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The Homecomers Episode Transcript: Leydy Rangel on Immigration, Family Pride, and the Fight for Farm-Worker Rights

Sarah Smarsh: So, the United States has two geographic parts: the places our economy and culture tell us to get out of and the places we’re told to seek in order to make it. But I think there’s a shift going on beneath the surface of our national story: It’s a return to, or a refusal to leave, the least glamorous corners of this country—I’m talking about the small towns, rural lands, working-class communities that national headlines say are “dying”—in order to fight for the place that feels like home. I’m Sarah Smarsh, and this is The Homecomers.

Leydy Rangel: Whenever I leave home and I have to make my way back to Bakersfield on my four-hour drive, my little nieces always ask me, “Why are you leaving? Why you don’t stay to live by my house?” I have to explain to them, “I have a very important job and it’s my responsibility to do this type of work, so that one day in the future you can be even better than me.”

SS: Leydy Rangel remembers the first time she harvested onion, around age 13, to help her immigrant family make ends meet. Her teenage brother almost died from heatstroke in those same California fields. Today, Rangel is a recent college graduate who works for the UFW Foundation, founded by famed labor organizer Cesar Chavez. Having journeyed from the childhood home her parents built just south of the Mexico-California border, to a white-majority town on the high plains of eastern Colorado, to a migrant camp in the sizzling Central Valley, Rangel brings not just professional knowledge but deep, lived wisdom to her advocacy work. Straddling two cultures, two languages, two socioeconomic classes—that’s a heavy experience, but it’s one that Rangel conveys with palpable joy, pride, and love.

She spoke with me during the spring of 2019 from Bakersfield, California, where she lives.

SS: Let’s start with your class background, socioeconomic class. If you could tell me about your family’s financial circumstances when you were a child in Mexico and the place where you lived and—a little bit of that background.

LR: Both of my parents are from a very cultural-rich state in Mexico called “Guanajuato.” It’s actually the city where the movie Coco got inspiration for their visuals; those homes piled up against each other with beautiful colors. Eventually, my parents made the decision to move away from the only land that they knew and make their way up to the northern region of Mexico, which would be a border town with the United States called “Mexicali.”

SS: If you could just describe the earth and the landscape; and the look and the smell and the sound of that place; and how many people are around; and just kind of put us there.

LR: A lot of desert. A lot of dry land. A lot of heat. The sun—that bright star up in the sky—was so hot, it burnt you, and you felt it burning through your skin. I remember walking to elementary school every morning, seeing dogs barking out in the street. Stray dogs. Stray cats. No businesses. A lot of empty homes. A lot of empty lots. A lot of poor families. 

I remember there was times when I craved going to the corner store and grabbing a candy, or some chips, or a juice—and I never had even one peso. Back then, I didn’t realize how bad that situation was; that I was eating tortillas with salt and butter in them. I had no idea that that meant that I was poor. At that time, that’s all I really knew. The way that my parents would treat my brother, my sister, and I would be to go get tacos at the corner taqueria or hot dogs at the corner hot dog stand.

SS: Your dad was already working across the border, is that right?

LR: Yes. My dad has always been a very skilled man. And when my dad started seeing the need for providing more for his family, he started coming to the United States to work in Calexico, California—very close to the border. And he would only come back home every six, eight, nine months. I remember missing him a lot. I remember always asking my mom about where my dad would be. And for the time that he was gone, my mom and I had to fend for ourselves with my brother. And we didn’t have any money until my dad came back after those months. That was a very challenging time in my life.

SS: There are so many ways in which you and your family have kind of straddled what we might think of as different worlds or different experiences; one being the obvious, literal national border. But one of those is language, and I’m wondering your dad’s relationship to the English language. How did you encounter his English speaking?

