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Day As a Day Laborer
(continued)

The name of the game is waiting. I stand alone waiting and waiting on that Friday morning. I watch other workers wait, they watch me wait. Most of us stay quiet and keep to ourselves; others drink coffee out of small Styrofoam cups and smoke cigarettes. “Ay cabrón, chinga tu madre” (Hey you bastard, fuck your mother), a worker says to thwart the insult of another worker.

After 45 minutes alone, I am approached by a scrawny wrinkled. His name is José. He looks at me and says in decent English, “You here for work?” “Yes, Sí, Trabajar” (Yes, work), I respond. “How long does it take to get a job?” I ask him. José’s response, either because he doesn’t understand the question or he has become so cynical that he just wants to say what is on his mind, is a bit confusing. “All this is bull-shit. All these guys, just bull-shit.” He points over to a group of men leaning against the concrete wall, and I conclude from their lackadaisical mannerisms that these men are technically waiting for work, but have no real intention of getting a job. After a few moments, José leaves and meanders from group to group. Steam from José’s breath mixes with the smoke from the cigarette dangling between his fingers as he tells jokes, complains about life, and shouts Spanish obscenities. “Callate. Eres uno joto” (Shut up. You are a faggot).” When he is not talking, which occurs infrequently, José displays a scowl that exposes his wrinkled, unshaven face. The dark brown skin ruffles around every part of his face except around his most noticeable feature, a missing left eye. He runs his two-toned hands, complete with dirty overgrown fingernails and calluses covering every digit and palm, up and down his face as if to attempt to wipe away the scowl.

Painters and carpenters drive in and out of the parking lot all morning. They speak with some laborers, but no one gets any jobs. I wonder if this day laboring situation is just a cat-and-mouse game between employers and laborers. Do workers here actually get work? There are about 30 of us waiting in the parking lot, and it looks like we will be waiting all day.

One city that seems to be on the right track for helping laborers get jobs is Laguna Beach. The small town has a designated day laborer waiting area right outside town on Laguna Canyon Road. Thinking that there must be someone behind this act of courtesy, I look into it. I find an article in the Los Angeles Times, written by Jennifer Delson, which gives me the answer, but not the one I am looking for. The article states that “For Laguna Beach officials, the issue is not immigration but controlling traffic and prevention of loitering.” Delson’s article states that the city manager, Kenneth Frank, said the center isn’t “right for immigration law or wrong for immigration law. It's just a pragmatic solution. We do not have the practical ability to enforce federal immigration law.” Treating day laborers as a “pragmatic” solution towards traffic makes them sound like potholes or speed bumps. These immigrants, illegal or not, are people with feelings and responsibilities. Emma Lazarus’ poem The New Colossus engraved on the Statue of Liberty reads “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” This poem gave immigrants the promise of equality and freedom, no matter what their background was in their country of origin. The laborers in Capistrano Beach are those tired, poor huddled masses, just waiting to get a job.

(continued on page 3)