When Work Separated Us

By Anonymous / Winter 2023

Part I: Fixated on the Grind

Growing up the child of Mexican immigrant parents exposed me to various institutional flaws early on in my life. I often saw the way my parents had to stretch themselves thin just to make ends meet. To get to the U.S they spent all of their savings, leaving a majority of family behind, in hopes that they could pursue a better life for us. This was risky for many reasons, for starters, my mom was pregnant with me at the time and the journey involved high cost and risk.

After their journey, they made it to Pico Rivera, California, where they met with one of my distant aunts. My family had few connections here and could not travel any further because my mom was due soon, so we had to live in a clustered home with lots of distant family. Even though a lot of family lived in a house with us they were just trying to get by and contribute what they could.

Not many job opportunities were available for immigrants who didn’t know English or have a high school education. While the foreign job application process served as a barrier, there was also a constant looming fear that getting the wrong job would pose a risk, and everything that was sacrificed to come to the U.S will be for nothing. A sense of dread followed me as a kid knowing that at any moment my family and I could be separated by influences outside of our control. What difference does it make if we were born here or not? I often asked angrily. All we knew was that there were lots of barriers, and a lot of people agreed about upholding them. We had no choice, but to do what we could to get by, the baby needed a home after all.

Out of desperation, my parents took any job they could find. My father found himself at McDonald’s as a janitor working night shifts. While my mother found herself working as a seamstress in a factory that paid her per piece. Both did not come close to paying a livable wage, and money was already tight. This constant need for more money led them to desperately work themselves to the bone. I quickly saw how poverty led us to prioritize work over life.

My father became fixated on the grind. I recall him telling my brother and I, how he will grow to be successful and prove people wrong. There was a level of dissatisfaction and shame that I understood fueled that, we all hated being at the bottom. He just believed that the ends always justify the means. So, he coped with the constantly growing stress by drinking, chasing luxury, and immersing himself as much as he could in work. He eventually succeeded and made a company, but at the cost of connection, to himself and his family. I recall how adamant my father was about the prioritization of hard work. He wanted us to know early on, that life entailed a lot of intense labor, so he brought my brother and I to work with him at his company on weekends. It was terrifying being around so many industrial hazards in the blazing heat, but it did show us how hard others worked to get by.

My mom was also fated to overwork unfortunately. After the divorce, my brother, my mom, and I moved into a small room together with a friend's family where she paid 800 a month. It was all she could afford, and she now had to raise us herself. The pressure to earn quickly ate away at her. I saw her stress and rush to make us food in the morning, take us to school, and then work from 8am-12am. Some days she brought work home where she used another sewing machine, other times she stayed at work until 2am. When I asked her why she worked herself so tirelessly, she told me she saw no other options. She explained our financial situation to me often and showed me how small the child support checks were. Sometimes my mom took us with her to the sewing factory where I met other people with similar stories to ours. There we saw her work meticulously for hours and only take breaks to eat and chat with some coworkers. Despite all this effort, all these years of work, not much has paid off for her, for us. Years later after getting injured at that job, my mother finds herself working through physical therapy, constant medical examinations, and a battle to keep disability despite being bedridden for 3 years.

Now I’m in my final quarter of college, and my younger brother works as a dental assistant. We helped our mom pay bills and recover from her injury.

However, the financial and general stress I have faced since I began working during college has led me to cope in various self-destructive ways. I internalized the idea that in order to get ahead, many sacrifices had to be made, even if they break you down. So I worked until I burnt myself out over and over again. I eventually lost passion for the work I sought to study. What’s the point if I always feel drained? All our work never paid off.

There was no balance in our lives. We were constantly needing to pay something, so we worked past what was ok. I found my privation again when I was honest with myself about how destructive overworking can be. Work is important, nothing great can come without hard work, but so too does life, connection, and balance.

Part II: The Light of People’s Will Shined

Growing up in poverty, there were often things I wanted that my parents simply could not afford. Whether it was eating out at McDonald’s, a new pair of shoes to replace the ripped shoes I’d constantly get bullied for, or equipment to participate in sports or school activities... money was tight.

It didn’t help that after the divorce, my mom found herself having to take on even more pressure to make ends meet. We didn’t have a place to move to after the split, we were barely scraping by before, and the few connections we had in the U.S, were tied to my dad’s side of the family. We were cast aside into a corner, with few options.

When we eventually found housing with the family of my mom’s coworker, my mom still found herself having to pay rent, bills, and all the other taxes that come with being a parent.

At the time of the move, I was in the 1st grade and around 6 years old, but my mom and I would still talk about the state of things openly. Honesty and vulnerability was important to us, it was all we had when work separated us from each other so much.

My mom spoke to me of the long hours she sacrificed, often waking up at the break of dawn just to prepare my brother and I breakfast before heading out to sew clothing per piece, often working until past midnight.

There weren’t many job options for her with a Mexican high school education, no understanding of English, and no papers. Fear, and worry of no longer being able to provide, or getting deported, prevented my mom from taking another job, so she stuck it out through the brutal hours, while the fear of being further separated consumed my brother and I back home.

At times, when we’d go to visit my mother at work with her, we’d see how tirelessly her and other workers slouched in front of the array of hundreds of blaring sewing machines. One buzz went off as another ended, overstimulating the ears, while the blinding amount of white lights revealed how bleak the factory was. The gates only made it look like more of a prison. However, it was there that I saw many tired faces who’s deep stories spoke of immense desperation, fear, and determination. Through the gray, the light of people’s will shined.

All these men and women were here because they had no other choice. The relatability created connection, but it was also a reminder of a dark socioeconomic reality. The poor pay, few breaks, broken labor laws, and punishing staff all screamed exploitation. I understood this even then as a kid. I often asked myself how it was fair for all these families to be stuck there. How was it fair for my mom to come home breaking down because there wasn’t enough work available to her, as she begged to exhaust herself further.

The labor exploitation my mom experienced is reminiscent of how factory workers were treated in the industrial revolution. I now understand how my mom was forced to accept her conditions as normal. Our story is one of many, where throughout history, lower income working families are exploited for the sake of profit and “efficiency.” Where companies that are supposed to help employ and provide a means to an end, leave people drained, as they suck the life out of them.

Since the Progressive Era, there have been labor laws set in place to prevent some exploitation. Yet, I found my mother experiencing the same things and constantly denied the government help that could have gotten her out of her situation. Every time we were denied help, I was reminded that we weren’t seen as worthy of help due to our status.

It’s truly vile that women like my mother have to give up so much, and yet still be seen under such shallow lenses due to limiting beliefs. Though the sacrifices of her labor as a parent, as an essential worker, and as a woman have been undervalued and forgotten by society and lawmakers, I see how incredible my mother is to have risked so much, and given up so much of herself to give us a better life.

Coda

Dear Mama, night after night, tear after tear, and through your hope, you were able to provide us with what we needed. You were there for us providing us with inspiration to carry on, to give back to you the life you deserve. Now I find myself taking on the same work ethic you had, as I'm months away from making you proud by graduating. I wish you were fully healed from the work injury. It only serves as a reminder of how much you gave up. I'm still glad you'll be able to attend. I'm one step closer to providing you with the security you provided us.