They didn’t know the heavy burden of discrimination
familiar to members of historically oppressed minority groups, including
biased policing and unequal access to jobs and housing. But some of the
everyday experiences that have long challenged millions of black, Latino
and immigrant Americans — the struggle to understand and be understood,
feeling unseen, fear of rapid judgments — were beginning to challenge
them, too.
Venson let go of Heaven. He told her he had to clock in.
She watched him disappear around a corner, then stood there for a moment,
alone. She pulled on a winter hat, a wool scarf and a thick coat, knowing
how cold the factory can get, then went to a different clock-in station.
In the nearly vacant hallway, she watched the clock, waiting for her shift
to begin at 3:20.
Seven minutes left: Employees gathered around Heaven,
first three, then four, then six.
Studies have shown how some whites, who are dying faster
than they’re being born in 26 states, react when they become aware of a
tectonic demographic shift that will, with little historic precedent,
reconfigure the racial and ethnic geography of an entire country. They
swing to the right, either becoming conservative for the first time, or
increasingly conservative — “politically activated,” explained Ryan
Enos, a political scientist at Harvard University, who among others found
that white Democrats voted for Trump in higher numbers in places where the
Latino population had recently grown the most.
Four minutes left: Heaven, looking at the floor, heard
laughter and jokes exchanged in the rapid Spanish of the Dominican
Republic.
They feel threatened, even if not directly affected by
the change, and adopt positions targeting minorities out of “fears of
what America will look like,” said Rachel Wetts of the University of
California at Berkeley, who argued in one study that recent calls by
whites to cut welfare were born of racial resentment inflamed by
demographic anxiety, even though whites benefit from the social safety net
as well.
Two minutes left: Heaven pressed closer and closer to
the wall in a hallway that was now filled with workers, all Latino.
They empathize more deeply with other whites — a sense
of group identity ignited — because “they feel like ‘We’re part of
a threatened group, and we need to band together,’ ” said René
Flores, an assistant sociology professor at the University of Chicago who
has analyzed how whites reacted to the growing Latino presence in rural
Pennsylvania.
And they feel as Heaven did now, clocking in, then
following the others out onto the production floor: Either she’d find a
way to fit in, or she’d find a way to get out.
Heaven lives with her mother in the same small house in
Fredericksburg where she was raised. The world outside the nearby Bell
& Evans plant is white, rural and conservative.
When Heaven graduated high school in the spring of 2016,
she had no desire to leave Fredericksburg. College didn’t interest her,
because she hated school and wasn’t great at it, and she didn’t want
to go out and see the world, either. She believed that everything she’d
ever need was already here, so she felt content to apply for a job at Bell
& Evans, whose water tower looms over the town, and where just about
everyone she knew had already worked.
You’ll love it there, her sister said.
They’ve got great benefits, her mother said.
Give it a chance, her ex-boyfriend said.
It was now her 20th month of giving it a chance, and she
was standing at the end of a long processing machine called the Multivac,
wearing a white smock and blue latex gloves, making $13 an hour, waiting
for the next four packages of chicken breasts to come down the line. They
arrived every six seconds, and in that time she scanned for discoloration,
leakage and mislabeling, setting aside defective packages for
reprocessing. It was relentless: Here they came, there they went, every
six seconds, about 40 in a minute, thousands in a shift — a shift during
which so many things would upset her, but never the work.
She could handle the monotony. She could deal with
standing under the vents, which cooled the production floor to 40 degrees.
She could even tolerate the mess. The day chicken juice got all over her
hair and face, the thing that had been intolerable had not been the smell
or the taste, but that she didn’t have anyone to talk to about it.
She felt more alone than she’d ever thought possible.
Alone when a worker slipped in front of her, and she wanted to ask if he
was okay, but didn’t know how. Alone when she once went to the break
room, saw the tables filled with people speaking Spanish, and swore that
she’d never be back. And now when another plant worker, Denisse
Salvador, a demure 25-year-old from the Dominican Republic, came to
collect 40 chicken breasts that Heaven had placed into a bucket, she felt
alone again. Months before, Salvador had marshaled all of her English to
ask Heaven her name, and for a moment Heaven had felt less isolated, as
though maybe that could be the beginning of a friendship, but that had
been the extent of the conversation, and now neither said anything as
Salvador collected the chicken breasts and left.
