How music can document a revolution, in a land where every even has a song.
Very moving.
Matt Garcia engages a number of historiographies with this study: Chicano/a studies, labor history, (sub)urban history, agricultural/environmental history, and California history. And as he makes clear in his introduction, he means his work to be intensely theoretical. Following Robin D.G. Kelley's Race Rebels, Garcia wants to broaden the definition of politics to include domestic life and popular culture; although few of his characters engaged in labor strikes or overt political protests, he sees their actions--developing their separate colonias, going to dance halls, acting in plays, and writing newspapers--as inescapably political.
To make this argument, he draws on Antonio Gramsci's concept of "wars of position" to describe the resistance strategies of his Mexican and Mexican American workers. Rather than wage a "war of maneuver" on their employers/oppressors, workers in L.A.'s citrus belt attempted to build "counter-hegemonic alliances" with other oppressed groups. Chicana lemon packers, for example, could petition for better treatment or wages as women, workers, or Mexican-Americans (6).
Less central to his argument, but to my mind more interesting, he employs Edward Soja's Postmodern Geographies to argue that landscapes are anything but neutral. Rather, "their form and process of creation often possess keys to understanding the type of social relations that exist within a given society" (4).
Garcia aims to do all this by telling "how the formation of the citrus empire and its attendant worker settlements laid the foundation for the expanded and segmented landscape known as 'Greater Los Angeles'" (5). Like others, he describes the Jeffersonian ideals of the citrus growers, observing their delight in creating a society that was both rural without being backward and urban without being congested. In this sense, he follows journalist and activist Carey McWilliams' work very closely (McWilliams quotes are the epigraphs for each chapter).
Though the story is familiar, Garcia's treatment is refreshingly detailed, especially in his narration of George Chaffey's Ontario settlement, a magnificent attempt to unite ten-acre family farms with the latest technology to build communities. In contrast to other agricultural industries in the midwest and elsewhere, which were being consolidated into larger and larger farms-and perhaps, too, in contrast to the pellagra-ridden, share-cropping South--the "citriscape" promised a civilized future for America. This vision often aligned with eugenicist views of the era. As one commentator put it, the most pressing problem of the time was "how to rearrange our social and economic system so that more of the superior member of our race will stay on the land" and reproduce (34).
This hope for civilization was, of course, undercut by citriculture's reliance on foreign (dirty!), cheap labor, who contrary to American rags-to-riches mythology, would never enjoy the "ideal country life" themselves. As Garcia rightly notes, very few agrarians of the time recognized that Jefferson's vision "promoted material equality and discouraged social stratification" (21). What happens, then, when living the agrarian ideal demanded that others remain as a permanent, nomadic, laboring class?
Actually, the life cycle of most citrus ranches meant that year-round labor was the rule. And so permanent settlements of Mexican American farmworkers developed throughout Southern California, some founded by citrus growers in an attempt to control and Americanize their employees, others springing up through the immigrant community's own efforts. The latter became the basis for Los Angeles' famously "polynucleated" landscape, a city of suburbs if there ever was one.
Garcia celebrates these semi-autonomous colonias (which often boasted their own churches, locally-owned stores, and mutual aid societies) as he celebrates Chicano handiwork throughout the book. The efforts of whites to "uplift" the foreign newcomers, on the other hand, he typically condemns as misguided at best, oppressive at worst. Imperfect as these efforts at intercultural understanding were, however, in the end Garcia holds them up as models for our disintegrating, identity-politics world.
For me, the takeaways of the book are two: first, that immigrant farm labor stories must be set carefully in their geographical contexts. Where are the immigrant communities located? How are they arranged differently than owner-sponsored housing? How do immigrants and laborers view the landscape differently than owners? Presumably they see fruit trees somewhat less romantically. But you should find out if you can.
