I smell like cauliflower… or is it broccoli? Oh, never mind.
Let me start again. I was driving along when I saw a huge sign that read NOW HIRING with a big red arrow pointing toward an ugly gray building, beyond the acres of cow pasture, that houses a huge agricultural packing plant. I turned in.
In the vast, gravel parking lot, I found a place to park and stood facing the blank facade of the building, with no clue where to enter. A man walked by wearing a hair net, goggles, work boots, and long, thick rubber gloves. I said excuse me and asked him where to go to fill out an application. He looked at me and smiled, and I saw that two of his top teeth were missing. He spat on the ground next to me and said, “Why you want to work here?” I told him that I need money, just like everyone else. He looked at me, laughed, and pointed to a door partially hidden behind a security shack.
I went to the desk and waited for the woman behind the plastic partition to open it. I told her I had seen the sign by the road and wanted to apply. She looked at me, laughed, turned around and said something in Spanish to the women behind her who all looked my way and laughed too. I felt my face flame red. I must have looked as out of place as I felt but damn it, I need a job.
She handed me an application and a nub of a pencil and told me to fill it out upstairs, gesturing that way with her chin. I walked up the stairs, jostled by workers stomping up and down in heavy work boots, geared up like the man I’d spoken to in the parking lot. The whole building reeked of vegetation – cauliflower, broccoli, I’m not sure what, but it wasn’t a nice smell.
I sat down and filled out the brief application. I wasn’t sure what to list under previous occupations. I’ve been a freelance writer, a homeschooling mom, a business manager, an administrator for a couple different non-profit organizations, a student, and a few years back I did seasonal work in a local flower farm gift shop.
I started with freelance writing and worked my way back.
On the back of the form I found a questionnaire about the applicant’s race. I read through it and noted that the form was noncompulsory. It said the applicant may fill out the form voluntarily, at his or her own discretion, and that opting out would have no impact upon the applicants ability to obtain employment. I opted not to fill it out.
When I got back to the counter, the woman who’d handed me the application took it back, glanced through it, then stabbed her finger against the blank, noncompulsory form and said, “You must fill out.” I smiled and pointed to the instruction area and the word noncompulsory, and said, “But it says it’s noncompulsory.” She frowned and said, “You must fill out.” I tried again, “See here, (I pointed) it says the form is voluntary and that opting out won’t impact my ability to obtain employment.” She gave a sigh of exasperation, looked behind her to the other women in the office, lifted her hands, and said, quite loudly, “What is she saying?”
At that point, I was jostled from behind by a group of people stomping past in their gear, clearly headed out of the building after a long shift. I stepped in to the counter, forced a smile, and tried one more time, “I’m opting not to fill out the form.” The woman behind the counter looked me up and down, crossed her arms, and said, “Then you no can work here.”
I felt tears pooling behind my eyes and I heard my paternal grandmother whisper in my ear, “Hold your head up.” I lifted my chin and held out my hand for the form, which I filled out. I can’t explain why that was so hard for me, except that it didn’t make any sense. The form is noncompulsory. It said, clearly, that by Federal Law they could NOT demand compliance. I wanted to hold onto my right to say no. I wanted to be treated like a person with RIGHTS. But I need a job, desperately.
I didn’t have the birth certificate I needed to complete the application, as I’d pulled in on a whim, having seen the Now Hiring sign from the road, so I said I would come back. All the way down the hall I heeded the voice of my grandmother, “Hold your head up, Katy Jo. Do you think I was too good to pick hops in fields? Do you think Grandpa was too good to work the farm? Are you ashamed of wanting to take care of your family?”
I hit the door and took a deep breath of slightly less tainted air and looked around with fresh eyes, and, suddenly, the tears that were pooled behind my eyes spilled. Those people around me had physically demanding, smelly, factory jobs. They surely weren’t working for the joy of it. They were PROVIDING. They were taking advantage of the opportunity to make money to support themselves and their families. And I realized that I was surrounded by everyday heroes and I was suddenly proud to count myself among them.
We have hit hard times like many other people and the only way we are going to get through them is to work through them. I’ll pick hops, sort broccoli, work a press or conveyor belt… I’ll do whatever the hell it takes to stand with my husband and help take care of our family. Any chance to work for a wage is an OPPORTUNITY.
I’m a writer, manager, administrator, mother… maybe, soon, I’ll be a factory worker. What I will not be is ungrateful. I will not be lazy. I will embrace opportunity in whatever form it takes.
*The above photograph is of a local hop farm; perhaps the very farm where my grandma picked hops when she was a young woman.
You said it!