Afterward
In retrospect, I have to confess that my potato-strewn path of glory ended on an ugly note.
I was horrified when I realized that some of the people I was working with were racists. The truck drivers who took our spuds away to distant fields were sometimes Hispanic, and one guy was black. I didn't think much about it, of course. I thought so little, in fact, that it took me days to realize that I was amidst some world-class xenophobes.
I was working away on the conveyor belt, and something was said. At first it completely went over my head, because it was so unexpected, it just came to my ears as nonsense.
One guy, I think it was Barry, the guy who looked out for rocks on the rollers, occasionally shouted out, "I'm gonna get a whip." Busy as I was with potatoes, and as much as Barry chattered, I just figured he was giving Angela a hard time or something. I thought it was a weird, abstract thing to be saying, but I'd always thought he was a bit odd, so I just ignored it.
Then later in the break shed, something else was said. At first, again, it nearly escaped my notice. Barry and some of the other guys started talking about the truck driver, referring to him as "Sugar Ray" and saying something about him coming to work in his pajamas.
I hadn't paid much attention to the truck drivers. They were usually pretty far away, doing things I didn't understand to their big, scary trucks. But I had noticed that the black truck driver wore a black dew rag on his head and long red basketball shorts. That's not clothing you see every day in Bozeman.
If you don't live in Montana, you have no idea what it's like to live in a place where practically everyone is white. Bozeman and the surrounding suburban sprawl is home to about 50,000 white folks. Statistically, it's 95.3% white, 1.5% Hispanic, 1.4% Native American and 1.2% multiracial, which leaves people of African descent sharing the remaining .5% with everyone else who falls into the "other" category. In other words, the entire black population of Bozeman could probably fit in my house.
So Barry and a couple of the other guys were talking, and I realized, suddenly, that they were talking about this black truck driver, calling him Sugar Ray. It irritated me, but they have a culture of picking on everyone, so I lumped it with the way they called one truck driver Tumbleweed, because of his puffy hair. Then suddenly, to my nausea, I realized that when Barry had been yelling "I'm gonna get a whip," he hadn't just been having Tourette's outbursts. He had been taunting this truck driver. It all started to piece together and I realized that that, and other things I had been tuning out, were classic, shitty, cowardly racism.
Needless to say, the minute I put it all together, I felt like strangling Barry. Obviously, he was afraid to face the man and tell him "I don't like you because you're black," so instead, he shouted taunts under the protection of the loudly running conveyor belt. He followed up with the stereotyped nickname, and other little jabs that could be swept away with a two-faced "we're just kidding you, can't you take a joke?"
The worst part was that while Jim, the father figure in our Family Affair, gingerly steered Barry from the subject, he didn't send Barry packing. I wanted him to stand up and punch Barry in the jaw, like John Wayne. I wanted him to defend the honor of this isolated community with ways that I had worked so hard to respect, despite their strangeness.
Of course, it occurred to me that Jim might think Barry was an idiot and an asshole who did deserve a good John Wayne punch, but weighed that knowledge against the shortage of experienced potato sorters available. Still, there was a raw spot in my mind that wondered if Jim was actually a racist, too. How could it be? A man so deeply faithful... I don't know much about religion, but if I understand Christianity at all, it's not supposed to make people hate their fellow man. Granted, I know it backfires a good share of the time, but I had hoped better of Jim's clan. I still do hope.
Still, I was sickened and saddened. I felt unwelcome and outnumbered. I didn't know whether to leave in a huff, confront Jim and insist that he have a talk with the group about racism and set down some ground rules for appropriate conversation, confront Barry personally (possibly by busting his car windows), or just remove my personal feelings and continue a passionless observation their foreign ways. Worse yet, I didn't like what my wishy-washyness said about me. If I wanted so much for Jim to stand up and be a hero for my ideals, why was I too small and too scared to do it myself?
