A bridge for the divide between Midwestern farmers and their immigrant workers
| Waumandee, Wis.
On the farm of Nettie and John Rosenow, folded in the hills of western Wisconsin, 18 massive Holstein cows file in to be milked, jostling and pushing as they find a place. Mr. Rosenow lends a hand, prodding with a broom handle, while a young man wearing rubber gloves and boots moves quickly up and down the line, disinfecting each cow and attaching the milking machines鈥� rubber cups.
Rosenow has been up since 3:30 a.m., slipping out before dawn 鈥渏ust to check things out.鈥� Born and bred a dairy farmer 鈥� he鈥檚 the fifth generation of Rosenows here 鈥� he began milking cows when just a boy. But he seldom milks anymore. He spends his days selling cow-manure compost 鈥� a profitable sideline on the Rosenow farm 鈥� while 20 employees do the farm鈥檚 heavy work: milking a herd of more than 500 cows, scraping manure, hauling feed聽and sawdust bedding, filling bags of compost, tending calves, and watching over the maternity shed, where on this day a cow is recovering from a late-night cesarean.
Two decades ago, Rosenow and other dairy farmers faced a crisis. For years they had relied on family members, high school students, and other local help to run their farms. But the farms were getting bigger and local people less willing to do the hard, dirty, low-paid work of dairying. In desperation, the farmers turned to workers from Mexico. Rosenow was one of the first.
Why We Wrote This
Although immigration can be a hot-button political topic, this story takes a more personal approach, looking at how some farmers have improved operations by getting to know their foreign workers better.
鈥淲e didn鈥檛 want to do this,鈥� he says. 鈥淲e wanted to hire locally. But we had no choice.鈥�
It鈥檚 a familiar story in US agriculture. But it was disorienting to the dairy farmers, who worked closely with their employees and yet knew little of the new workers鈥� language, customs, and culture.
鈥淭hey were scared to do it,鈥� says Rosenow, explaining that other farmers asked him for advice. 鈥淲hy would you want to hire someone to work for you who speaks another language? It wasn鈥檛 something we were used to in the Midwest.鈥�
The agricultural agent at the University of Wisconsin鈥檚 Buffalo County extension office saw what was happening and recruited a local schoolteacher, Shaun Duvall, to instruct the farmers in Spanish. Ms. Duvall focused on the language of dairying, but the farmers didn鈥檛 learn much. 鈥淚 had no idea it was that hard,鈥� Rosenow says.
So Duvall doubled down. She took them to an intensive language school in Cuernavaca, Mexico. At the end of a week, they made a side trip to Veracruz, the mountainous state from which most of the workers hailed. Some of the families came down from their villages to meet them. The visit created a local sensation: People told the farmers it was the first time employers from the United States had ever come to Veracruz.
鈥淚 came away thinking that this was one of the most powerful things I鈥檇 ever done,鈥� Rosenow says. 鈥淚 thought, this has to continue.鈥�
The visits did continue, and a few years later, he helped Duvall start , a nonprofit that sponsors trips to Mexico. More than 150 farmers have made the trips, most of them from western Wisconsin and southeastern Minnesota. 鈥淚t鈥檚 opened their eyes to a different culture,鈥� Rosenow says.
Duvall says it鈥檚 also made them better employers 鈥� more compassionate. 鈥淚t鈥檚 helped them understand why their employees do what they do. It鈥檚 built trust and commitment between employer and employees. That鈥檚 the greatest thing about it,鈥� she says.
Hugs and pictures
The focus of the trips today is less on learning Spanish and more on introducing the farmers to the workers鈥� families. They exchange hugs, hold small children, and pose for pictures. They pass along clothes, shoes, and sometimes tools from up north. They receive tortilla towels (to keep the tortillas warm when they鈥檙e served), beans, and other gifts to take back.
鈥淚t鈥檚 always a little awkward,鈥� says Duvall, who has organized the trips and served until last year as the program鈥檚 director. 鈥淲hat do you say after hi? They always have a meal.聽Chicken and tortillas, or eggs and tortillas. Some kind of very simple meal. Beans. It鈥檚 always prepared with great love and respect. They鈥檙e excited we鈥檙e there. Mostly it鈥檚, 鈥楬ow鈥檚 my son?鈥� 鈥楬ow are they doing?鈥� 鈥�
Rosenow has gone nine times. He鈥檚 seen the poverty that sends workers north. He鈥檚 observed how workers use their earnings to build bigger and stronger houses and send their children to school. And yes, he鈥檚 gotten to know their families. 鈥淚t鈥檚 had a huge impact on how my employees see me,鈥� he says.
