The chicken processing plant in Texas was almost as big as a football field, and Jose Hernandez liked working the line. He was 14 when he and his parents emigrated from Mexico 12 years ago and became U.S. citizens. The plant was only about an hour from the border, so they could occasionally travel back and forth to visit relatives.
Jose was hired right after high school and was proud to move into his own apartment. The work was hard. Some complained of back problems and carpal tunnel syndrome, but Jose was healthy and enjoyed the skilled work with cleavers and shears, and he could work fast. After his first 18 months, he was promoted to manage a portion of the broiler line where they process wings, and then they gave him increasing responsibility. His bosses could see he was well-liked and admired his people skills. Plus he was bilingual. If they needed his co-workers to do something, they spoke to Jose. If they didn’t like something somebody was doing, they spoke to Jose.
His first cousins on his mother’s side — Urzula, Carlos and Pedro — also worked at the plant and lived with his aunt Rosa. They were younger than him, but all were over 18 and they had been hired at his recommendation when they came over the border a few years ago. He was friendly with them, though he knew he needed to keep it even-handed at work. Yet it was Manuel Dominguez from Honduras, who had been hired the previous year, who become Jose’s best friend. When Jose learned they were both born on April 1st , they instantly hit it off, and Jose got him put on first shift. They would often enjoy a cerveza and play eight-ball at the pool hall after work. Manuel would often tell stories explaining how lucky his family was to escape the gangs in Honduras. There were others in his extended family who were not so lucky.
About once a month, Manuel would invite Jose for Sunday dinner in his family’s one bedroom apartment across town. There were three prominent features in the Dominguez’ living room — a gargantuan toy box, a big-screen TV and a U.S. flag that covered an entire wall. Manuel was married to Maria, now three months pregnant with their second child. She liked to cook chicken enchiladas whenever he would visit. The Dominguez’ eldest was a hyperactive two-and-half year-old boy who loved dinosaurs and loved Jose to chase him as T-Rex.
After work in the locker room, the men would typically wash up in a communal sink 10 ft. around with a foot-activated pedal. Some just filed out at the five o’clock whistle. But Manuel was there one day, shirt off, concentrating on soaping his armpits and telling Jose how he was taking Maria out tonight to Highway 55 for their fifth wedding anniversary. Jose surprised him with a splash. “Hey, hermano, don’t forget the cologne.” Manuel laughed. As he buttoned his special Komodo dragon shirt, he turned to Jose. “Can I borrow yours?”
Jose tossed over a plastic bottle of AXE, which Manuel applied liberally to his face and neck. The smell accosted Jose, and he twisted his head around. “Dios mio! You smell like a gigolo.” “It’s your fragrance, mi amigo. Kinda makes you a hooker, es verdad?” As they headed for the door, Jose clapped Manuel on the back: “We’re both fools. Maria will love it.”
Like most nights, Jose cooked sausage and peppers for dinner and covered a sub roll with hot sauce before biting in. He downed half a six-pack of Dos Equis and watched “Jeopardy” and the 10 o’clock news before setting his morning alarm. At 3:13 a.m., Jose sat bolt upright, panting. It was a recurring nightmare that had started in November, just before Thanksgiving. His heart pounded with the foreboding of crated chickens in a runaway 18-wheeler. Something horrible was going to happen. The details were fuzzy, but always the same. He sensed machismo in the darkness, a gang hyped up on testosterone and adrenaline. There were lots of them, and he could almost smell their breath. Their chant dripped with vitriol: “Run, you bastards! You leaches don’t belong here. We’ll claw your eyes out, slit your throats, and drink your blood.”
Out of the black, a man with a meat-grinder voice gave the order to spread out. Boots clicked and they scattered like cucarachas with a common brain. As they fanned into a half-moon, he could never see their bodies, only daggers of light slashing trails of Zs that faded from white to crimson. Jose tried to scream, but no words would come. He tried again, breathless, then again. Finally he mustered a feeble, guttural groan. He awoke, mouth agape, shuddering in terror, wondering if his heart could hold out against the pounding. Finally, his mind conjured a thought that seemed calming, at least at first. The absurdity almost made him snicker: He had heard too many tales from Manuel’s harrowing life on the streets of Tegucigalpa. His Honduran friend was street-smart and quick, and he had cheated death several times.
Once, cornered in an alley, Manuel fought off five members of the Red Bandana gang who wielded switchblades and broken bottles. The leader, a heavyset boy with eyes like death and a scar across his cheek, was no more than 14. Manuel approached the boy slowly holding out his wallet with a disarming smile. Then he kicked him in the groin and ran through the hole. There were many stories like this. Last summer Manuel grabbed a tire iron to fight off two Red Bandanas with machetes outside a bodega. They wanted to take advantage of Maria, and he left them bleeding and bruised. The next day, his family gathered their cash, packed knapsacks with fruit and a change of clothes, and hiked their way to Mexico.
Jose’s mind drifted again in the aftermath of his night terror, a ship searching for shore. He knew he was blessed with a great job and a decent life in Texas. His citizenship papers were genuine, and he even voted for the first time in the presidential election last Fall. As he reflected though, he was not certain about his cousins’ status or hundreds of other Hispanic co-workers who had migrated from Central and South America. Some were Dreamers. But all had green cards or working papers or they wouldn’t have been hired. Jose knew in his heart that his employer, a top U.S. chicken supplier, really cared about its employees. Workers received medical benefits, paid vacations, and access to 401Ks. Reliable performers took home Christmas bonuses so they could take care of their families.
