Despite years of migratory existence, millions of Mexican families make lives on both sides of the border
FRENCH CAMP, CALIF. – It takes 37 hours to get from the tiny village in Michoacan to Stockton, but it’s a trek the Perez family makes twice a year.
Every spring, after the rains have stopped, they pile their pickup high with clothes and food, setting out on the trip that has become a sort of pilgrimage for the farm worker family. They drive 10 to 12 hours a day, stopping only for bathroom breaks or to sleep. They inch through the deserts of Northern Mexico and the long line at the border. They skirt Los Angeles and blow through Bakersfield as they climb up Highway 5.
Eventually, they come to French Camp, as they have for decades, their Chevy pickup a dusty camel that has once again survived the treacherous journey.
“We are like the Bulgarians,” says 50-year-old Guillermo Perez Sepulveda, referring to Roma Gypsies. “We carry our homes with us.”
The Perezes are just one of hundreds of families that since April have been arriving in San Joaquin County to work in the fields and orchards, picking cherries, walnuts and pears and cutting asparagus. Some will stay until October, when most of the camps, such as the one the Perez family is staying at, will close. Others will remain through December, trying to work a few more months before returning to Mexico for the holidays.
Perez began making the trek to the Stockton area in 1965 when he was only 10 years old. He worked in the fields alongside his parents and when he got older, started coming north on his own. His wife Josephina joined him in 1983 and the two have made a life on both sides of the border. Their kids attended San Joaquin County schools, learned English and picked up the mannerisms of their American peers. But the family always returned to Acultzeramo, their tiny village in central Mexico, where they own a home and are surrounded by family and friends.
“I like living there, but we need to be here,” Josephina said. “We need to work for our kids.”
Others have also resigned themselves to the migratory existence that sends them from French Camp to other agricultural communities in Oregon, Southern California and Arizona. For their work, they receive an average of $7 an hour or $5 for each box of cherries they pick. Those who earn more than $80 a day are considered fortunate.
“Nobody likes doing this, but we have no choice,” said Miguel Angel Garibay, 44, who had also recently arrived at the migrant camp with his wife and four kids. “It’s a vicious cycle that forces us to live the way we do.”
Last week, dozens of new arrivals stood in line at the Joseph Artesi Migrant Center, waiting to present identity cards and be given keys to the simple wooden duplexes that would be their homes over the next months. Ryder trucks and vans idled in the parking lot, as families moved back and forth to unload the items they had brought with them. All camp residents are required to have permission to work legally in the U.S.
Nearby, a group of adults greeted familiar faces, shaking hands and slapping backs, as they sought refuge from the already-blazing sun. Their kids ran around, looking for their friends from last year.
“We are a community here,” Guillermo Sepulveda said. “Everyone knows each other and we don’t have any problems. We are here to work.”
Gloria Marquez and her husband, Rafael, are other long-time residents of the camp, but after nearly 40 years of the migrant life, they are thinking of quitting. At 65, Rafael is no longer the spry young man he used to be. His back hurts. His joints ache. But he still ambles out to the fields several months a year in order to supplement his pension.
The Marquez kids, however, aren’t following in their parents’ footsteps. They’ve settled in Southern California, where a son works in construction, two daughters are in real estate and another daughter owns her own business.
“We are glad they are not in the fields,” Gloria says. “It’s too hard and pays so little.”
