I remember entering through the loading dock. Immediately on the right, was the break room -- nothing special, just some cafeteria-style tables with folding chairs. The walls were institutional light blue. There was a huge picture window that allowed people to peak into the warehouse while on break.
Further up on the right was the time clock. The room was cavernous.
I could hear the clanking of dozens machines. A slow steady rhythm filled the air. An alternating 25 count. Overlapping. Overlapping. Over and Over. White noise everywhere. Black screeching every-now-and-then. Steam in the air. Or was it humidity? Whatever it was -- you could drink it. The smell of electricity and sweat. Dirt. Mechanical humming. And heat. Big windows near the ceiling at the back wall. The sun poured in.
Spread out to the left were work stations.
My mom worked at this factory. Every night from 11:30 p.m to 7:30 a.m. she would take her place at her designated work station. The huge plastic rolls would be processed through the assembler, cut into bags and thrown into the hopper. Mom would take the bags from the hopper, staple them together (using a cardboard holder), and throw them in a box until the box was full. She would then manually seal the box and throw it down a conveyor belt. She would average about 20 boxes an hour. On her feet. Average temperature, 85 degrees. She started doing this when she was approximately 45 years old. She did it for 12 years. Why? So she could send me to private Catholic school. After 12 years, they fired her because she couldn't keep up with the younger workers. No pension, no party, no nothing. She did leave with varicose veins, an enlarged heart, deformed-arthritic hands, and a full head of white hair.
One year during the holidays, Mom took a catalog of Christmas cards to work with her and sold them to her coworkers on my behalf. [Think of it as an an early precursor to Sally Foster.] She sold over 200 orders. "It's for my kid," she'd say. "He's going to be a lawyer one day," she'd smile. "That one is smart." The women would chime not knowing me from Adam. But, they knew what to do. They bought cards, they bought candles, they bought all sorts of shit from each other. Why? Because they knew that if they all pitched in, their kids would get prizes; prizes they would not otherwise get. Those women knew that in that factory they were all the same -- women from Cuba, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Mexico, and yes, even Florida, -- all mothers working feverishly to keep their families fed, clothed and above the water. They worked hard. These were not the ladies who lunched. These were the ladies of the lunch wagon.
I picked a primitive electronic keyboard as my gift from the cards my Mom sold. I learned very quickly that I could mimic a song I had heard simply by pressing the right sequence on the elongated keypad. Although I can't play the piano, I can plunk out almost anything. A gift I treasure to this day.
Thanks Mom. Catholic school was good. College was good. Law School was great. But, perhaps unknowingly, you also gave me the gift of music. Who would have thought that a plastic bag factory could have led to that?
Further up on the right was the time clock. The room was cavernous.
I could hear the clanking of dozens machines. A slow steady rhythm filled the air. An alternating 25 count. Overlapping. Overlapping. Over and Over. White noise everywhere. Black screeching every-now-and-then. Steam in the air. Or was it humidity? Whatever it was -- you could drink it. The smell of electricity and sweat. Dirt. Mechanical humming. And heat. Big windows near the ceiling at the back wall. The sun poured in.
Spread out to the left were work stations.
My mom worked at this factory. Every night from 11:30 p.m to 7:30 a.m. she would take her place at her designated work station. The huge plastic rolls would be processed through the assembler, cut into bags and thrown into the hopper. Mom would take the bags from the hopper, staple them together (using a cardboard holder), and throw them in a box until the box was full. She would then manually seal the box and throw it down a conveyor belt. She would average about 20 boxes an hour. On her feet. Average temperature, 85 degrees. She started doing this when she was approximately 45 years old. She did it for 12 years. Why? So she could send me to private Catholic school. After 12 years, they fired her because she couldn't keep up with the younger workers. No pension, no party, no nothing. She did leave with varicose veins, an enlarged heart, deformed-arthritic hands, and a full head of white hair.
One year during the holidays, Mom took a catalog of Christmas cards to work with her and sold them to her coworkers on my behalf. [Think of it as an an early precursor to Sally Foster.] She sold over 200 orders. "It's for my kid," she'd say. "He's going to be a lawyer one day," she'd smile. "That one is smart." The women would chime not knowing me from Adam. But, they knew what to do. They bought cards, they bought candles, they bought all sorts of shit from each other. Why? Because they knew that if they all pitched in, their kids would get prizes; prizes they would not otherwise get. Those women knew that in that factory they were all the same -- women from Cuba, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Mexico, and yes, even Florida, -- all mothers working feverishly to keep their families fed, clothed and above the water. They worked hard. These were not the ladies who lunched. These were the ladies of the lunch wagon.
I picked a primitive electronic keyboard as my gift from the cards my Mom sold. I learned very quickly that I could mimic a song I had heard simply by pressing the right sequence on the elongated keypad. Although I can't play the piano, I can plunk out almost anything. A gift I treasure to this day.
Thanks Mom. Catholic school was good. College was good. Law School was great. But, perhaps unknowingly, you also gave me the gift of music. Who would have thought that a plastic bag factory could have led to that?
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