GROWING UP IN A COUNTRY CLAIMING LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL

 

As a young boy of ten I got to see the Statue of Liberty from a distance.  Honestly, I don't recall if the view was from the ferry encircling Ellis Island or from the shoreline of New York Harbor.  It was 63 years ago. 

Likely it was my mother, the parent most receptive to questions, who gave me the impression that anyone coming to America could stay here as long as they worked hard and obeyed the laws.

When my dad's never-ending quest to find a job he could keep took us to Pilot Rock, Oregon, I encountered kids from the Umatilla Indian Reservation, now called simply the Umatilla Reservation.  

The reservation concept was troubling and the explanation that "they just wanted to be with their people" was not satisfying.

In my home state of Washington, some of my fisherman friends would complain that the indigenous people, "Indians," as we called them back then, could catch fish without limits, using nets if they wanted, no license needed.

I always found that funny, but, considering what native Americans gave up for unlimited fishing rights, it was not.

Our next family move was to Payette, Idaho, the summer before the 8th grade. and I saw a sign asking for strawberry pickers.

Walking to the designated address downtown, I boarded a bus headed for Fruitland, Idaho, the next closest town.  

I was the only white guy on a bus filled with men, women and children, so-called migrants from Mexico.

Once in the fields, everyone seemed to know what to do but me.  Finally, someone handed me a tray, saying:  

"Fill that up son, then bring it back to us and we will pay you." 

I'm sure I thought that I would be pretty good at berry picking as I'd done it so many times at my grandparent's farm in Maple Valley, Washington.

They had four rows of raspberries, plus black caps in the garden, but, on the property, blackberries, thimble berries, goose berries and huckleberries.

Grandma and I had a standing agreement that, if I picked a pailful of berries, she would make a pie.  I used to find it funny to mix several kinds of berries in one pail, but she never complained.

But, this field of strawberries proved hard to pick as it was obviously not the first picking.  Berries were few and far between and a lot of ground had to be covered to fill a tray.

Then, when I took my first tray to get payment, it was rejected.

"It's not full, boy.  It needs to be mounded up," I was told.

When even my second tray was rejected, I realized the farmer wanted it mounded up so high the berries would almost be falling off.

Soon, I knew I was not going to make much money at all and  stopped working at my original frantic pace, just waiting for the work day to end.

At sundown, we were told the day was over.

We got into the bus back to Payette and I walked home from there, getting home well past dark.

My mom was happy to see me home, saying she'd been worried.

"I made less than two dollars," I told her.

"And, I'm never going back."

It soon dawned on me that not everyone who came to America or already lived here was given the same rights and opportunities.