working. He is being treated for his injury but still can't see. Suddenly the pain becomes overwhelming, and he starts to cry, saying in between sobs that he is worried he may never see again. Rudolfo Rios, who also lives in the apartment complex, tries to comfort him.
Rios, who has also worked all his life as a migrant laborer, and was also a bracero, also has little to show for his hard work. His weather-beaten face and worn, knarled hands catch the last rays of the sun as he comforts his friend.