The whole experience stripped away the magic fog from Potatoland. I saw that ignorance is never so isolated that it is harmless. I saw it, but I still didn't know what to do about it.
So, to my shame, instead of standing up and being the person I wish I were, I took the easy way out. I quietly culled myself from the load. I'd like to think that I'm worthy of being among the heart shaped potatoes. But I'm not so sure.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Monday, May 7, 2007
The Potatoland Diaries - Chapter 10
The potatoland diaries eulogy, May 7, 2007
"What happened?"
The potatoland diaries were cut sort in their starchy prime. Sadly, I got a real job (sort of) so my potato sorting life, along with the free time that its takes to blog about other people's lunch boxes up and dried on the vine. But hey, eight days. That's a hell of lot of potatoes.
"What happened?"
The potatoland diaries were cut sort in their starchy prime. Sadly, I got a real job (sort of) so my potato sorting life, along with the free time that its takes to blog about other people's lunch boxes up and dried on the vine. But hey, eight days. That's a hell of lot of potatoes.
Monday, April 2, 2007
The Potatoland Diaries - Chapter 9
DAY 8 — April 2, 2007
"Lunch boxes"
The men folk all have the same kind of lunchbox.
They are dark green, plastic coolers, about the right size for going on an overnight camp-out with three or four friends. And they have a really neat lid that holds a manly-looking metal thermos on top. The lunch boxes are often brought to them by their wives, well before coffee time, which happens after two or three loads of potatoes, around ten o'clock.
I never get tired of Jim saying "coffee time!" It's not just the promise of respite from the rumbling hoard, or the thrill of the carbohydrate-laden delights that Mare might serve -- I also like the way he says it. "Coffee time" sounds so 1950s to me. It's kind of refined, in a way. It implies a nice little home-baked spice cookie and a bit of innocent gossip.
It sounds like maybe I should fix my hair a bit (not that such a thing would be possible, since, A. I learned after the first day that you may as well wait to shower until AFTER you are caked in potato dirt and, B. for the past two hours my hair has been plastered down under a hat that I made out of a boiled wool sweater).
Anyway, "coffee time" sounds nice. "Break time" might imply cigarettes, small-scale gambling, going to the can, and possibly even sneaking a beer, but "coffee time" adds a layer of pink gingham to my world of dirt clods and tuberous aberrations.
Usually, like clockwork, one of the wives arrives doubly laden with a thermos-topped green lunch box and a steaming plate of cookies or something. (Do they use some instinctive wifely storm-sense to know which of them is bringing the baked goods, or do they call each other on the phone the night before?) But on the occasion when providence doesn't offer baked goods, the guys dig in their green lunch boxes for a piece of leftover cake, or whatever.
At lunch time, I watch the men get out their sandwiches. They usually look like the traditional construction worker style sandwich -- salami and the like. (All except for Matthew, who, as I explained, receives a hot, three course meal served family style, in clean pickle jars.) Tom eats his sandwich on a hoagie bun.
I try to grab a spot on the bench that will provide enough space for the arrival of the Jason family, and delve up to my armpit into the red mesh bag that serves as my lunch courier. The rat-chewn looking hole in the bag's side is evidence that I had been too impatient to open it from the top when it had first entered my life as a sack of oranges. My sandwich is pepper jack cheese on some gnarly specialty bakery bread. From its looks, I could have baked it myself, but it probably doesn't fool Joyce or any others in the "just baked it" family.
"Lunch boxes"
The men folk all have the same kind of lunchbox.
They are dark green, plastic coolers, about the right size for going on an overnight camp-out with three or four friends. And they have a really neat lid that holds a manly-looking metal thermos on top. The lunch boxes are often brought to them by their wives, well before coffee time, which happens after two or three loads of potatoes, around ten o'clock.
I never get tired of Jim saying "coffee time!" It's not just the promise of respite from the rumbling hoard, or the thrill of the carbohydrate-laden delights that Mare might serve -- I also like the way he says it. "Coffee time" sounds so 1950s to me. It's kind of refined, in a way. It implies a nice little home-baked spice cookie and a bit of innocent gossip.