Second, the immigrant labor force can be very differentiated and complex. In the citrus groves, there were Mexican Americans, braceros (contract workers), and undocumented workers; in the packinghouses, women labored under male supervisors. They did not necessarily share much beyond the shop floor.
Dori Sanders, Clover (Chapel Hill, NC: Algonquin Books, 1990).
The owner of the oldest black-owned peach orchard in the South (the nation) is also a writer. Her books, Clover and Her Own Place draw on her agricultural vocation. In Clover, the peach orchard weaves in and out of the story.
Clover is the daughter of the newly married widower Gaten Hill. Hill dies in the beginning of the novel, leaving Clover alone with her new (white) stepmother Sara Kate, and her uncle Jim Ed and aunt Everleen. It is a story of coming to terms with death and abandonment, as well with the racial and cultural differences between her and Sara Kate. But Round Hill, SC is peach country, and the orchard business remains a backdrop throughout.
At her father's funeral, for example, Clover describes the strangeness she feels for her new stepmother and goes off on a tangent about farmworkers:
She's been my stepmother for almost four days now and all I know for sure about her is, she's not a Mexican. I can spot a Mexican a mile away. Every summer if there's a big peach crop the migrant workers flood Round Hill. We have peaches, but not enough to need Mexicans.
Chase Porter brings them in all the time. He couldn't get al those peaches picked without them. He's one of the biggest peach growers in South Carolina.
This Chase Porter and his relationship with Clover's family creates an intriguing window into the world of peach growers, large and small. He turns up later in the book as a suitor for Clover's white stepmother Sara Kate, and he has a reputation for great benevolence as the leading peach man in the area (even though Clover's uncle Jim Ed interprets his advances as pure greed. "A white man," he says, "never gets enough land or money" (137).
The Hills appear to get most of their money through their peach stand, and Clover spends most of her summer days there with her aunt and uncle, where all kinds of people stop for peaches.
Jim Ed is so worried about this peach crop I don't want to put another frown on his face. It wouldn't have any place to go, anyhow. His face is all filled up. A late spring freeze caused the peaches to have split-seeds. That means that once the seed of a peach freezes, the peach will split wide open as soon as it starts to get ripe. When customers complain about the way peaches look, Aunt Everleen will tell them right quick, "That's the Lord's work." It's a real slow day at the stand. Everleen jumps to her feet when a brand new pickup pulls up. "I see you have Elberta peaches on your sign," he says. "Yes, we do," Everleen brags. "It's the finest canning peach there is. Del Monte cans Elbertas. Says so right on the can." "Oh, I was wanting some to eat," the customer says. "It's the finest eating peach there is," Everleen put in quickly She rubs one on her big fluffy shirt, and takes a big bite. "This is truly the best peach I ever tasted." She stuffs the money he gives her into her pocket. He is a physicist down at the nuclear plant. I put his peck of peaches in his truck.
Clover is a very funny book, not least because of the culinary differences between Sara Kate and the Round Hill black community. Sara Kate cooks vegetables in water, without a speck of grease, and makes watery grits. She even puts jello on the turnip greens. After lunch one day, Clover narrates,
Sara Kate finally offers iced tea and cookies. I don't have to see them to know she will get those fancy paper doilies and those fancy, high-priced cookies that don't taste worth a dime. That woman can spend more in a grocery store than anybody I've ever seen in my life. And we still never have anything good to eat.
