WINTER 2012 - National Association of Schools of Public Affairs and ...

Moving Forward
by this contaminant. As a helper I was either outside or below handing tools
and materials to them, so I did not incur the same risks or discomfort they did.
Nevertheless, I could not avoid observing what abhorrent conditions existed;
and it drove home the knowledge that although these workers made good
wages, they paid a heavy price in terms of safety and health. I also discovered
that sometimes it was only the union steward’s intervention that mitigated
some of the worst conditions.
After a year or so, the uncle who had gotten me the job moved away, and my
access to this well-paying union work ended. I did not want to return to selling
shoes, so I searched for other kinds of employment. The jobs that followed further
heightened my awareness of how difficult life can be if you lack money or power.
One job was as a laborer in a pickle factory in the industrial section of East
Los Angeles. (As humorist Dave Barry would say, “I am not making this up.”)
My job was to clean huge, stinking wooden vats (the size of oil storage tanks)
and unload trucks filled with 100-pound bags of cucumbers onto an assembly
line belt where Mexican American women stood in the sweltering sun sorting
them. Most of us were earning minimum wage, but I suspect some were not
even being paid that much. There were none of the ocean breezes that cooled
West Los Angeles, and I never saw a union steward or a state or federal inspector
of any sort.
The other two jobs I held during college also left me with an indelible
awareness of socioeconomic differences. The first was selling Cokes to spectators
at the Los Angeles Coliseum. The pay was worthwhile, but the work was hard.
It involved carrying a case of bottled Cokes and paper cups up and down
steep Coliseum stairs. It was an experience not easily forgotten, but it became
perhaps more meaningful in terms of class awareness because my coworkers were
decidedly anything but middle class. They did not let this stop them, however.
One particular worker, Tony, was a brawny young Mexican man whose regular
job was operating a forklift. I had met him while doing the insulation work I
mentioned earlier. He took me under his wing and showed me how to elbow
my way to the head of the line of applicants (hiring was fluid and occurred
anew with each event). He also taught me to ask for the stadium section, where
customers were more likely to give tips and the stairs were less steep.
After a couple of months at this grueling work, Tony landed us an easier
and more lucrative vending job in the stadium. Once again, my class awareness
was sharply heightened because the work entailed selling peanuts at a gate
where the fans entering were those who had purchased the best stadium seats or
held season tickets in sky boxes. These fans were very rich. At that point in my
life I had become much more aware of clothing, for reasons I need not relate
here. Therefore, I was absolutely awed by the incredibly expensive and stylish
garments worn by the couples coming through those gates. They looked like they
had just stepped from the pages of Vogue. I was not overly envious; but I was
Journal of Public Affairs Education 95