It sounds like maybe I should fix my hair a bit (not that such a thing would be possible, since, A. I learned after the first day that you may as well wait to shower until AFTER you are caked in potato dirt and, B. for the past two hours my hair has been plastered down under a hat that I made out of a boiled wool sweater).
Anyway, "coffee time" sounds nice. "Break time" might imply cigarettes, small-scale gambling, going to the can, and possibly even sneaking a beer, but "coffee time" adds a layer of pink gingham to my world of dirt clods and tuberous aberrations.
Usually, like clockwork, one of the wives arrives doubly laden with a thermos-topped green lunch box and a steaming plate of cookies or something. (Do they use some instinctive wifely storm-sense to know which of them is bringing the baked goods, or do they call each other on the phone the night before?) But on the occasion when providence doesn't offer baked goods, the guys dig in their green lunch boxes for a piece of leftover cake, or whatever.
At lunch time, I watch the men get out their sandwiches. They usually look like the traditional construction worker style sandwich -- salami and the like. (All except for Matthew, who, as I explained, receives a hot, three course meal served family style, in clean pickle jars.) Tom eats his sandwich on a hoagie bun.
I try to grab a spot on the bench that will provide enough space for the arrival of the Jason family, and delve up to my armpit into the red mesh bag that serves as my lunch courier. The rat-chewn looking hole in the bag's side is evidence that I had been too impatient to open it from the top when it had first entered my life as a sack of oranges. My sandwich is pepper jack cheese on some gnarly specialty bakery bread. From its looks, I could have baked it myself, but it probably doesn't fool Joyce or any others in the "just baked it" family.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
The Potatoland Diaries - Chapter 8
DAY 7 — March 29, 2007
"Russet stampede, continued more"
What was I thinking?
"Russet stampede, continued more"
What was I thinking?
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
The Potatoland Diaries - Chapter 6
DAY 5 — March 28, 2007
"Russet stampede"
My sister, Shawna, thought that potato sorting sounded fun and interesting.
I knew that Jim was looking for more people, since Maureen would be in South Dakota visiting her grandkids during the week that we were going to have to sort "those big russets," an event to which Jim referred in a tone that made it sound like russets were something you might release, red-eyed and snorting with fury, from a heavily reinforced corral. So I asked him if he wanted me to bring my sister, and he said yes.
I had some fun, after that, dreaming up what to tell Shawna she needed to bring.
"Obviously, bring your cutlass. They get dull after awhile, so it might be good to bring two..." I mused.
But you have to get up pretty early in the morning to fool Shawna, so I gave up on the idea of trying to dupe her into coming dressed in pirate attire.
I did tell her to bring gloves and goggles. Her imagination had already supplied the rest of her ensemble: The worn (but clean) calico frock, topped off by a pair of men's overalls... The dotted kerchief tied over her curls, with one or two locks venturing out to cling to her careworn cheek... And, of course, the ubiquitous homemade Karo tin lunch pail with the wax paper-wrapped sandwiches.
We met in Border's parking lot at 8, and she actually was wearing overalls, I think, but the rest of the agreed-upon vision was only imagined. She had a shopping bag lunch, and from the loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter peeking out, I could see we belonged to the same school of lunch preparation.
It was cold, with flakes of snow blowing in a northeast wind. The russets were stomping and kicking up dust. Our task was to sort for rot, misshapen potatoes, rocks, clods... Oh, and to remove every potato that was larger than 10 ounces, which turned out to be nearly all of them.
My memory blurs. I don't even remember who pushed the green button on the conveyor that first time. But somehow, 500,000 potatoes came thundering off the rollers, choking us with dust. Our arms moved in fast motion, just like in that "I Love Lucy" episode that I have often used as an example of what my perfect job might be. But Lucy got to eat the chocolates. Those big, dirty russets didn't hold quite the same appeal.
