MIGRANT WORKERS: LANGUAGE BARRIER FOR WORKERS

Doing a story about migrant workers seemed simpler than it turned out to be.

A friend had worked with Hispanic migrants in Kennett last summer, so I called her in Oklahoma for some insight. She gave me some names to help me get started.

After an initial phone call to the Migrant Health Center in Kennett, I was prepared to find people who couldn't speak English. But I'd taken Spanish classes in college and was ready to put my limited skill to use.

It wasn't as helpful as I had hoped. But people like Sandy Sharp, Olga Castro and Norma Garza picked up the slack when I lagged behind. They offered names, information and the best service of all -- translation.

Sometimes they prepared me for the worst, whether it was an unfriendly farmer or a rough case at the Migrant Health Clinic. But I never saw the worst in anyone.

Sure, these people weren't wealthy, but they seemed content. They didn't ask for much, just the basics needed to survive. And like everyone else, they want the best for their children and themselves.

Despite their poverty or inadequate houses, the migrant families I met were kind, generous and talkative. The children who attend school at the First United Methodist Church in Senath said my visit was the highlight of their day. They were enamored with the photographer's camera and wouldn't leave him alone until everyone got a turn to look through the lens.

Erasmo Garza, his wife, Maria, and children, Norma, Nora and Nydia, let me follow them to a Kennett coin laundry while they washed their clothes. It didn't bother them that I wanted to know how they lived and what their jobs were like but couldn't ask the questions in their language.

Norma, 11, did all the translating while her uncle Hosea Ramirez, 14, and cousin Selene Mercado, 15, sat nearby. Her mother and grandmother were busy loading washing machines and caring for the younger children.

After spending a day learning about the agencies that support migrant workers in the Bootheel and their need for more funding, I thought I understood the plight of a migrant.

But when I talked to Arturo Sutro in broken Spanish while he pondered my questions and looked for an escape, I finally realized what it was like to be unable to communicate.

My questions weren't much more complicated than "Que es su nombre?" and "Cuantos anos trabaja en Missouri?"

All I gleaned from that conversation was that Arturo is working in algodon -- cotton -- and has been coming to Missouri from Texas for about two years. It wasn't much for a person who makes a living asking questions.

My questions were sufficient enough to provide the information I requested, but I know that Arturo had a story to tell and couldn't find the words.

But he did find the fields, and I respect him for that work. I can enjoy fresh vegetables and sweet, ripe watermelons tomorrow for lunch because the 3,000 or so migrants spent 15 hours today picking tomatoes and melons that were shipped to my grocery store overnight.

But it is not just about enjoying the fruits of their labor; it is their hard work, commitment to their families and gracious spirit that I respect most.

The dozens of migrant workers, farmers, government employees and people I met in Kennett were devoted to their jobs and enjoyed their lives. They reminded me to take advantage of what life has to offer before it vanishes.

Emelda and Ambrosio Gallegos saw their stable life falter and crumble before their eyes. Ambrosio lost his $15-an-hour job when the Mexican peso dropped in value.

Emelda never wanted to work as a migrant again after moving all across the country as a child, but she was forced to field work this summer.

"When I was doing it, I hated it," she said of her migrant upbringing. "But I got to see a lot of the country and meet other people."

And migrating taught her a valuable lesson. "I learned never to be racist, and to know other cultures," she said. "And the value of money."