LR: Actually, my first encounter with English was going over to my neighbor’s house. She was one of the few of us that had a TV at her house, and we would watch The Magic School Bus. I remember one time, one of those visits that my dad made back to Mexicali, he came with a white board, and he wrote down all the numbers up to 100, and he read them to me in English. And I was so excited that my dad knew something that I was only seeing in TV, and for me, that was incredible. And I really wanted him to teach me. So, I remember him, when he was there for those few days, he would try to teach me as much as he could. And it was such an exciting time for me. It was incredible. 

SS: And then how old were you when you came to the US? And what did that new life look like for your family? 

LR: I was eight-years-old when I arrived at the United States. I started off living in the Coachella Valley. My father had family in Colorado, so we actually only lived in Coachella for a few months, and we made our way to Colorado. Life in Colorado was … hard—because being this short, brown girl with super big curly hair. My classmates would make fun of me because I didn’t speak the tongue properly. I was very shy. I was very isolated. But I always felt comfortable when I was sitting in a classroom reading, learning. For me, that was my safe space. And although I was an English learner when I arrived in the United States, I actually was the student who got the highest grade out of all the state testing in my school. And I remember getting a certificate for a free pizza and a place where you go could and play games like a Chuck E. Cheese. I remember being so excited, and I thought to myself, “Wow, I’m an English learner, and I am the smartest kid of my entire grade. This is amazing.” And so from that point on, nothing ever held me back. And I started becoming very confident in myself that I could do anything.

SS: You know, the fact that you found your school to be a safe space in spite of its many challenges suggest that home had some particularly difficult challenges. What was the contrast between your home, and what that was and looked like in Mexicali, and then where you were living when you moved to California?

LR: I remember the day that I left our home in Mexicali. It was a home hand-made by my father and my mother. They put a lot of work into that home. It was a red-brick home, a one-floor home, that had four small rooms. The day that I left that home, my dad said, “Alright. Get one plastic bag, and you’re going to put whatever fits in there and that’s all you’re bringing.” I put a few clothes in my bag; no toys, no nothing. I remember I had a pair of magazines from a TV show that I used to see in Mexicali, a Mexican kids like soap opera. They were the only actual things that I valued, and I remember saying bye to them. And I remember walking around every corner of my house, touching the walls with my hands, saying, “Goodbye! Goodbye. I’m not going to come back.” And at that time for me, it was so exciting. I was very hopeful for the future. I saw it more as an adventure.

SS: You described the house that your parents built so beautifully. What was the dwelling that you moved into?

LR: So, in the Coachella Valley, we arrived in a big space of land where a lot of date palm trees grow. There was maybe two, three mobile homes. One of them was the one that we were renting. It was probably considered an RV; it was tiny. My family is composed of five members: it’s my two parents, myself, my elder brother, and my younger sister. And my parents would sleep in the living room, and they would let us take the small room in the back—all three of us. It was infested with roaches. There was rats. It was unsanitary for a family. Nonetheless, that’s where I spent most of my childhood. And I knew nothing else. I would say that although we were very poor, I grew up very happy. 

SS: The first thing you said about the landscape and the feel of Mexicali had to do with the sun. Were both of your parents farm workers? 

LR: Both of my parents are farm workers. 

SS: I’ll get to your experience with that work in a moment, but if you could talk about being a kid and seeing them go to work and what that meant in their lives. 

LR: Before we moved to the US, my dad had one good company job where he oversaw the floor production of a very popular Mexican bread called “Bimbo.” Bimbo is so delicious. I remember he sometimes would bring back bread for me and put it under my pillows ‘cause he worked the graveyard shift. So, every time when I would wake up in the morning, I found a new piece of bread under my pillow. And that was so fun to me to always wake up to that. 

When my father lost that job, that’s when he became a farmworker—and he has been a farmworker ever since. I remember always seeing my parents wake up no later than 4:30 AM. They go to work for many, many hours. They come back dirty. They have pesticides on them. Their hands are completely black. Their shoes are covered in mud, in dirt. They’re ripped. Their clothes are faded from the sun. They have dirty bandanas on their neck. They’ll be gone from really early in the morning before I leave to school, and they would come back once I was already home from my soccer practice, which was like 7:30 PM. That’s when I would get to spend some time with them and tell them how school was; catch up with them; have dinner with them. 