It was probably pretty disappointing for Shawna that we didn't get to sing the banana boat song with substituted potato lyrics as she had imagined. She was too busy grabbing oversized spuds off those rollers to look up, or think. They went by so fast, it was like trying to empty a river with a tablespoon.
When, finally, the last potato rolled into the last truck, Shawna went into the break shed to fill out a W-4 form, so she would get paid for her day's work. The day probably equaled about an hour and a half of her professional wage as a technical writer. And it certainly won't be enough to cover the massage work it is going to take to erase the memory of the russet stampede.
"Russet stampede"
My sister, Shawna, thought that potato sorting sounded fun and interesting.
I knew that Jim was looking for more people, since Maureen would be in South Dakota visiting her grandkids during the week that we were going to have to sort "those big russets," an event to which Jim referred in a tone that made it sound like russets were something you might release, red-eyed and snorting with fury, from a heavily reinforced corral. So I asked him if he wanted me to bring my sister, and he said yes.
I had some fun, after that, dreaming up what to tell Shawna she needed to bring.
"Obviously, bring your cutlass. They get dull after awhile, so it might be good to bring two..." I mused.
But you have to get up pretty early in the morning to fool Shawna, so I gave up on the idea of trying to dupe her into coming dressed in pirate attire.
I did tell her to bring gloves and goggles. Her imagination had already supplied the rest of her ensemble: The worn (but clean) calico frock, topped off by a pair of men's overalls... The dotted kerchief tied over her curls, with one or two locks venturing out to cling to her careworn cheek... And, of course, the ubiquitous homemade Karo tin lunch pail with the wax paper-wrapped sandwiches.
We met in Border's parking lot at 8, and she actually was wearing overalls, I think, but the rest of the agreed-upon vision was only imagined. She had a shopping bag lunch, and from the loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter peeking out, I could see we belonged to the same school of lunch preparation.
It was cold, with flakes of snow blowing in a northeast wind. The russets were stomping and kicking up dust. Our task was to sort for rot, misshapen potatoes, rocks, clods... Oh, and to remove every potato that was larger than 10 ounces, which turned out to be nearly all of them.
My memory blurs. I don't even remember who pushed the green button on the conveyor that first time. But somehow, 500,000 potatoes came thundering off the rollers, choking us with dust. Our arms moved in fast motion, just like in that "I Love Lucy" episode that I have often used as an example of what my perfect job might be. But Lucy got to eat the chocolates. Those big, dirty russets didn't hold quite the same appeal.
It was probably pretty disappointing for Shawna that we didn't get to sing the banana boat song with substituted potato lyrics as she had imagined. She was too busy grabbing oversized spuds off those rollers to look up, or think. They went by so fast, it was like trying to empty a river with a tablespoon.
When, finally, the last potato rolled into the last truck, Shawna went into the break shed to fill out a W-4 form, so she would get paid for her day's work. The day probably equaled about an hour and a half of her professional wage as a technical writer. And it certainly won't be enough to cover the massage work it is going to take to erase the memory of the russet stampede.
Friday, March 23, 2007
The Potatoland Diaries - Chapter 5
DAY 4 — March 23, 2007
"Jim's Birthday"*
Angela made a special "older than dirt" cake today, in celebration of Jim's birthday. He turned 58. It consisted of a large bowl of instant butterscotch pudding with crumbled nilla wafers on top. I hope she will excuse me for saying I don't have very fond memories of it.
The spuds were about the same today, mostly good, with a few rocks, the occasional heart-shape, and a fair amount of rot. We filled 11 semi-loads, plus a farm truck. I'm going to ask, one of these days, just about how many potatoes that might be. I expect it's a lot.
Toward the end of the day, there was a bit of tension in the air because we had to stop the conveyor several times. Apparently the buyer fines heavily for any rocks found in the load.
