Undercover in a Chicken Factory

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A telling moment occurred in the break room only three weeks after I arrived. Although I'd eventually tell my new friends that I was an anthropologist, no one knew at the time. However else they viewed me -- as a strange gringo who spoke Spanish, as a blanco who was too stupid to get a good job, or as an inept breading operator -- I wasn't yet seen as an anthropologist or professor.

After pushing us hard that day, Michael gave us free boxes of fried chicken to thank us. He'd do this half a dozen other times while I worked there, and it always got the same reaction. After looking at the chicken, we'd stare at each other until someone said something like this in Spanish: "Pure asshole. I am not going to eat this shit." For an awkward moment we'd glance at each other, look away, and pretend not to know what was going on. Then someone would say: "We can't throw away good food and we're all hungry. Let's eat this shit." And so we would, more pissed off than ever.

Michael's gesture was insulting for many reasons. First, he wasn't just giving us food; he was giving us chicken. Second, it didn't come close to making up for what the workers had just gone through on the plant floor. As paternalism, it was pathetic and transparent. (Why Michael didn't see this is a different question.) Finally, it was insulting because even as we hesitated we knew we'd eat the chicken.

As we chewed the chicken that day, we had the following exchange. No one directly mentioned Michael's gesture, as if all of us had agreed not to relive the humiliation.

Roberto welcomes me into the group: "Ai, Steve, you are almost Mexican. All you need is a Mexican wife to cook you some decent lunch and you would be Mexican."

Alejandro, also from Mexico, chimes in: "Yes, Steve is a Mexican. He speaks Spanish, eats with Mexicans, and he works like a Mexican. It's pure Mexicans here. We all eat chicken."

Elisa, three years on the job, kindly protests: "Ai...I'm not Mexican. I'm Salvadoran."

Alejandro, gently explaining: "Look, we're all Mexicans here [in the plant]. Screwed-over Mexicans." He points at Li, an older woman from Laos. "Look, even she is a Mexican. Pure."

We laugh as Li, who's too far away to hear, quietly devours a chicken wing.

Ana, catching on to Alejandro's point, finally agrees: "Yes, it's the truth. We are Mexicans here in the plant."

I ask, somewhat interested: "And outside the plant, in Springdale, Fayetteville, and Rogers? Are we all Mexicans outside?"

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