Guest Opinion by Machele Hamilton of Nampa
At the ripe old age of 12, my father packed me up and shipped me across the country to a foreign land to live with a strange family for the summer. Okay, the foreign land was rural Melba, and the family was distant relatives, but I didn’t know them, so they seemed strange enough to me.
The purpose of this child abandonment (the way I saw it) was for one reason only: To work the fields. Was I asked if I wanted to work? No. Did they worry about me being homesick? If they did, they surely didn’t let on. Actually, I can see my Mom having a bit of trepidation for me, but my Dad was a no nonsense kind of parent so it wouldn’t have mattered.
My life in Melba was not typical to my own life. There was no cushy “guest bedroom” waiting for me, no spot at the dinner table. A below income rural farm family, it was more like a kids flop house. Grab a spot where you can sleep, grab whatever there is to eat. When it was time to work, we would rise early and clamor into the back of an old pickup, heading down the dusty roads hanging on for dear life.
There were no Disney lunch coolers filled with Lunchables and fruit snacks, no name brand trendy water bottles to carry everywhere. We were on our own, always hopeful that the foreman’s truck would come by with a water jug, and that we would be close enough to hear it when it happened.
The work crews were all kids, nary a migrant in sight, illegal or not. Some kids were even younger than me, while the 16- to 18-year-olds would inevitably be put in charge. It was hot, dirty, and hard, but there was no question of doing it. Like I said, no one asked if we wanted to.
When the day was done, we would run the countryside with zero adult supervision. We would play games, build forts, swim in the canals, glean from the adjoining fields, and know that we were not allowed home until dark. Sunburnt, knees and elbows scraped up, we would collapse in a dirty heap, only to start all over again the next morning.
I was allowed to call home on Sunday nights. I remember my first call, mostly expressing my concern at their family life. In my home we sat down to a family dinner every night. My Mother would painstakingly prepare each meal using the USDA food pyramid to assure that we were all getting the proper nutrition. Not so much in Melba.
Much to my chagrin, there was no meal preparation whatsoever. Their entire diet consisted of what I could only call “fried dough”. There was a big cast iron skillet on the stove 24/7 filled with lard that would be heated until it was popping. A mixture of raw dough would be spooned into the sizzling oil until golden brown where it would be lifted out and laid on a towel to cool. Once the temperature was manageable, we would smear it with butter and jam. It was heavenly!
I was literally as happy as can be, until about halfway through the first week when I realized that fried dough was literally ALL they ate. Every day I would think that today was the day they would make a meal, and it never happened. To this day it is one of my most vivid memories from my youth—fried dough! The reality of culture shock is not lost on a child.
I adapted to life in Melba, I had no choice. By the time I returned home I had learned to work, and to accept how others lived without judgment. I never made it back to Melba after that summer, but I did go on to work the fields every year until I graduated high school.
We are robbing our youth of the opportunity to be strong, independent individuals. We no longer teach them how to work. Many kids graduate high school without ever working a day in their life. In some households, kids don’t even share responsibilities at home. This is a travesty, an injustice to our children. We are seeing the repercussions of this in the lack of work ethic in our society, in the “what’s in it for me” generations.
We must stop coddling our kids. Not only will it be what is best for them, but it is what is best for society. I am tired of hearing that we need illegal immigration because Idahoans just won’t do the work. We need to stop asking our kids if they want to work, they are kids who will always choose video games or hours on social media. And for those parents enabling this behavior, shame on you. Be the adult and teach your children one of the most important lessons in life.
If it was okay for me to work the fields as a young girl, why is it not okay for the youth of today? We must change the culture in our society that says farm labor is for immigrants only. Our children deserve it.
