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The Planters

By Jason Fisher

Found in: | Inside | Politics |

Every morning for three weeks I have watched Ramon Nu�ez kneel at the flagging that marks the beginning of a planting unit. He crosses himself, says a silent prayer, kisses the crucifix around his neck, and walks into the burned forest carrying 300 small pine trees.

Metal tools strike rock and earth, cutting into the early morning silence. Fifteen Mexicans, from 18 to 55, hunch over ho-dads planting trees in the charred landscape. The foreman and inspector walk behind them yelling in Spanish.

"Flojo . . . sombra . . . raizes . . . ." Single word reminders about loose trees, proper shade and straight roots.

Most of the planters speak only Spanish. The contract states that the foreman and inspector need to speak English. When I talk, their blank faces and mute nods give them away. We speak Spanish instead.

I follow them, a gringo inspecting the quality of their work. I randomly pick a point and walk a circle, 17 feet from center, using my logging tape as a guide. I "throw a plot," counting the trees that fall within the perimeter. Traditionally, this is where the planters get screwed. An inspector missing trees can cost wages. The planters don't even look over their shoulders to check my plot.

This crew has come to trust me, despite my white skin. I treat them fairly, understand their language and see more than just their brown features. I know their names, I've listened to their stories.

Ramon Nu�ez is five feet tall; his black hair flecked with the salt of age. He rarely stops singing as he works, and sends his money home to Mexico. He keeps only enough for food, calling cards and a six pack of beer that lasts all week. Benjamin spent three years in a Mexican prison before coming to the U.S., but has lived here for 18 years and is perfectly bilingual. Elias is 19 and has a wife and three-year-old boy in Guadalajara, but brags about his girlfriend in Oregon. Alex is 18 and crossed the border illegally two years ago. Most mornings his breath is tainted by the liquor he dry heaves behind the van. He still cannot speak a word of English.

They sing as they plant; songs about grandparents, the plains of Mexico, women with raven hair. One man begins and other voices blend in.

Storms threaten daily. At the first rumble of thunder, shrill whistles and cat calls taunt the rain that will soak their cheap cotton clothes, leaving them bent and shivering. "Animo!" is shouted from one to the other as they plunge tools into the black dirt.

When their bags are empty, they race down the hill for more. They fill burlap sacks with seedlings and march up the slope.

On the long days, the older men drag themselves up the steep hills. From under his hard hat I hear Ramon repeat to himself, "Tengo que aguantar."

Literally translated - "I must endure." Figuratively - "I must keep going for my family."

* * *

Most of these men legally cross the border on eight-month work visas that are sponsored by U.S. companies. The visa costs a thousand dollars, which must be paid in advance. The companies have contracts lined up with federal and state agencies, private companies, farmers and ranchers.

In the states, they earn $15 an hour, the same amount for a full day in Mexico. As always, this wage comes with a cost.

They leave families, friends and homes behind. They arrive expecting hassles from law enforcement, glares in restaurants, and silence in bars. They live in vans and cheap hotels, working six and seven days a week. They do not complain about vacation time or the lack of health insurance. They sleep with frayed 4x6 photos and a running total of their wages.

Their migration north begins in March. They work in tree nurseries, packing four hundred small ponderosa pines into cardboard boxes. The weather changes and they travel to California and Washington, pruning fruit trees on endless plantations. They move on to thinning projects in Idaho and Oregon. The Montana planting season begins in May. They fill the burned hills around my town, unpacking the same boxes they loaded in March.

Their summers continue with contracts for thinning and fighting forest fires. In the fall, they return to the orchards and pack thousands of apples into shipping crates. They leave for Mexico in October.

Ramon talks excitedly about returning to Mexico, even though it is early May. His Spanish gains speed with each word. I struggle to keep pace.

"There will be many fiestas. Many weddings. Many children will be made . . . I miss my family."

A hopeless mortgage, no career, a failing love life and a deteriorating back lose significance. His face tells of a hunger that is deeper than mine.

* * *

One evening after work, four Mexicans and I discuss immigration, the border and economics. We ignore the billion-dollar fence and tougher immigration laws. No work and empty stomachs carry the conversation.

They would stay in Mexico if there were jobs. As it stands, they want to bring their families here. Both options are impossible. They have eight months a year to earn enough. It is a dream to have more.

Benjamin is the exception. He digs in his back pocket and hands me a well worn but neatly folded piece of paper.

"I cannot read. Please read it to me. I want to hear it again."

It is a photocopy of his naturalization papers. I read the English words out loud in an unsteady voice. Half-way through I look up to see tears carving trails through the dirt on Benjamin's face. The misty eyes of the other planters nod for me to continue. My hands tremble and voice falters. The last words are a whisper. Five grown men weep as the sun falls behind the mountains.

* * *

I do not claim to have the answers. I only know that I have laid eyes on people from all over the world, and the obvious is what we always ignore.

We all crave love, friendship, laughter, full bellies and work that makes us strong. The simplicity astounds me, and the fact that we continue finding ways to hate each other leaves a dark stone in me that grows heavier every day.

Summer is here and the planters have left for lives of digging fire line, dropping trees with heavy saws, sleeping in vans, warming tortillas on propane grills, laughing together and counting the days until October. Their Spanish songs play in my mind.

Some dark, lonely mornings over steaming coffee, unable to stand straight under the weight of back pain and surmounting bills, I remember Ramon. I think of him under his red hard hat, the creases around his eyes when he spoke of his family. The cool stroke of his ho-dad sinking into thick soil. I think of him kneeling in the morning sun and I say the words that he kept repeating. Tengo que aguantar.

The author has recently relocated to central Oregon from Montana where he can practice his Spanish more than just in the spring. He continues to hum their Spanish songs.