Reflecting On My Visit To A North Carolina Labor Camp

Written By Trinity Long, NFWM Summer Duke Divinity Intern

It is common knowledge in my rather large family, that my grandfather and his ten other siblings would spend their summers picking watermelon with my great-grandfather. My grandfather started working for other companies once he graduated with his diploma, but every time we would visit my great-grandparent’s house, he would point to fields and tell me that he used to harvest them. I don’t think I quite understood the depths of what he was communicating to me until I went to the labor camps a couple of weeks ago. Even though his experience was a completely different crop, the opposite side of the country, and different documentation status, a new dawning of understanding washed over me. I was able to conceptualize a piece of my grandfather that I never had before. 

Thankfully, the day that we went to the labor camps was a cooler day amidst a heat wave. When I got out of the car and started walking to the housing, I easily could have walked a couple of yards away and touched the tobacco growing. As the sun set, the cool air blowing from the trees coasted along my skin. I could feel the temperature difference causing goosebumps along my skin. Even though there was a building and cars in sight, I was immersed in the land. The city girl in me was in awe of the way the farm surrounded me. It was simultaneously beautiful and isolating. After we heard the stories of the farm workers, they asked me to pray. The one thing they asked for me to pray for was not necessarily anything for themselves, or their families, but simply rain. I am still grappling with that simple request.

As this internship goes on, I realize just how out of touch I am with the land. Even though the land is integral to my faith and conception of the world, I do not know the land intimately. When I complain about the rain being an inconvenience to my life, the lack of rain is affecting the livelihoods of farm workers. Since North Carolina has not had a lot of rain this season, the crops will not have as big of a harvest. Even though I grew up in a state that is in a perpetual drought, somehow I forget about the sanctity of water. How I take this natural resource for granted. 

As I was shaking hands with all the farm workers, I realized that my hands were soft compared to the callused hands of all the men. Does that not speak to the way that I hold the privileged experience of not using my hands as a form of work? I learned so much in just a couple of hours, and I could write out the stories of these men that I heard. Their stories are important and need to be told as they are often working in the shadows of the country without proper recognition or treatment. I am angry, sad, disappointed, and surprised. In full transparency, I do not want to share farm workers’ stories because I fear that people will not listen, or worse misuse them for their gain. These are humans who deserve respect and dignity.

As we left the camps under the cover of darkness, I looked up to the clear sky. The stars shone with pride and light. I was reminded that I was leaving these camps, the sun would rise in the morning, and the farm workers would go out again and work. Part of me desperately wanted to sink to the soil and cry. In awe of the stars, in awe of the land, in awe of my passivism, in awe of the men I met. May there be rain, and may we still thank the skies whenever we feel a slight feeling of inconvenience because of the weather. The prayers I offer before meals will be forever changed, and I hope I never lose sight of the calloused hands I shook.