After we four "girls" have done our part, a fellow named Barry checks the spuds over again as they cascade off of the conveyor. Then two men (usually Jim and a young guy whose name I don't know) keep watch on either side of the ramp that goes up into the semi. (Actually, for all I know, there may be other sorters ahead of us on the front end of the machine, but I've never had a chance to investigate.) Each time a rock gets by us and hits the metal roller on its way to Barry, we hear a disappointing ping. If he misses it, and it makes it all the way to the loading ramp, they stop the conveyors to search it out, rather than risk its sneaking onto the truck.
Spying rocks among all those racing potatoes takes concentration -- because guess what ten zillion muddy potatoes ALL look like? (Yes, they all look like dinosaur poo, but that's not what I was getting at.) It's not at all like seeing the blue duck among all the yellow ones floating in that perplexing circular river at the carnival. Every time you snick out a rock, you feel like you've saved a life, or something.
Barry ribs Angela, who is ahead of me on the belt, for missing the rocks. She ribs back, but I can tell her feelings are a little hurt. As usual, I tend to blend into the scenery, so they sort of pretend like I don't exist, which is good by me. I use my best Taoist thinking in order not to worry too much about the missed rocks.
"Each of us is doing his best," I think to myself, "and if we do that, it's the best we can do." Then I sometimes add, "This is only potato sorting, for Chrissake." I don't expect that's textbook Taoism, but it's what I can muster, under the circumstances.
The rocks might not have gotten me down if it hadn't been for the migraine headache. Imagine having a headache that feels like someone drugged you, removed your left eye and the area behind it with an oversized apple corer, and then left you to gradually recover from the anesthetic. Then imagine looking at ten zillion racing potatoes, trying to discern which ones are actually rocks in potato disguise, while the sun shines and the breeze blows through the hole left behind by the apple corer. Then imagine doing all this without the aid of life-giving coffee, but with a lump of butterscotch flavored "older than dirt" cake in your gut.
It's probably my own fault that I got the headache. I got distracted answering e-mails in the morning. By the time I realized it was time to go, rather than making my cute little farm girl lunch of waxed paper wrapped sandwiches and a slice of blueberry pie carried in a Karo syrup can with a wire handle, it was all I could do to grab the jar of almond butter and a loaf of bread and run for the door.
I didn't have time to fill my (deadly?) nalgene water bottle or swill down a cup of coffee. At the red light on Durston and 19th I located a plastic spoon in the glove compartment. While stopped by Smith's grocery, hastily and regrettably, I managed to spread almond butter on a piece of bread, and snarfed down the dry, yet sticky result while speeding down the interstate to the Belgrade exit.
I was very thirsty when I pulled up at Sortingville, but I could hear the conveyors running. I had donned my $3.99 gloves as I drove down Cameron Bridge road, so I charged straight to spudland without any further delay. And you already know the part about the apple corer.
The rest of the day was spent in a rather reflective mood. I alternated between focusing wanly on the dizzying potato highway, sucking down quarts of water and watery farmer coffee, mindlessly stuffing myself with a variety of "Jim's birthday" food offerings and lying down on the ground.
It's a shame, too. This was the best food day, ever. Barry cut up fresh potatoes and French fried pan after pan of them over a propane stove, serving them up with salt out of a big tin shaker and all the ketchup you could want. "Janny," Jim's wife, brought ice cream and peach cobbler in the afternoon. That's also when the wife of that burly fellow I'd taken to be single showed up with at least part of their brood. (Maybe his fingers are too big to fit inside a wedding band.)
Some days the bloom is off the tater rose.
*The names in my diary have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
"Jim's Birthday"*
Angela made a special "older than dirt" cake today, in celebration of Jim's birthday. He turned 58. It consisted of a large bowl of instant butterscotch pudding with crumbled nilla wafers on top. I hope she will excuse me for saying I don't have very fond memories of it.