Heaven makes $13 an hour working on a quality-control
line, where she stands at the end of a long processing machine, waiting
for packages of chicken breasts to arrive. She scans them for
discoloration, leakage and mislabeling, setting aside defective packages
for reprocessing. Many things upset her during her shifts, but never the
work.
Heaven watched her go, then looked down. Four more
chicken packages were arriving. She vacantly scanned them, and the next
batch, and the next, losing herself in a thought that had grown to consume
her. She couldn’t do this anymore. Two years of her life — gone, spent
in near silence. She knew it was her fault, too. She could have tried
harder, learned a few Spanish words, overcome her shyness. But instead,
all she’d ever wanted was another job, where friends would come easier
and where she wouldn’t feel so outnumbered, because, as she had again
tried to explain earlier that day to her father, Dave Engle, “It sucks
when you can’t talk to no one.”
“But that way at least you should be working,” he
said. “If you can’t even talk.”
“I would rather sit and talk,” she said. “It would
make the day go faster.”
They were riding in Dave’s big red truck. The windows
were down. Country music was playing. The road cut through an endless
expanse of fields and hills, a view that included a sign that said, “TRUMP,”
with the “T” replaced by a handgun.
National Hispanic proportion of national population went
from 13% in 2000 to 18% in 2016
Lebanon County, Pa. went from 5% to 13% from 2000 to 18%
in 2016
Sources: 2000 US Census, 2016 The Washington Post
So much of Lebanon County, population 140,000, was
undergoing what local historian Adam Bentz called a “demographic
transformation,” but not Fredericksburg, and not its 1,500 residents.
Over the past two decades, Puerto Ricans and Dominicans had surged into
nearby Lebanon city, either from New York or the Caribbean, attracted by
cheap housing, an established Latino community, and food-processing plants
that had become increasingly, if not mostly, staffed by Latinos, because,
as one former employee who spoke on the condition of anonymity put it, “White
people didn’t want to work in the stinky chicken shop.”
Fredericksburg, meanwhile, home to some plants, was still 95 percent
white, still overwhelmingly conservative. Downtown amounted to a library,
a bar named the Fredericksburg Eagle Hotel, banners emblazoned with the
bald eagle, signs that said, among other things, “NOTICE: This place is
politically incorrect,” and houses flying the Confederate flag.
Heaven looked out the window. This was her town. Her
people. Was it so wrong to want to be among them? Was it so wrong to want
to work with them? Was it so wrong to refuse to learn a new language? She
had taken some Spanish in high school, but had dropped it, not because she
had any animosity toward the language or the people who spoke it, but
because that just wasn’t her — that was other parts of Lebanon County,
not Fredericksburg.
Now on the edge of her Fredericksburg rose a giant new
factory, and Heaven read a sign outside saying, “Hiring All Positions.”
I swear to God, if they don’t say anything in English,
I’m going to freak out.
Heaven Engle
“That big place right back there,” she said. “That’s
the Ace Hardware I want to apply at. Isn’t it opening in June?”
“It’s already open,” her father replied, and she
started thinking of all of the possibilities of working there —
conversations, friends, belonging — rather than the reality of what
awaited her hours later, which was another bin full of raw chicken legs,
and Salvador again making her way toward the back of the line to pick it
up. Heaven watched Salvador coming, annoyed. Why couldn’t she learn
English? Why was it up to Heaven to change? Salvador was the newcomer, not
her.
What Heaven didn’t know was that Salvador agreed with
her. She thought it was her responsibility to learn English, too. She’d
grown up seeing Americans come through her town along the Dominican
Republic’s northern coast, and had dreamed of following them back to the
United States. But when she finally got here in April 2017, all she’d
found was a sick mother, who had sponsored her green card but whom she now
had to care for, endless household chores and a 45-minute commute from
their home in Reading, Pa., to a chicken plant where there was no need to
learn English because everyone spoke Spanish. So now, nearly as
monolingual as when she arrived, all she did when she reached the back of
the line was smile at Heaven, who smiled back, then wheel the chicken
away.