Although my parents have this job where they get dirty, they’re very experienced people. They’re very professional. I’ve had the opportunity to work with them in field harvesting table grapes, and it’s been so incredible for me to see their work ethic. Even if they’re going to be paid that same minimum wage with no benefits, they’re still going to try their hardest to be the best farmworker there is. They’re always the fastest ones. Always having little competitions with the other farm workers to see who can do more boxes; see who could plant this little plant faster. And so, from my parents, I’ve learned to be a hardworking individual—that no matter what job you’re doing, you have to be the best at it. 

SS: And then you all you would basically move to follow the harvest, to the Central Valley, right?

LR: Yes. So, in California, the table grape season always starts down in the southern region, and that’s where we would work. So, my family and I migrated to Bakersfield, California, for many, many summers. My siblings and I would be on summer vacation, and we would go from one agriculture town to another one. That four-hour drive, I remember, was always like an adventure for me because it was a little road trip with my family. And Highway 395 has a lot of bumpy roads, so it feels like a rollercoaster when you’re driving through there. The car’s going up and down and up and down. And I remember sitting in the backseat of my dad’s truck with my hands up being like, “Woo!” 

I remember the first time I worked in the fields. It’s a job that’s very enjoyable because you’re interacting with a lot of your fellow farmworkers. You’re having a sense of community with them. A lot of the work that farm workers do is also pay-by rates, so that means that you’re getting paid by how much you produce throughout that same amount of time that everybody’s given. And so, my parents came back from working one of those days. They heard that they were harvesting onions by pay-by rate. And so, my parents said, “Why not? Let’s go to the fields and see if maybe we could earn a few extra bucks.” And so, since it was late night, they didn’t want to leave my sister and I alone, and so they said, “Well, just come with us. You know, you can wait in the car.” And so, my sister and I were waiting in the back, and I ended up saying, “Let’s do this. I’ll go in there and help you cut those onions.” And so, I was given a rusty, old pair of scissors that would barely even close. I remember that was my first experience sitting there with my knees in the ground, trying to pull the onions from the ground and then cutting the top of the onion off to then throw the onions in one of the white buckets they would provide for us. Once that bucket was filled, we would run to the end of the fields, dump it into one of the bigger bins, and then a person would count the bucket that we did and give us credit for it. We did only a few of those buckets before we realized the pay-by rate was not good enough, and so my dad said, “We’re going home.” And I got home that day, and my hands were red, and my nails were covered in dirt. It was not a good experience. 

SS: And how old were you again that day?

LR: Fourteen. Even 13. 

SS: Yeah. So, let’s talk about some of the particular dangers of agricultural work. You were just talking about how just even a bit of time in the field started affecting your body. You already mentioned that your parents come home covered in pesticide. How have you seen the impact of the work in the health of your family, including your siblings? 

LR: One of the first years when we started migrating to Bakersfield, we lived in a labor camp. It was just a long building made out of concrete where, in the middle, there would be a cafeteria and some restrooms for the farm workers to shower. Probably had about 30, 35, 40 rooms. One day, when my mom, my dad, and brother were working, they didn’t come back at the time that everybody came back. I was nine-years old. And I was very concerned. I was very confused. After a few hours, I walked over to my neighbor’s room. And so, he calls my dad, and it turns out my dad had to rush my brother to the hospital because while they were laboring, my brother started telling my parents that he felt very sick; that he felt nauseous; that he felt dizzy. Those were the first symptoms of heat illness. They right away told the crew leader, and the crew leader chose to not pay attention to these critical signs, and they told him to wait it out under the shade and drink some water. And that’s what my brother did. He waited under the shade, drank water, continued vomiting out all the water—until my dad demanded they do something else. What they did next was they put my brother inside the crew leader’s truck, they drove him around with the A/C on, but this is not the right way to treat heat illness. He must have been rushed to the hospital right away. I heard it was for about an hour until my dad said, “I can’t have my kid like this. I’m going to rush him to the hospital.” And thanks to my dad, my brother made it to the hospital on time. But he was in the hospital for more than two weeks. Now that I hear stories from my dad and mom, they tell me that it was very difficult for them; that they didn’t understand what the doctors were telling them; they didn’t know what the nurses were saying; they had no idea who was going to pay for two weeks of being in the hospital; they had no idea if their kid was ever going to be the same. My parents had to stop working. They pretty much lived in the hospital, and a lot of my days were also spent either playing outside in the hospital or being alone in my room at the labor camp with my sister. 