The spuds were about the same today, mostly good, with a few rocks, the occasional heart-shape, and a fair amount of rot. We filled 11 semi-loads, plus a farm truck. I'm going to ask, one of these days, just about how many potatoes that might be. I expect it's a lot.
Toward the end of the day, there was a bit of tension in the air because we had to stop the conveyor several times. Apparently the buyer fines heavily for any rocks found in the load.
After we four "girls" have done our part, a fellow named Barry checks the spuds over again as they cascade off of the conveyor. Then two men (usually Jim and a young guy whose name I don't know) keep watch on either side of the ramp that goes up into the semi. (Actually, for all I know, there may be other sorters ahead of us on the front end of the machine, but I've never had a chance to investigate.) Each time a rock gets by us and hits the metal roller on its way to Barry, we hear a disappointing ping. If he misses it, and it makes it all the way to the loading ramp, they stop the conveyors to search it out, rather than risk its sneaking onto the truck.
Spying rocks among all those racing potatoes takes concentration -- because guess what ten zillion muddy potatoes ALL look like? (Yes, they all look like dinosaur poo, but that's not what I was getting at.) It's not at all like seeing the blue duck among all the yellow ones floating in that perplexing circular river at the carnival. Every time you snick out a rock, you feel like you've saved a life, or something.
Barry ribs Angela, who is ahead of me on the belt, for missing the rocks. She ribs back, but I can tell her feelings are a little hurt. As usual, I tend to blend into the scenery, so they sort of pretend like I don't exist, which is good by me. I use my best Taoist thinking in order not to worry too much about the missed rocks.
"Each of us is doing his best," I think to myself, "and if we do that, it's the best we can do." Then I sometimes add, "This is only potato sorting, for Chrissake." I don't expect that's textbook Taoism, but it's what I can muster, under the circumstances.
The rocks might not have gotten me down if it hadn't been for the migraine headache. Imagine having a headache that feels like someone drugged you, removed your left eye and the area behind it with an oversized apple corer, and then left you to gradually recover from the anesthetic. Then imagine looking at ten zillion racing potatoes, trying to discern which ones are actually rocks in potato disguise, while the sun shines and the breeze blows through the hole left behind by the apple corer. Then imagine doing all this without the aid of life-giving coffee, but with a lump of butterscotch flavored "older than dirt" cake in your gut.
It's probably my own fault that I got the headache. I got distracted answering e-mails in the morning. By the time I realized it was time to go, rather than making my cute little farm girl lunch of waxed paper wrapped sandwiches and a slice of blueberry pie carried in a Karo syrup can with a wire handle, it was all I could do to grab the jar of almond butter and a loaf of bread and run for the door.
I didn't have time to fill my (deadly?) nalgene water bottle or swill down a cup of coffee. At the red light on Durston and 19th I located a plastic spoon in the glove compartment. While stopped by Smith's grocery, hastily and regrettably, I managed to spread almond butter on a piece of bread, and snarfed down the dry, yet sticky result while speeding down the interstate to the Belgrade exit.
I was very thirsty when I pulled up at Sortingville, but I could hear the conveyors running. I had donned my $3.99 gloves as I drove down Cameron Bridge road, so I charged straight to spudland without any further delay. And you already know the part about the apple corer.
The rest of the day was spent in a rather reflective mood. I alternated between focusing wanly on the dizzying potato highway, sucking down quarts of water and watery farmer coffee, mindlessly stuffing myself with a variety of "Jim's birthday" food offerings and lying down on the ground.
It's a shame, too. This was the best food day, ever. Barry cut up fresh potatoes and French fried pan after pan of them over a propane stove, serving them up with salt out of a big tin shaker and all the ketchup you could want. "Janny," Jim's wife, brought ice cream and peach cobbler in the afternoon. That's also when the wife of that burly fellow I'd taken to be single showed up with at least part of their brood. (Maybe his fingers are too big to fit inside a wedding band.)
Some days the bloom is off the tater rose.
*The names in my diary have been changed for the sake of anonymity.
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