Sometimes, A Labor Day
A Trailer in Gaithersburg Is a Haven For Immigrants Hoping for a Better Life

By Pamela Constable
Washington Post Staff Writer
Thursday, August 30, 2007

Five-thirty a.m. A damp chill in the air. Figures hunched on the pavement outside a locked trailer, hoods up, waiting. A man approaches on a bicycle, nearly invisible in the dark. "Hola, 'mano."

Headlights pass. Faces turn sharply, then relax.

Finally, the car they've been waiting for. It's Fernando Garavito, the manager, with the key. The men scramble up the steps and crowd inside. The trailer is flooded with warm light. Someone turns on the coffee pot, the weather report. Someone passes around a sign-up sheet with two numbered lists: "Labor" and "Skilled."

Comfort in routine, and sanctuary from much more than the pre-dawn chill.

This has been a tense summer for the men who arrive each morning at the Center for Employment and Training in Gaithersburg, operated by the nonprofit CASA de Maryland. Many have no legal documents. They have anxiously followed the news of Virginia communities passing laws against illegal immigrants, of stepped-up factory raids and deportations. And they hear the angry voices.

"A guy hired me the other day to do some painting. I got in his van and right away he turned on the radio. It was one of those stations that is full of hateful talk against immigrants. I just sat in the back and said nothing, but it made me feel like a Jew in Nazi Germany."

The speaker, a young Salvadoran named Angel, gives a brief, bitter smile.

The others nod and guffaw, glance up from scanning "Deportes" or "Clasificados" in the weekly Spanish-language newspapers.

"Americans complain that we don't learn English, but I'm glad a lot of my friends don't know the language," Angel says. "If they could hear what the media say about us, it would hurt their hearts."

Before the trailer opened in April, the men spent their days in a game of cat-and-mouse. First, they gathered outside a 7-Eleven until a nearby shop owner complained and the police shooed them away. Then they moved to an alley behind an auto repair garage, until someone poured used engine oil along the curbs where they sat.

Now, they feel relatively safe. The trailer is legal, private and virtually hidden from public view. It is wedged between a gravel pit and a cargo truck lot on a county service road, with barely enough room for a bicycle rack and two picnic tables outside.

But for some local opponents, the site is still not far enough away. On the day the trailer was inaugurated, someone came early in the morning, poured flammable liquid on the porch and set it on fire.

On two other mornings since, protesters gathered nearby, holding up signs and shouting slogans. The police came, and the TV cameras, but the staff members told the men to ignore them and ushered work trucks past the picketers, who eventually left.

"God bless this trailer," says Mauricio, 42, a Salvadoran who is memorizing words in a Webster's dictionary. (Officials at CASA asked that workers not be identified by their last names because of concerns about their legal status.) "Outside we have to stand in the rain, and we also face a lot of persecution," he says. "People see us as a threat to society. They don't think about how much we are contributing to the economy. This is supposed to be a cosmopolitan country, but there is a lot of racism, too."

Fear and Uncertainty

For area employers who rely on low-cost temporary workers, the past few months have also been tense and confusing. Many have been spooked by a recent immigration crackdown, including stepped-up workplace raids and enforcement of laws making employers liable for fines if they hire illegal workers.

The Gaithersburg site advertises itself as a source of "honest, reliable" workers, and it tries to create an atmosphere of formal responsibility, if not strict legality. Every job, even a one-day lawn-mowing stint, requires a contract to be signed by the worker and the employer. The site also issues laminated ID badges.

But no worker is asked whether he is in the country legally, and it is assumed that many are not. On the front table is a stack of brochures that explain in Spanish what to do in case of an immigration raid. "Don't lie. . . . Don't turn over false documents. . . . Don't discuss your migratory status. . . . Ask to speak to a lawyer . . . ask to see a warrant . . . contact your consulate."

Outside a paint store Wednesday morning, Garavito hands a leaflet to a contractor who is loading his pickup truck with painting supplies. The man skims the pamphlet and shakes his head, apologizing as he drives away.

"I'm sorry, man. I have to be really careful now," he says. "I work for a big company, and if they catch me hiring undocumented guys, they can get fined and I can get in big trouble. They already warned me once. Next time I could lose the contract. I'm Hispanic, too, and it hurts me. But what can I do? I have to protect myself."

Other small employers seem more willing to take the risk and express concern about the laborers' plight. Diego Godoy, a Brazilian American who owns a small furniture-moving business, hires men several times a week from the trailer.

"I couldn't survive without these guys," he says. "I feel badly that they are exploited and misunderstood. People say they come to take away our jobs, but they are filling a void. It's the same with my mom. She has a housecleaning service and no Americans want those jobs. They are all Latinas."

Negative Images

Garavito wears a shirt and tie to work at the trailer every day. He is infallibly polite and always addresses the workers as "caballeros." His mission, more than finding them jobs, is to raise their self-image and to represent them to the world in a dignified way.

On his office computer, he keeps precise track of how many men appear every day -- an average of 42 -- and how many are hired. He is full of ideas and plans for the center: a health service, a soccer team, more English classes.

First thing every morning, he takes a quick drive through downtown Gaithersburg, looking for newcomers and hoping to lure them away from trouble. The alley behind the garage is empty, but there are four Latino men in the 7-Eleven parking lot, near the sign in Spanish and English that says no loitering. Garavito introduces himself and gives them a map. An hour later, they appear at the trailer.

Some of the regulars are men of substance and aspiration. An older Peruvian man says he has read every book by Mario Vargas Llosa. A young Mexican says he writes poetry at night. But most are Central Americans with little education. Sometimes, they admit, they fall into the kinds of habits that inflame anti-immigrant sentiment. They pile into a car and turn up Latino rap to ear-splitting levels. They buy cases of beer and throw the bottles on the ground.

"Some guys still prefer to wait for jobs outside the 7-Eleven. They say it gives them more freedom. But what they really want is to be drinking a beer and hiding it behind the dumpster," says German Reyes, a staff member at the trailer. "This is bad for everyone. It is not a question of freedom. It's a question of discipline and order."

Spirits Fall, and Rise

By 10 a.m., there are a dozen men left in the trailer, and the chances of more day jobs materializing are slim. Jorge and his lonchera, a truck full of steaming hot pupusas and enchiladas and eggs and pasta, have come and gone.

Boredom sets in, tinged with despair. The television is filled with talk-show chatter on Univision. Garavito, always purposeful, switches it to an English instruction program. A cheerful woman is saying, "fresh fruits and vegetables," over and over. The men mumble the phrase a few times, lose interest, go back to "Deportes."

Someone prods Ernesto for a song. He is a small, solid Mexican of few words, embarrassed at the attention. He tunes his guitar, clears his throat. A tentative chord, then suddenly he is thrumming and thumping, eyes closed, head lifted. It is a spirited ballad, straight out of the popular church.

"On this Earth I have no citizenship," Ernesto sings in a strong, soaring voice. "My only house is in heaven." The men nod knowingly, and burst into applause.