A part-American, part Confederate flag flies outside a
house on a country road south of Lebanon, Pa. Much of Lebanon County,
population 140,000, was undergoing what local historian Adam Bentz called
a demographic transformation driven by Puerto Ricans and Dominicans, but
not Fredericksburg, and not its 1,500 residents.
“I’m quitting,” Heaven was saying.
“You’re always saying you’re quitting,” said
this shift’s only other white production worker, Ronaele Wengert, 31,
who came by one day to tell Heaven that they had a meeting in a few
minutes. They knew what that could mean.
“I swear to God, if they don’t say anything in
English, I’m going to freak out,” Heaven said.
“Then they’ll say, ‘Do you understand? Do you
understand?’ Does it look like I understand?” Wengert said. “Then
they translate.”
“They try.”
Heaven shook her head. What was this job doing to her?
She’d never thought of herself as prejudiced — and still didn’t —
but there were increasingly times when she felt so far on the outside, so
little understood, that her alienation was hardening into something closer
to anger, and possibly worse. Like when she had to clock in and felt
pushed out of the way. Or when people said “gringa” and she
experienced a flash of paranoia that they were talking about her. Or when
supervisors separated Spanish speakers from English speakers for training
videos, sometimes leaving Heaven in a room alone, except for a guy whom
she believed spoke only French.
Worried that it might happen again, she headed to the
wash sinks, past row after row of silver machinery humming so loudly that
workers nearby had to shout, past the deboning station and the conveyor
belts, and warmed her numb hands under the water. She took off her smock
and hairnet and, straightening her hair, went into the meeting room. It
was already filled with employees, but there was a seat in the back, where
she sat down and waited.
They don’t give a rat’s ass about people with white
skin.
Venson Heim
A form was handed out, and she sighed in irritation when
she saw it was in Spanish — “politica de zapatos resistentes a
resbalones” — only nodding in relief when she flipped it over and
realized there was an English version: “slip-resistant shoe policy.”
She quickly looked at it, then leaned over to Wengert, seated beside her,
and said, “This is not going to be in English.”
“Yeah,” Wengert said.
“I’m okay sitting here and reading it,” Heaven
said. “I did that last time.”
As the meeting went on — presenters at first switching
between Spanish and English, but increasingly talking only in Spanish —
she became more and more irritated. When one worker joked that his
Timberland boots were probably slip-resistant, and everyone laughed, she
didn’t understand what was happening. Later, when another employee
called the boots pictured in the handout ugly, and people chuckled again,
she crossed her arms. One of the presenters tried to keep up, translating
all that he could, looking at Heaven when he did, but it was no use. He
missed some things, or got the words wrong.
Hispanics make up increasing share of manufacturing in
Lebanon
Hispanic proportion of manufacturing workers nationally grows from 20% to
22% between 2010 and 2016.
In Lebanon County, Pa Hispanic manufacturing workers grew from 8% to 16%
between 2010 and 2016.
Sources: 2010, U.S. Census. 2016 The Washington Post
“Is that supposed to be English?” Wengert whispered
to Heaven, who shook her head slightly. When the meeting was over, she
stood up and, without a word, walked out. It was break time, and everyone
else was talking lunch, heading for the cafeteria. But Heaven didn’t
follow. She instead went to her locker, took out her phone and a pack of
menthol cigarettes, and went outside into the day’s last light.
That’s where she saw him. Outside, along the iron
fence, taking his break alone, too.
“Is that my boyfriend?” she called.
She went to him. They kissed and sat side by side, legs
touching. Flipping through Facebook, she told him about the meeting, how
uncomfortable it had been.
“They don’t give a rat’s ass about people with
white skin,” he said.
