1/27/10

I can feel the growing momentum of time, gaining speed quickly in the first quarter of its fall. Three weeks ago almost I was nervous, restless and walking with heavy feet. Now I feel the rhythm gradually merging with my own, so that I draw my strong beats in time with those around me.
Nothing would distinguish another day of picking except the rising tension between workers and the bosses. Before Emily arrived, we quietly shoved our cumbersome discomfort into the backs of our minds. But now she has lit into our bosses with the blade of aggression. Currently our contract requires twenty five hours a week of hard labor. We are supervised continuously and urged to pick more efficiently and with less rest. And pulling down each fruit is like putting cash in the bosses' pockets, who are not working in the sun with us, but watching the money pile up from afar. So what drives the commitment to efficiency and "personal excellence" my bosses encourage? If I exceed their expectations twofold, I don't see another dime. In fact, the faster we pick fruit, the less hours we earn, and the more we have to work. We are hoping to forge a less slave-oriented system.
I love riding my bike after a long day. My legs are sore, but the sloping lava streets call.