My brother used to be a very happy person who I used to play with, and after that happened my brother was never the same. He became this very quiet man who was very reserved, who doesn’t smile. He gets angry all the time. Nonetheless, we were very fortunate that we were able to keep my brother alive and that he got the attention that he needed before it was too late. There are many, many other farm workers who have lost their lives because of the same lack of enforcement that there should be about treating heat illness and the symptoms that farm workers say they have. But a lot of the time, they are just told to wait it out.

SS: You are a communications specialist now for United Farm Workers. What sort of policy and change does UFW and other organizations fight for to improve farm workers’ lives, so that today a 17-year-old like your brother back then would not have to go through what he did and a family like yours wouldn’t either?

LR: I work for the United Farm Workers Foundation, which is a separate entity of the United Farm Workers. But still, we were created under Cesar Chavez and his leadership. California is one of the only states in the United States that has a heat protection standard, and it’s actually named after a 17-year-old pregnant farm worker who died because she was not given proper shade and accessible water. And her name was Maria Isabel Vasquez Jimenez. The UFW was successful in making sure that some action was taken and that her death was not [taken] for granted. And so, thankfully here in California now we have that heat protection standard, which gives farm workers the right to express any type of concern that they have. It makes sure that they have cold water; that they have access to shade; that they have breaks. There’s only about four other states that have these protections. 

It was only last year when we received a phone call from Georgia that a 24-year-old farm worker collapsed while working in the fields because of how hot it was. And he had only been here for 10 days. In Georgia, there are no protections for farm workers against heat. Especially if you’re a guest worker, you’re going to be so afraid to speak up because your housing, your visa, your pay, your food and water, your transportation all depends on the employer and the person who brought you to the United States, so there’s no way you’re going to raise any concerns. And so, that’s what happened to this 24-year-old farm worker. His name was Miguel Angel. 

And we had one of our coordinators who traveled to Georgia. He saw severe violations that nobody would believe. He saw them living in cramped, old hotel rooms with no stove, nowhere for them to make any decent meal. They were provided cup of noodles with Gatorades by their employers. And this labor contractor that was at fault for the death of Miguel Angel was only fined $13,000 for this death. This is when we see the need for more heat protection standards throughout the whole nation. 

SS: And this seems to be a point where environmental justice—or in this case, we might call it injustice—overlaps with climate change considerations in that populations like the ones that you’re describing bear the brunt of the most harmful effects of a warming climate. What are some of the victories in the last few years that you all feel proud about?

LR: As farm workers, we know we have a lot of power. When the people come together, we can make big changes. In California, in 2016, overtime for farm workers was passed, and it was a bill primarily sponsored by the United Farm Workers and the UFW Foundation. The federal [Fair] Labor Standards Act (FLSA) of 1938 was very explicit that they were only going to provide these new protections for American workers as long as they excluded agriculture and service workers. The reason of this was because, at that time, most agriculture and service workers were African American. That same exclusion persists. 