She nodded, feeling better. This was exactly what she
had needed. Someone who understood, and Venson always did. She first met
him last July. For months, she had called over any mechanic — most of
whom were white on her shift — repairing a nearby machine, just to have
someone to talk to, and then one day it was Venson. He told her he’d
gone to the same high school she had, and it felt so good to connect that
they soon had a relationship going, one whose core was their shared
experience at Bell & Evans.
“Half of them know English and they just don’t show
it,” Venson continued, pulling on a cigarette.
“They do,” she agreed, smoking her own.
“You get pretty much overlooked,” he said.
She sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder,
feeling tired, and then the two of them were quiet as the trucks carting
away the chicken rumbled off and the final minutes of their break ticked
down to nothing.
Heaven and Venson kiss goodbye outside the break room
before their shifts. The core of their relationship is their shared
experience at Bell & Evans.
There were days when Venson imagined what might await America. This would
be a nation where whites weren’t only a minority, but disadvantaged,
punished for their collective crimes, because, as he put it, “we haven’t
been the nicest race.” Speaking Spanish wouldn’t just be beneficial,
but essential, and people like him would never be able to recover from
what they didn’t know. “Screwed for life,” he said.
These were relatively new thoughts for him. Until now,
his entire life had been lived in one America, the America of Jonestown,
Pa., where he shared a drab two-story rental with his mother in a
neighborhood of neat yards, basketball hoops and trucks parked in the
driveways. He graduated from Northern Lebanon High School, whose
demographics the principal, Jennifer Hassler, struggled to describe as “Diversity
isn’t necessarily — we don’t have a lot of diversity, we just don’t.”
On weekends, his family took day trips to nearby Hershey’s Chocolate
World.
But since he’d started at Bell & Evans, and been plunged into
another America, this one less familiar, race had been on his mind all of
the time. He thought about it when Heaven said she wanted to quit. He
thought about it when his mother vented about finding jobs for the
immigrants at her temp agency, and when he watched the news on his
big-screen television in his room, amid his sports posters, work boots and
video games.
He didn’t understand why people said the United States
should allow in more immigrants. If a Syrian needed asylum from a
murderous regime, then yes, the country should help. But anyone crossing
the border seeking jobs, even government assistance — that didn’t seem
fair. What about the people already here? What about the homeless? What
about him? He was the one, after all, whose career had been shaped by
Washington policymakers, who he believed didn’t know what it was like to
be an outsider in your own community — a feeling that had become as
ordinary to him as the wrench in his back pocket, which he now took out to
tinker with a malfunctioning batter machine.
“The motors are burning because they’re constantly
running,” Venson shouted over the clamor, but only got confused looks in
return.
Three white mechanics in blue smocks were huddled around
the machine. Ten Latino workers in white smocks were huddled around them,
watching as Venson unscrewed a clogged pipe to drain the excess batter,
then screwed it back on. The white men stood up and, with another job
done, returned to the mechanics’ break room, finding a mess of junk food
and drinks and a giant American flag hanging in the back from ceiling to
floor. They took off their smocks and hairnets. Venson sat at the picnic
table. He took in a slow breath and let it out.
The truth was that he loved this job. He didn’t have a
vocational degree, like some of the mechanics, or any experience, like
others. But in just one year, he’d gotten so good at it that his bosses
had bumped his hourly pay from $13.50 to $17. When the Pacmac or the DSI
Portioning System acted up, he was the one who knew what to do, not
because he was a savant, but because he’d worked at it, day after day,
which was why he became so frustrated when workers in that department didn’t
ask him for assistance. They wanted help only from Juan Leon, the shift’s
lone Latino mechanic, a Puerto Rican transplant whom Venson genuinely
liked and appreciated, but who didn’t know those machines. Venson did.
So why didn’t they ask him for help? Why did they want solely another
Latino? How did it get to be this way?
“I was amazed,” mechanic Mike Stubblefield said one
day, during another break room conversation about the plant’s racial
dynamic, after seeing entire Latino families working at the plant. “ ‘Your
father works here, your mother, your brother and your sister?’ ”
“That goes right back to what I was saying. It’s an
easy place to get employed, these plants are,” Venson said. “They just
come put in an application, ‘I need trabajo.’ ”
“Yo necesito trabajo?” said Mike Zombro, another
mechanic.
