by Dylan Everhart
When putting on my name tag in the morning, I position it so that my name “Washington” can be read easily. I work for a local food processing plant outside of Hazleton, in which I stand over a conveyor belt for hours on end, cutting and cleaning pieces of meat. Putting on my “gear” has become a morning ritual of mine. My “gear” mainly consists of a long sleeve shirt and pants so that if my protective suit at the factory does not protect me from the blood or other messes that are produced from being a butcher, I have a second layer that won’t allow me to become too messy. I also always make sure that I have my ear plugs in my pocket.
When working at my previous job, on a quiet farm in Ecuador, I never needed any ear plugs to protect me from the loud noises of machinery or alarms. I used to grow and inspect bananas for Dole. The rainy season was by far the worst time of year, with large amounts of water threatening to wash away the soil from the plants, but now, I would welcome it. Everyday I am worried, instead, about losing a finger on one of the large knives I have to use.
I miss the old days when I got to work for a company that I respected. Being a banana producer and caretaker for Dole was calming and flexible in a way that most jobs are not. I mostly worked on my own, only taking orders from the head of the farm, and worked hours that allowed me to see my family regularly. Even though I was on call for the most part of my job, I still had the luxury of going home for lunch and spending time with my loving family and friends. I was able to see my kids go to school in the morning and then tuck them into bed at night before they would fall asleep.
Why would I want to leave Ecuador, where I had everything that I needed and plenty of it?
As a butcher in Hazleton, I only have thirty minutes to eat my lunch, which does not allow me to call home and talk with my family, see how they are doing or what they are up to. They are the reason why I moved here: to give them a better life. But comparing what I used to do in Ecuador to what I do now, I am being to wonder if the move was worth it.
Before I start work at the food processing plant, I walk to my locker and put on the rest of my “gear” for the day. I grab my slip resistant boots and my rubber jacket and pants. Pulling everything on and then walking over to the knives, I pick out my necessary “tools.”
Finally, I get to my position on the line. The alarms sound and I put in my ear plugs to block out the loud noises of machinery. I watch as large slabs of meat work there way down the conveyor belt. Pulling the meat off to the side, I slice the large amounts of fat or bad meat away from the good meat. Blood squirts all around onto the metal tables, covering everything that it comes in contact with. The question comes to mind again: How has it come to this?
How has it come to me cutting meat for a living rather than doing something that I love, like working on a farm? I could be working in nature, not in this dark, cold factory. I could avoid the terrible smells and be outside with the sweet smell of the banana plants. I could be talking and playing with my kids whenever I wanted, but now I am stuck here, working for the money that will allow my family to some day move to the United States with me. I work until I can no longer stand, but really, how has it come to this? This hard work will pay off in the future though, hopefully.
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