And I had an encounter when I was in school, attending Cal Poly Pomona. One summer I worked in the fields, and we got our first paycheck, and I was not given overtime pay. I was a college student. I knew what overtime pay was. I knew my friends working at the bookstore were getting paid overtime. And so, I was so confused. I went up to the labor contractor that hands us our check, and I said, “You’re not giving me overtime pay. I think you made a mistake.” He laughed at me and said, “No, you’re wrong.” Later that day, I talked with my dad, and my dad said, “Honey, we don’t get overtime pay. We could work 15 hours a day, and we’re still going to get paid minimum wage.” Thankfully in California, in 2016, we passed a law that removes farm workers from that exclusion of the Fair Labor Standards Act. And so, finally, after many, many, many years—many decades—farm workers in California have the right to overtime pay.

SS: I think that this would be a good time to turn back to your personal journey because your work really marries your first-hand family experience and the expertise that you have gained through formal education and professional world. I know that you said that you were a kid that realized that you were damn smart: You were excited when your dad had a white board to teach you English; your most coveted possessions as a kid were a couple of magazines; so you’re a brainy kid who clearly loved language and was destined to be a storyteller. When you were a kid in high school, it was just dreaming of such things. What were the messages that you were getting from teachers, counselors, the world around you about your future?

LR: When I lived in Colorado, I had an incredible elementary teacher. Although she didn’t speak Spanish and I didn’t speak any English, I could feel a sense of comfort coming from her. I know she wanted to teach me, and she wanted to make sure that I was well. I really attribute a lot of my academic success to her. Her name was Ms.Segelke. I will never forget. I don’t know anything about her. But although she never told me to my face, I know that she believed in me and I felt that connection with her. 

When I came back to the Coachella Valley, I lacked a lot of support from teachers really. A lot of them were not invested in the students that they had. I remember going to a lot of my classes and just sitting there copying things from a book and not really learning anything from them. I got myself into the AVID program in high school because I knew that was the road that students who wanted to go to college would take, so I did that. Until I was in that program, that’s when I finally began getting teachers that truly cared about my success as a student who knew that I would be something that I hope to be. 

SS: And then you made good on all your dreams. You got your college degree. You were a UCLA law fellow, is that right?

LR: Yeah, so I am a first-generation college graduate. I still ponder on how it was that I got myself to college with no help from my parents to navigate the bureaucracy; to know that you’re supposed to apply for financial aid. But yet, somehow I did it. And that’s cool. I studied communications—journalism—and I had a minor in political science. And one day, my journalism professor sent me a[n] application for the NLGJA, which is the national society of LGBT journalism professionals. He sent me an application for a program that they were doing. They do this every year, and they select 12 journalism students from the entire United States, and they bring them to a conference. And that year, it was going to be held in Philadelphia. And thought, “Wow! If he sent this to me, and he thinks I have a chance at getting this program, why not? Let’s do it.” Just him giving me that sense of confidence that he thought I could apply and actually get it was all I needed. I heard back from them that I got it, and that was my first time in a plane. And from there on, everything has just been on a roll. I’ve had incredible opportunities all because of this one professor who believed that I could; who saw something in me and said, “You could do it, so apply.” And I went for it, and that’s what really started opening all the doors for me. 

SS: So, how is your daily life different today, and how does that feel to you compared to the life you knew as a child?

LR: I slept with my mom and my sister in our living room until I was 18 and until I had to move out for college. I never had any privacy. I remember when I was younger, taking AP courses and playing soccer; I would come home late. And because my parents slept in the living room, if I had a light on in the kitchen, my parents would be bothered by the light because it was right there. And so, I remember we had a bright pink restroom. I would go inside the restroom, and I would study there. And that’s where I would do my homework whenever I would come home late because I didn’t want to bother my parents from the light. Now that I’m a young professional who graduated college, I’m able to afford my own apartment. 

A year ago, I purchased my first car. Before that, I was running around in a little old, red Honda Civic that was very torn apart. And so, I went to the dealership. And on my drive back home with a new car that only had 13 miles in it, I was so—I’m smiling now, but when I drove away that day, I actually was crying because I was so scared that I had made like a bad decision. Nobody in my family had ever purchased a brand-new car. And when I come home after work every day, and I’m walking up the stairs, it takes me a while to realize that this is my house. This is where I live. I have clean sheets. I have a home that’s free of any pests. I don’t have any roaches running around my food. It’s truly incredible for me. 