This is an honest, nostalgic story of a Japanese American fruit farmer in California trying to go organic. Starting with the decision to save a stand of Sun Crest peaches--an older, good tasting but poor looking variety--for one more year, Epitaph describes the decisions, compromises, lessons, and impressions of four seasons of more natural farming. Masumoto provides a well-written overview of what growing peaches in California entails as well as meditations on the state of rural communities and the food system in our time. As he reflects after the harvest, "I had begun the year hoping that most of us could still distinguish the difference between a green peach and a ripe one with real flavor, the kind that triggers memories of savory juices dripping down chins and nectar with the aroma of nature's bounty. I had faith in the power of family stories to convey the meaning of a summer peach." Then he appeals to the agrarian ideal: "For one final moment in our evolution as a nation we still have a community memory of the family farm. Many still carry the personal baggage from our rural past, a history of family members who sustained the land, and the legacy of a community that worked the earth for generations" (160). "I'm told these peaches have a problem. When ripe, they turn an amber gold rather than the lipstick red that seduces the public. . . . "I have a recurring nightmare of cold-storage rooms lined with peaches that stay rock-hard, the new science of fruit cryogenics keeping peaches in suspended animation. There is no room there for my Sun Crests, all of them rejected with the phrase NO SHELF LIFE stamped in red across each box." (x) "I cannot farm without farmworkers," Masumoto confesses. Masumoto describes how he would like to pay more (and tried briefly, losing $1000s), but cannot because consumers are not willing to pay more for their fruits and vegetables. Immigrant workers are not just a problem for farmers, but for everyone--think, he says, of all the workers in urban restaurants, to point to just one example. He finds that the more he hires, he thinks less about farming and more about "productivity and costs . . . expenses per acre", donning the "hat of a farm manager, not a farmer." (23) Masumoto visits the workers' quarters and squats with them ("Squatting is a mark of country folk who have worked the land and whose legs are in excellent condition," he notes [24]), refuses an offer of a cold beer (because "a six pack of beer equals an hour of work" [24]), and examines the apartment, converted from a tool-shed and rented out by the foreman. "Yet I'm certain the workers are satisfied with finding any housing at all," he says. "I am relieved to see that everything seems adequate and that my workers are being treated fairly" (25). In the end, Masumoto concludes, "providing jobs was the best contribution I could make to the world" (26). The chapter ends with a meditation on the lottery and hope, a playful conversation in which the workers joke about buying the farm if they win the lottery. Then there is the harvest. "With the aroma of ripening fruit at harvest, my senses detect a subtle fragrance lingering in the air, much like the delicate perfume of a passing woman, tantalizing the imagination long after she has departed." (116-117). He finds a market for the rest of his Sun Crests with an organic baby-food maker (121). Harvest is a delicate time. "At harvesttime I go public. My ego is peddled with my peaches." (126). In the end, Masumoto does bulldoze some peaches, but it is an orchard of aging Red Tops, not his treasured Sun Crests. Then he replants, prompting a meditation on permanence: "A planted field exposes my opinions like an open ballot to the world. I reveal a commitment to my neighbors and those who pass: by planting a permanent crop I announce my plans to be here for a while" (224). Epitaph for a Peach is like reading a memoir of one of David Vaught's horticulturalists, an updated version of the early twentieth-century prosperous agrarians who "settled" California. Masumoto has a more ecological approach to farming, and discusses labor issues with much more candor. But he is still one who believes in the family farm as a way of life (and, he hopes, as a business), and this remains the takeaway message of the book. David Mas Masumoto, Epitaph for a Peach: Four Seasons on My Family Farm (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1995).
"Sun Crest tastes like a peach is supposed to. As with many of the older varieties, the flesh is so juicy that it oozes down your chin. The nectar explodes in your mouth and the fragrance enchants your nose, a natural perfume that can never be captured. (ix)
"Sun Crest is one of the last remaining truly juicy peaches. When you wash that treasure under a stream of cooling water, your fingertips instinctively search for the gushy side of the fruit. Your mouth waters in anticipation. You lean over the sink to make sure you don't drip on yourself. Then you sink your teeth into the flesh, and the juice trickles down your cheeks and dangles on your chin. This is a real bite, a primal act, a magical sensory celebration announcing that summer has arrived. . . .
