These people can make a living following the crops by traveling an average of two thousand miles a year. Cherries in Washington. Potatoes in Idaho. Cotton, figs and melons in California. Grapefruit in Arizona. But the family must time it in order to arrive at each harvesting place at exactly the right moment. At the height of the season, it is possible for a worker to make ten dollars a day, but it takes the better part of ten dollars these days to feed a family of five children. Rent is cheap. Some places there is no charge. Most of the camps charge a nominal two or three dollars a week. Too, the mi grants have the continual expense of keeping second-hand cars in running condition. In our social security-conscious nation, the migrants are not eligible for relief of any kind. They never stay long enough to establish a legal residence. The Government does send a teacher to many of the camps to hold classes until noon. The children often attend a dozen or more such schools in a year. At the larger camps there is a store and gas station, where prices are guided only by the conscience of the owner. The migrant has scant opportunity to go into the city to shop. At each camp, at a discreet distance from the workers, is the latest in modern homes, complete with air-conditioning, food freezer and pocket-handkerchief lawn. This is the home of the owner or foreman. His usual attitude toward the migrant is one of lack of interest, aloofness, with the occa sional Lady Bountiful passing on of a discarded garment. The need of seasonal help is a perennial farm or ranch problem. But the migrant problem as such had its birth in the depression. Big machinery, drought, dust storms and depression robbed many small farmers of their income. In worn-out “jallopies” they flocked to the harvest fields of California. The pitiful conditions under which this horde existed resulted in the Federal Government’s building six teen camps to house a scant percentage of them. Their con dition also prompted John Steinbeck to write his best seller, “ Grapes of Wrath.” “ Grapes of Wrath” no doubt pictured migrant conditions as Steinbeck saw them, with all their squalor, misery and sin. With brutal frankness he told all. Consequently, Christians, in the main, would not read a book which insulted their sensibilities. The worldly read it for an emotional thrill. With this reaction on the part of the public, little, if any good, was accomplished by it for the betterment of the migrants. It did, however, do them much harm. It aroused prejudice against them in the minds of many and this prejudice further cut off the migrants from society. The words “ okie” and “ arky” were born into our language as expressions of con tempt. Migrant children attending a local school were taunted by cruel, thoughtless playmates. The shame of this exposure colored the thinking of many, giving them deep-rooted in feriority complexes. Feeling they were unwanted by the churches and organizations of the settled communities, they withdrew into their own squalid world. In this thwarted environment has grown up a second generation. Migrants have married migrants and bred more transients, producing now a third generation. The grime, the heat, the feeling that everything is temporary fills them with inertia. Due to a lack of water, many of them become beer and wine drinkers. But while alcohol is sometimes the prob lem of a certain family, it is not the essential problem. Rather, the real trouble is the over-all living condition. To see a doctor requires a trip to the city. Therefore, a baby may be born in a tent, in the stifling heat, with the flaps up and an army of children as interested witnesses. When a man beats his wife, her wails can be heard throughout the camp. The listeners huddle quietly. It is best not to interfere. This life “ in the raw” produces a feeling as expressed by little Ruthie. A missionary to the migrants was spanking her disobedient child and another missionary, slightly embar rassed by the discipline, asked Ruthie: “ Does your mother spank you like that?”
A man cannot establish a real, permanent home for his family
It’s a hard life for mothers and babies
“No. I’m not that important.” This is the defeated feeling of these children, growing up in typical hobo camps. They are part of the mission field at the back door of the Christian church. (Continued Next Month) These are Americans, too, with a right to “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”
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