SS: You are someone who comes from a place and an experience and a class that someone might be encouraged to quote-unquote “get out of” or to leave. And you did just describe how in so many ways your day-to-day life is a stark contrast with how you grew up—and yet, you have chosen to stay in the area that you grew up, where your family still is, and to be employed in a fight for the people there, to remain among them some way. So, you’re speaking to me from Bakersfield now. Some people might see that on your part as some sort of sacrifice, but I know first hand that those people might not get it. They might be the sort who tend to pity someone’s experience rather than marvel at the beauties in it. So, I’d love for you to tell me what you love about your home and your family and your community. What’s beautiful about it, and why are you happy to be there?

LR: When I go to a restaurant that my family has been going to for the last 10 years; when I go to the swapmeet that my parents go to, it feels like I’m home. And it keeps me humble. It keeps me focused on the important things in life. Bakersfield is often seen as a place with no opportunities, no hopes. I see the complete different. I see a lot of need, yes, for more resources, for more opportunities. But helping people navigate the system and telling them, “This is how you do this,” or “Read over your resume,” or “I could read over your cover letter, I’m going to help you.” Even just doing something so minimal that takes 10 minutes to do for other people here in this community, it means a whole lot because they don’t have anyone to help them. When I could be that help, that support, for people who were once me, that to me, is the most rewarding.

SS: Leydy, what will your family think when they listen to this interview?

LR: My birthday was last week, and I had the luxury of spending it with my entire family. My brother now has two little girls who are the treasure of my life. My sister, wow, I can’t believe how smart this girl is. My dad, we were sitting outside, started telling me, “You know, when you were in your mom’s belly, you would never kick or do any type of activity, so we thought you were going to be this very lazy human being who never did anything.” And he says, “But, wow, what a surprise you’ve given me.” And I know I’m not perfect, but I strive to be the best I can. My parents know that, my sister, my nieces they know this, and I know that they feel very proud. Whenever I leave home and I have to make my way back to Bakersfield on my four-hour drive, my little nieces always ask me, “Why are you leaving? Why you don’t stay to live by my house?” I have to explain to them, “I have a very important job and it’s my responsibility to do this type of work, so that one day in the future you can be even better than me.” And so, my family sees me as a light of hope, and it makes me so incredibly humble and passionate to know that I have their support and that they’re there for me whenever I need them. This is going to be really exciting for them to hear me. It’s … it’s unbelievable. I’m doing everything that I knew I would do.

SS: Leydy Rangel is the communications specialist for the UFW Foundation, a nonprofit that empowers immigrants, farm workers, and Latinos at local and national levels, and is the largest immigration legal services provider in rural California. She is the daughter of Mexican-American farm workers and a first-generation college graduate from California State Polytechnic University. 

The Homecomers production team is audio editor Jesse Brenneman in Montana; composer Daniel Hart in California by way of Texas; web designer Tameika Pittman in New York by way of Colorado; illustrator Angie Pickman in Kansas; and communications manager Kendra Bozarth in New York by way of Kansas. And I’m your host and executive producer Sarah Smarsh in Kansas.

To hear more episodes, access Spanish translations, and get more info about this show, visit TheHomecomers.org. Or find us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram to share your homecomers story.

Hey, thanks to Wes Jackson, co-founder of the Land Institute in rural Kansas, for his blessing to use a term he coined—“homecomers”—for the title of this show. 

And special thanks this episode to KMYX in Bakersfield, California, part of La Campesina radio network, and to public radio station KMUW in Wichita, Kansas. 

The Homecomers is an independent production of Free State Media. It was created and produced with support from the Ford Foundation, the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation, and the Shorenstein Center on Media, Politics, and Public Policy at Harvard University.