One thing that I escaped during my months of sequestration is coming face to face with a certain segment of our society. I live among the city’s most privileged and its most impoverished, all in one block. Between the million-dollar homes down the street are canyons occupied by illegal residents, two of whom startled me during my morning walk today. They were coming out of a wooded area as I was rounding a corner, and I jumped. Then I moved on at a quick clip with my arms swinging emphatically, something that they likely mistook for anger or fear instead of a fitness thing.
They had no idea that I’ve been thinking a lot about their plight since reading in Sunday’s Los Angeles Times magazine about the current conditions of many migrant workers in the San Joaquin Valley, birthplace of many fruits and vegetables likely on display at your supermarket. I highly recommend everyone read the excellent piece of journalism by Mark Arax and photographer Matt Black. It may not change your view of illegal immigration, but it should make you think twice about the price paid for cheap produce. It’ll also explain the title of this post. I don’t think I’ll ever bitch about paying 25 cents for an ear of white corn again. And I’ll probably cry the next time I open a box of raisins.
The Summer of the Death of Hilario Guzman (reg. required)