"My peaches and grapes demand an army of seasonal help. . . . Germans, Italians, Chinese and Japanese, Armenians, Filipinos, and Mexicans. . . . I picture them with hats pulled below their eyebrows casting a dark shadow on their faces. Over the decades their uniforms look alike. . . . Their skin is dark from the sun. Few are heavy or overweight, for field work is merciless on the unfit. They share a ghostly look, part of the hidden world of farm laborers who have brought nourishment to the nation's tables for generations." (21)
"I struggle with all this in my thoughts--faceless laborers stooped over lush green fields, harvesting food for life. They move systematically, like lumbering machines. Why don't we employ our high-technology know-how, replace these workers, and end this oppressive work? Then I realize that the crouched workers depend on this work and displacing them from the land will not rid the world of their hunger." (22-23)
Masumoto finds a market for his Sun Crests by deciding to home pack, and his description of the process of getting his parents together, finding old machinery (including a defuzzer!) waxes deeply nostalgic. "The tree fruit community has remained a diverse collection of thousands of growers supplying a nation with summer fruits. We are still a community bound with a common history of home packing operations dependant on the hard work of family and neighbors" (96).
"To understand the motives and behavior of Third World Workers--either on their home turf or as immigrant recruits to more developed metropoles--we need to fit them into a global political economy of competitive markets, changing technology, and a managerial logic of labor control. Yet we must also recognize them as agents who continue to draw on local wisdom in advancing the interests of family, friendships, and community even in a faraway land." (5)
So in the case of the Morganton Maya, Aguacatecos and Chalchitecos found a new unity; immigrants thought of themselves nationally, linguistically, or by municipality, but also found themselves categorized as Hispanics, and so learned that identity. Meanwhile, Morganton changed in its religious institutions, educational and other social services, and in the kind of activism expected of workers. And the immigrants' home communities in Guatemala changed, too, becoming more Americanized, sometimes more prosperous, sometimes more corrupt socially.
This is an exhaustive (the number of interviews Fink conducted is dizzying) look at the growing phenomenon of the "nuevo new south" as it appeared in Morganton, North Carolina. And though Fink is primarily concerned with the ramifications for the labor movement, he is not blind to the importance of religion in the lives of his subjects, or to the culture of the South.
A result perhaps of my southern upbringing, the role of labor unions has been somewhat lost on me until recently (despite the fact that I somewhat reluctantly joined the Kroger union for part of a summer). So for me, the most interesting chapter was Chapter Six ("Changing Places") which describes the cultural adjustments of the immigrants and their senders. Some were "birds of passage" who identified almost entirely with their home country and planned to return there once they had enough money. Others (especially children) assimilated into the host culture. Others developed a kind of transnational identity, using the tools of the global economy to cultivate a pan-Mayan movement.
The intertwining themes of globalization and community receive their fullest treatment here.
In general I wanted to know more about the attitudes of local citizens, especially about the racial and cultural dynamics. What about the rednecks and African-Americans? What did they think about this union idea? Did they think the Guatemalans were especially equipped for unionization?
I also wanted to know more about immigrants attitudes to their physical environment: the land, the climate, the mountains, the agriculture. Did many of them try to plant gardens? Would they if given the opportunity?
The idea that the Guatemalan Maya reacted differently to poor working conditions of the global economy because of their communal, traditional wisdom, which had in turn been shaped by the global economy -- this is fascinating, and important. Understanding the home places of the new immigrant labor pool could help us engage it more thoughtfully.
So, I don't entirely understand what he's saying, but I think it's important.
The Hand That Signed the Paper Felled a City
The hand that signed the paper felled a city;
Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath,
Doubled the globe of dead and halved a country;
These five kings did a king to death.
The mighty hand leads to a sloping shoulder,
The finger joints are cramped with chalk;
A goose's quill has put an end to murder
That put an end to talk.
The hand that signed the treaty bred a fever,
And famine grew, and locusts came;
Great is the hand that holds dominion over
Man by a scribbled name.
The five kings count the dead but do not soften
The crusted wound nor pat the brow;
A hand rules pity as a hand rules heaven;
Hands have no tears to flow.
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