In the early spring though, things started to change. The plant manager called Jose into his office for morning coffee. He said the company needed to pare back, and he wanted Jose to start identifying weak workers, those who couldn’t keep pace or didn’t exhibit the right attitude. At the same time, management would be keeping better statistics on the performance of all plant employees. The manager wanted 10 names by the end of the week.
The plant operated on three shifts, five days a week. Although the 900-plus workforce was about 80 percent Hispanic, six of the slackers Jose identified were white. Seven of the 10 were dismissed, but only three of the whites, and Jose was asked to look for more candidates for dismissal. Unbeknownst to him, the three who were kept on were related to someone in the front office. He did serve up three more names, all of them Hispanic, and they were all dismissed. Painful, but necessary, Jose thought.
But the following month, there were 20 new hires, five Hispanics and 15 whites — and the plant manager then told Jose he needed to nominate 25 more slackers to let go. He did as he was asked, and he now understood the unspoken target ratios. Yet now he was developing a reputation among the workers. Outside after work, his youngest cousin Urzula called him a ‘traidor a tu raza (traitor to your race).
Jose’s nightmare kept happening, and with increasing frequency. He wanted to ask the company doctor for something to help him sleep, but he decided not to risk it. After six months, the workforce was becoming noticeably more white-and-black and less brown. Most of the new hires weren’t as dexterous or as appreciative of the work as the immigrants. Resentments began to build particularly between ‘the gringos’ and ‘the spics.’ (The Blacks mostly kept their heads down to avoid being targeted.)
One evening in the parking lot, Jose found his Toyota among about a dozen cars with slashed tires. Cameras were installed, but problems persisted with occasional keyings or slashings, especially on days when people were let go. After work, fights would break out at local bars.
One 20-something roughneck went to the hospital after a knife fight. They were both dismissed the next day, and management issued an official warning about outside and online behavior. Last week right after first shift, a woman in a dark pantsuit visited. Although she didn’t wear a uniform, someone spotted her getting into a sedan with an insignia on the door: Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). The following morning, one hundred and thirty-seven people did not show up for work, and they never returned. Jose was glad to see that his cousins were not among them, and Manuel was still there too. But it would take weeks to re-staff.
Jose often joked with Manuel about his own lack of sleep. After Manuel and Maria had their baby girl, the men had poor sleep in common. Still, Jose was genuinely concerned about Manuel because he seemed to be struggling to stay alert the last few weeks. Yesterday everything came to a head. Manuel was driving a forklift, carrying a 500 lb. tote bin to the loading dock. Backing up though, he struck a meat cart which toppled to the floor in view of the manager’s office. A Black worker who was pushing the cart was uninjured. Manuel jumped to the ground and started throwing cut pieces of meat back in the bin with help from the other man.
Accidents like this did not happen often, and as soon as Jose saw the spill, he hustled over. The manager, who happened to observe the whole thing, swung open his door with a twisted face and summoned him. Once Jose was inside, the manager simply said, “You know what you have to do.”
That night, Jose could not eat. His stomach was gnawing with acid and guilt. After Jose switched off the TV, he tossed and turned for hours. He could only imagine Maria’s devastation when Manuel arrived home. He should have called. But what could he say? When sleep finally came, Jose soon heard the voices: “Run, you bastards! You leaches don’t belong here. We’ll claw your eyes out, slit your throats, and drink your blood.”
Ten minutes after Jose arrived at work the next morning, two dozen men in ICE uniforms poured through the loading dock doors. The cockroaches fanned out with billy clubs and started taking people away in handcuffs. He cried when he saw Pedro and Carlos. A minute later Urzula, too, was in handcuffs. As she passed Jose, she spat at him. “Traidor!”
When Jose called his parents at the break to tell them what happened, they were already wailing in tears. His aunt Rosa had been taken as well. They were all gone. That night before bed, Jose slid open the drawer to his night table and pulled out a stiletto. It had been purchased from the local pawn shop, a Christmas gift from Manuel, and featured a dragon’s head carved into the white marble handle. Exhausted, Jose fell asleep clutching it under his pillow, his thumb on the release.
When the gang came for Jose that night, he was ready, and there was no fear. He could not see them, but in the shadows, they could not see him either. He waited for the man to speak, then zeroed in on the voice. In one smooth motion, Jose released the blade and sprang forward like a panther, plunging the thin, cold metal into the man’s chest. A fountain of blood spurted and formed a widening pool on the floor. Dozens of boots around him slipped as if on black ice. Heads crashed; mouths opened in silent screams of pain. Those who could, ran. Those who could not were cut to sausage.
In the morning, Jose called out sick. He was not sure he would ever go back, but he was sure something had to change. Ideally, he would stay and form a union with the company’s blessing and make them put up or shut up. If necessary, he would change jobs. But either way, he would also fight for his people from the outside. His next call was to the American Civil Liberties
Union (ACLU), and he spent the rest of the day contacting top immigration law firms. If there was one thing Manuel had taught him, it was the importance of learning to street fight. Jose was now all in.
