Squatters’ Rights
During the height of the bean season June and I drove into Harvest Valley Farm.
Helen, a friend from my church, was with us.
Domingo and Rosalia came out of their room to greet us.
“We want to live at the camp for two weeks,” I said. “Is there an empty room?”
“Yes, many,” said Domingo. “Do you want to move in right now?”
“No, next Monday. But we need permission from the patrón, the grower. We don’t want to bother you with our problems, but would it be possible for you to ask the patrón if we could have an empty room? If we get permission from him, we won’t need to ask the contratista.
“I’ll ask him. He’s going to give permission, I’m sure. He seldom comes to the camp.”
“Gracias, thank you.” Helen, June, and I smiled at each other and went home to pack.
It was time to leave my family again, this time for only two weeks. I felt better organized this year and I was sure that with three of us, we could take care of our teaching assignments and goals in two weeks.
Grandmother arrived to be the family cook while I was packing the station wagon with supplies for the migrant camp. Light bulbs, flannelgraph board, teaching materials and, of course, rat-proof containers.
On Monday morning as June, Helen, and I were approaching the camp, June said, “What if the grower won’t let us stay? He wasn’t very friendly last year.”
“Do we have an alternate plan?” asked Helen.
Ever the optimist I replied, “No, because I’m sure he has given permission.”
I was wrong.
When we drove into the camp at noon, Domingo came out of his room and walked slowly toward us.
“The patrón says that he needs the rooms for new workers.”
“But no one is living in them now?”
“No one.” The two creases between his eyes deepened. “And I think no one is coming.”
“And the patrón seldom comes to the camp?”
“Almost never.”
“I wonder why be doesn’t want us to live here.”
“He thinks when you see the outdoor toilets, you will call the sanitary inspectors.”
Domingo looked at our loaded station wagon and then at the empty rooms. “I will carry your boxes into a room.”
A few minutes later Helen, June, and I stood among the boxes on the cement floor and surveyed our living quarters.
The housing had been poorly constructed many years before and some of the boards had shrunk, leaving spaces.
“Gotta get some mud,” muttered Helen.
“Mud?”
“Yes, I don’t like all these spaces between the boards. See where the light shines through? We’re having a hot, dry summer but if the weather turns cool, it’ll be drafty in here.”
She took a pan from one of the boxes and went out for the mud.
June and I made a bed in the lower bunk, but the upper bunk was so high we couldn’t climb into it.
“I’ll borrow an axe from Domingo,” said June as she gazed up at the top bunk.
“An axe?”
“Yes, to cut firewood into smaller pieces and make a ladder to that bunk. Otherwise the three of us will be sleeping in one bed.”
She went out for the axe and the firewood. I put a light bulb in the only socket and built a fire in the stove. Helen came back with the mud and started daubing it into the cracks. June nailed pieces of wood onto the rough supports of the upper bunk.
The fire in the stove crackled. For a change we had a good stove with a shiny, new stovepipe. I warmed soup and made toast on the hot stove top.
“We’ll just hope that the grower doesn’t happen to come to the camp during these two weeks,” said June.
That afternoon we gathered the children for Bible school, and in the evening we started beginning and advanced English classes.
As each day passed, we wondered if the grower or the contractor would discover us and tell us to leave.
The third afternoon Helen came hurrying into the room. She pulled the door closed and fastened the hook.
“There’s a strange car out there with a woman in it. Maybe it’s the grower’s wife.”
We peeked through knotholes in the wall boards.
“It’s the county health nurse,” I said. “I guess she’s come to set a time for T.B. testing and an immunization clinic. I phoned her last week to let her know we would be here to help.”
Late that afternoon when the workers came from the bean fields, the camp settled into a peaceful routine. Little children sat in the dry, powdery dirt and played with chips of wood. Belén went to the water tap to fill her bucket. From the washroom came the swishing sound of the old, wringer washing machines and the soft murmur of women’s voices.
Domingo and Juan leaned against a car parked in front of Domingo’s room. They were probably talking about the cost of buying a pickup truck. From the open door of the room there was the comforting sound of “pat-pat . . . pat-pat.” Rosalia was making corn tortillas.
Down the dirt road a low-slung car raced into the camp. Its hubcaps glittered in the late afternoon sun. Children scattered for safety and people appeared at each door to see the excitement.
Three strange farm workers got out of the car and sauntered across the clearing toward Domingo and Juan. Their voices were low so we couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Rosalia came along the edge of the building to our door. “Don’t go out,” she warned. “They are pachucos, hoodlums. They mean only trouble. You can tell by the tattoo dots on their faces and the tattoos on their hands.
“Why are they here?” asked Helen.
“They say that Juan went to their camp and talked to their sister without a chaperon. They have come for revenge.”
“What will they do?”
“Who knows? Juan says that he has never been in their camp.”
June took a step backward into our room. “The big one has a knife.”
“Ay! Juan, little brother, don’t fight,” Rosalia whispered to herself. “You are no match for those pachucos.”
A blue pickup truck roared into the camp and screeched to a stop. The labor contractor stepped out and the switchblade in his hand came to life.
“Gracias a Dios, thanks to God,” said Rosalia. “The contratista has come to protect us.”
“How did he know?”
“He knows everything.”
The pachucos sauntered back to their car and drove away.
“Why were they willing to leave without a fight?” I asked.
“If they fight with the contratista, they can expect his knife again sometime when they are working in the fields. He has power.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but, Rosalia, if he knows everything, does he know that we are living in the camp?”
Rosalia giggled. “Of course. He says that it’s not worth his effort to tell you to leave.”
“Does the grower know, too?”
“The patrón says you are spies for immigration but we know you aren’t so we don’t pay any attention to what he says about you.”
I looked at Helen and June. “I guess we can stop hiding whenever a strange car drives into the camp.”
At the end of two weeks no workers had come to move into our room.
After we returned home, I wrote a report for the Council of Churches.
Bible school, 10 sessions.
English classes, beginning and advanced, 10 sessions each.
Two trips to prenatal clinic in Portland, five patients.
Helped a crippled child to get special shoes.
Daily visitation.
In cooperation with county health, T.B. testing, immunization clinic.
I took it to the Council of Churches office.
“Good report,” said the Migrant Ministry director.
I wondered if I should tell her about living in the camp and about the knife fight. I decided against the fight, and with some hesitation I said, “I might add that at last we have discovered a way to live in the camp where we teach.”
“How?”
“Just find an empty room and move in.”
“You mean squatters’ rights?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t do that! We would never approve of living in a camp without permission.”
“I guess it isn’t a good idea, but we’ve already done it.”
I tried to muster up some guilt feelings, but they wouldn’t come.
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Copyright 2012, Rolf Erickson