Easter Dinner
The meal had to be special. It was Easter! All my kids would be coming home after church. The traditional ham would be served, as well as a dozen other dishes, making it a meal rivaled only by Thanksgiving and Christmas. Thinking about the guests, I also tried to make sure everyone had a favorite choice. Mashed potatoes for Stephen, gravy for Jason, fresh fruit salad for Heather, rolls for Evie, and something really rare, but special for Tim…fresh asparagus. Asparagus is not on the usual "favorites" list, and is always expensive, so it appears on the Mann Clan menu very infrequently. But Tim has to miss most Sunday dinner events due to his job, and I wanted him to enjoy this meal the most.
The Easter meal and family made it to the dinner table as scheduled. A good time was had by all. Every plate was piled high with the wide assortment of meats, vegetables, salads, and breads. No one left hungry. The event was declared a success,
Shortly after all had left, the phone rang. It was Ada, my dear Latino friend, now living in Washington State, far away from me and my Kentucky home. She called to wish us a Happy Easter, and chat for a while. But the conversation soon sent my heart into a deep, aching throb.
Me: "What's Marco doing today?" (Ada's husband)
Ada: "He's working."
Me: "Working?…today?…on Easter Sunday?"
A: "Yes. He is working with my sister in the asparagus fields. The job pays good."
M: "How much does it pay?"
A: "My sister makes 30 cents a pound."
M: "How much will she make in a day?"
A: "Well, it depends on how long she wants to work."
M: "Is it hard work?"
A: "No, but Marco's back gets tired. You do a lot of bending over. You must pick the asparagus off at the ground."
M: "How long does he work?"
A: "Well, he starts at 5:00 AM, and works until about noon or one o'clock. The man (meaning the boss) does not like the asparagus picked too late in the day."
M: "Ada, is Marco not working at the winery any more?"
A: "Yes, he is just working with my sister on Saturdays and Sundays. It is a good way to make extra money.
M: "How much money will he make in the asparagus field?"
A: "Well, my sister says she makes about seventy dollars a day. That is good money. Plus there is a bunch of workers that come up from Texas every year. So they will have lots of people to talk to during the day.
At that point, I had to stop asking questions. I knew the answers. I knew, yet did not want to think about the food my family had just enjoyed. The asparagus. Did Marco pick it? Whose back was aching so that I could have asparagus for my Easter dinner? Who traveled over a thousand miles from home to spend three months in the asparagus field, working for cash only, temporary only, with no employee benefits or thanks? But asparagus was not the only food on my Easter table that had been picked by migrant hands. Dark, migrant hands picked the fresh strawberries and melons that filled my fruit bowl. The broccoli, carrots, tomatoes…all picked by hand…a human hand…attached to an aching back…would go home to a temporary shelter, to a tired and hungry wife and children…living in a temporary village…hoping that the harvest was long and the pay good. Hoping that they would not be cheated from well-deserved wages, hoping that the next stop would be closer to home, hoping the next job would be a bountiful harvest with good pay and honest employer. All this for me. For my grocer. For my nation.
Ada, and her husband Marco, are not citizens in the nation they feed with their hands. Citizenship is too good for them and the millions of others that keep food on the grocery shelves, dishes washed in the restaurants, beds made in motels, flowers and trees growing in lush corporate gardens, million dollar horses groomed and primed for the next big race. No, they are denied the privilege of citizenship in the land they feed. Why? I ask that question every day. Why?
FYI…
Ada and her family came to Kentucky from Washington State in search of work several years ago. She was barely twenty-one years old with two babies, and over two thousand miles from home. Though having little schooling, she doggedly pursued an education, teaching herself to speak fluent English and earning a GED. Throughout her stay here, she was my 'right-hand man", going on home visits with me, translating, making phone calls, and being an excellent role model for other Latino families moving into our area. She applied for permanent residence through the INS in 1995, but is still waiting for her papers.
About The Author
Pamela Mann is the advocate/recruiter for the Grant County Migrant Education Program, Grant County Schools, Williamstown, Ky. She has three adult children and lives on a tobacco farm with her husband, Paul, where they employ H-2A workers from Mexico. She may be contacted at: mann_8440@msn.com
The opinions expressed in this article do not necessarily reflect the opinion of ILW.COM.
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