On an early trip, Rosenow discovered that one of his workers had opened a bakery. 鈥淚 had no idea,鈥� he says. He returned home determined to help other workers who wanted to start businesses. He found a teacher at a local university who agreed to give classes on entrepreneurship.
The dairy workers of western Wisconsin are not Hispanic but indigenous. They descend from the Aztecs, and their first language is Nahuatl. Often as many as half of the men from a village are working in the US. Usually they stay a few years and then go home. Many, perhaps most, enter the country illegally.
Rosenow found his first Mexican worker through an ad in the back pages of Hoard鈥檚 Dairyman, a magazine for dairy farmers. He met the man at a bus station in Winona, Minn. They couldn鈥檛 exchange more than a few words, but 鈥渉e knew what he was doing,鈥� Rosenow says. The man worked seven days a week and refused to take a vacation. 鈥淚 thought, 鈥榃ow!鈥� 鈥� Rosenow says. 鈥淭he only person I knew who would work that hard was me.鈥�
It鈥檚 a typical reaction. Farmers say the more they get to know their workers, the more they see how much they have in common, including an affinity for rural life and a willingness to work hard. 鈥淵ou just like people who are on your side,鈥� says Stan Linder, a farmer in Stockholm, Wis., who has gone on 11 Puentes/Bridges trips, more than anyone else.
Jill Harrison, a sociologist at the University of Colorado at Boulder, has spent years studying Wisconsin dairy workers. She applauds the work of Puentes/Bridges. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e building compassion among people for immigrant workers,鈥� she says. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e humanizing them.鈥� But, she says, even the most sympathetic farmer cannot erase difficult circumstances聽for the workers, including isolation, homesickness, poverty, and hard physical labor.
鈥淭hese are rough jobs, with long hours, late-night shifts, cold, manure,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 very dangerous. They鈥檙e making just over the minimum wage.鈥�
US dairy farmers employ tens of thousands of foreign workers. But efforts to foster better relations between the two groups have been rare. Puentes/Bridges inspired a similar program for dairy farmers in upstate New York, but the trips lasted just two years. 鈥淚t was too dangerous,鈥� says Thomas Maloney, an extension agent at Cornell University in Ithaca, N.Y., who organized the trips.
Amid the federal crackdown
Meanwhile, the federal crackdown on unauthorized immigrants has cast a shadow over dairy farms, uniting farmers and workers in a common anxiety. According to Voces de la Frontera, an immigrant rights group in Milwaukee, immigration authorities recently detained four dairy workers in Wisconsin. US farm groups have tried to persuade lawmakers to introduce a visa program for dairy workers, but it鈥檚 unlikely to happen anytime soon.
鈥淚鈥檒l tell you what I want,鈥� Rosenow says. 鈥淚t worked well when they weren鈥檛 enforcing the law. Let the market decide.鈥�
He鈥檚 in his office now, taking orders for compost. He wears an old pair of striped overalls. His phone buzzes frequently, and truckers come through the door, asking for a load.
After a while he goes out to show a visitor around. About half his workers are from Mexico, including the young man in the milking parlor. As he moves about the farm, he exchanges small talk in Spanish.
鈥淚 can communicate if it鈥檚 not completely out of the ordinary,鈥� he says. Sometimes it鈥檚 a struggle. He spends several minutes with a worker in the maternity shed trying to determine what animals the man is raising in his feedlot back home. 鈥�Alimento,鈥� he says. 鈥�Animales?鈥� They go back and forth until Rosenow finally understands. 鈥淪heep!鈥�
Out in the yard, two men wrestle with a giant polyester tote of compost聽while a forklift waits to sling it into a waiting truck. One of them is Roberto Acahua, who has a knit cap pulled low over his forehead. Mr. Acahua comes from Astacinga, Mexico, a mountain village of 723 inhabitants. He鈥檚 worked on the Rosenow farm for four years.
鈥淚t鈥檚 a nice place,鈥� he says. He explains that working on a dairy farm is 鈥渒ind of hard鈥� but that he has to do it. 鈥淢y children need support,鈥� he says. 鈥淲e need the money. We have no choice.鈥� At home, he says, he can earn $7 a day in construction. On the Rosenow farm, workers earn between $10 and $14 an hour.
鈥淭he only thing is, we have no freedom up here,鈥� he says. 鈥淚f you drive and get pulled over, you can get in trouble.鈥�
Rosenow says that finding employees like Acahua has been 鈥渢he best thing that鈥檚 happened鈥� to dairy farming.
鈥淲e were going to make the experience here with immigrants, especially with Mexican immigrants on dairy farms, a good experience rather than a bad experience,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 think we鈥檝e accomplished that.鈥�
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