“Yeah, sure, whatever, yo quiero Taco Bell,” Venson
said. “No speak-a the Spanish.”
“That’s why we have Juan. ‘Juan, what the f— is
he saying to me? Because I don’t f—ing know,’ ” Zombro said,
laughing and backslapping Leon, who last year had requested a transfer to
a shift with more Latino mechanics, in part to get away from this type of
talk. He silently listened to the conversation, expressionless, until a
call came over the radio. Time to get out onto the production floor. The
men pulled on their hairnets.
On his way toward the next assignment, Venson saw
Heaven. She was alone at the back of Line 4. He’d never seen her speak
with anyone, not in the year he’d been here, and he didn’t know how
she did it. At least he had the camaraderie of the mechanics, the reprieve
of their break room, the fulfillment of doing work he liked. But why was
she still here, he couldn’t help but think. Why hadn’t she quit?
On mornings after her night shifts at the plant, Heaven
often sleeps in until noon, and the first thing she often does
is check for messages from Venson.
It was nearly 2 in the afternoon when Heaven woke, two
hours later than she’d wanted, inside a trailer sealed from the light of
outside. Lying on a mattress without a frame, she checked her phone to see
if Venson had texted her — not yet — then looked around the room where
she’d spent nearly every night for almost as long as she could remember.
There were her stuffed elephants. An old flower-print chair piled with
clothing. The chalkboard on the wall where she’d written, “11/11/17,”
the date her relationship with Venson started. And a pack of menthol
cigarettes, which she carried outside, squinting into the cloudless
afternoon. She got a cigarette going, and then another, looking at a
view that spilled out like a painting, only crops and trees and sun.
How disability benefits divided this rural community
between those who work and those who don’t. America is more
diverse than ever — but still segregated
In Jim Cooley’s open-carry America, even a trip to
Walmart can require an AR-15
No matter how many times she’d been out here, the view
had never changed, one of the few things that hadn’t in a county and
state and country where every year seemed to bring more news of
transformation. In 2015, demographers announced that California had more
Latinos than whites. In 2016, the U.S. Census Bureau said white babies
hadn’t been the majority the year before. In 2017, all racial minorities
were found to be growing faster than whites. And here in Lebanon County,
plans were underway for yet more factories and plants, including one at
Bell & Evans, that local experts predict will employ mostly Latinos,
accelerating the demographic shift.
Heaven, looking out into this county, felt resigned to
what she could not change. She had applied to the new Ace Hardware
factory. Then when that didn’t lead to anything, she submitted an
application to an industrial supply plant. But no one got back to her on
that, either, and she now wondered: What had been the point? She believed
she’d be a minority no matter what plant she worked in. The world she’d
never wanted to go out and see had instead come to her, and it was here to
stay.
The cigarette was done, and she went inside. She put on
her makeup, sprayed herself with a burst of Winter Candy Apple perfume,
then drove the three miles into work. She looked for Venson, but he’d
already clocked in, so she pulled on her winter hat and scarf again. It
was seven minutes until her shift began, and with nothing better to do,
and no one to talk to, she went to the clock-in station, where she watched
the woman with a black ponytail coming down the hallway, hugging people as
she went.
This time, however, when she reached Heaven, the woman
stopped. Heaven stayed motionless, unsure. Without a trace of caution, the
woman embraced her, saying something Heaven didn’t understand. Then an
older woman kissed her cheek. Then the women crowding around Heaven began
to laugh, and, as the final minutes went by, she started laughing, too.
Then it was over. The clock hit 3:20. A rush of key
cards touched the clock-in machine. The women dispersed: the Spanish
speakers to one station, where they stood and got to work, chatting as
they went, and Heaven to the back of Line 4, where the only sound in her
ears was the whir of the Multivac pushing out the next four packages of
chicken.
An American flag is painted on a barn near Lebanon, Pa.
Fredericksburg, in Lebanon County, is 95 percent white and overwhelmingly
conservative.
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Gilbert Sanchez gilsanche01@gmail.com
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