The Brick Factory. I had arrived in town in early April. My Ph.D. Fellowship did not start until fall classes, so I needed a temporary job. I wanted a job that I wouldn’t have to really think about. Without looking very hard, I took a job at the local brick factory. This factory had been around for almost a century and I found out that during WWII German prisoners of war were forced to work there. The job seemed pretty simple. I basically sat in an air conditioned booth and pressed a button which would switch the train track and allow a railroad flatbed car full of bricks to be backed into one of several large kilns. The bricks would then be baked or fired in the kilns. The train would then pull them out of the kiln. In an 8 hour shift this would happen about twice, so I had plenty of time to begin reading the large number of books and articles that had been assigned in my fall classes. It was the perfect summer job before starting my rigorous studies.
After a very brief training exercise on my first shift, my supervisor left me alone to do the job. I noticed that there were about 20 Mexicans that worked in the factory, all of them doing janitorial work. On my next shift, a small train engine was backing one of the brick-laden flatbed cars onto the factory grounds. I pressed the button and allowed the car to be backed into one of the large kilns to be fired. After about 3 hours, I heard an explosion. The bricks had literally exploded and were now scattered in pieces inside the large kiln. A horn sounded and all the Mexican workers, the janitors, arrived at the kiln. I quickly discovered why these Mexicans were really hired. Their job was to clean up the mess. Apparently it was not uncommon for the bricks to explode in the kilns. A Texas summer is warm and outside my comfortable little booth it could reach 100 degrees in the plant. These Mexicans now had to enter the hot kiln and clean up all the bricks so the next flatcar could be backed into the kiln. It was easily 140 degrees in the kiln even after all the doors had been opened. For the next 4 hours, the Mexicans picked up the pieces of brick and placed them back on the railroad car. It was brutally hard work and all were soaked in sweat within a few minutes.
A few days later I noticed that none of the Mexican workers were in the plant. I asked my supervisor, Terry, what was going on. He said that the factory owners always get a phone call the day before federal immigration officials come to the premises to check for illegals. The federal officials from the Reagan administration were here today and the Mexican workers had been told not to show up for work. This had been done for many years and he said that everyone knew what was really going on, including the federal officials. It was simply part of the game of doing business in Texas.
“Think about it. Would you walk into a kiln at 120 to 140 degrees and spend several hours picking up broken bricks?” Terry said that the locals simply wouldn’t do this type of work. The plant had not received any applications for these jobs from an American in many, many years.
“How do they find out about the jobs here?” I asked.
“Word of mouth. They call it the Mexican pipeline. They find out about the job from a relative who is already working here. Many in this group of Mexicans are related.” He said they all live in an apartment complex just south of town. The apartment owner plays the same game with the government. According to Terry, “Everybody makes money and everybody is happy.”
A couple of days later, one of the Mexicans, a young man named Antonio, knocked on the door to my booth and said he needed to empty the trash. He spoke in a very broken English and I quickly realized that this was a possible opportunity to improve my ability to speak Spanish. Reading Spanish was easy, it was speaking the language that had always given me problems. We chatted briefly and he agreed to take a few minutes each hour and talk with me in Spanish, if I would speak to him in English. He was as anxious to learn English as I was Spanish. Over the next 3 months I would learn more about Mexicans, Mexico, and immigration than I ever could have imagined.
I asked Antonio about his family and how he got here. “My father was forced to sell our farm. He had been planting corn, beans, and other vegetables and selling the crops in the local market and to the government since the 1950s. Four years ago, the government ended his access to credit because of the national debt crisis. He was forced to sell the farm to a big company. Most of my family moved to the towns near the border to find work in the US assembly plants that were being built there. The assembly plants prefer to hire women and I found it difficult to get a job. Three months ago I got a message from my Uncle Jose that he could get me a job here. He sent me enough money to bribe my way across the border and get a bus ticket. So, here I am making more money than I ever have before and sending half of it home to my wife and baby who live in Juarez. But Juarez is becoming dangerous because the drug cartels have just moved in. Hopefully, I can save enough money that she and my child can come and we can make a better life here. Better than what we could ever have in Mexico. I want my son to have a better life.” Antonio’s hope for a better life for his son reminded me of my father’s words before I left home to pursue a graduate degree. “There’s nothing here for you. Factories are beginning to close and sooner than not the coal industry will die. Get out and go to a place of greater opportunity.”
I loved my discussions with Antonio that summer. My Spanish improved dramatically as did his English. When my classes started that fall, I never saw Antonio again. To this day, when I think about what it means to be an American, I think of hope and opportunity for a better life for my own children. I think of Antonio.
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