Labor Day reminds me of my father, who died at 42 from the humiliation of being unemployed. When Nelson Martinez mustered out of the Army in 1948, he yearned for independence from his small town. He and thousands of New Mexicans were seduced by the world of high-risk mining, guaranteed pay and youthful adventure. Speaking little English and armed with only a grade-school education, youthful pride pushed them to seek a better life.
My father worked at mining long enough to understand he would never move beyond the track gang. No Spanish speakers moved up from the track gang, unless it was to powder monkey, who placed explosives for discharge. Mexican-American miners were laborers in a caste system enforced by unions and management.
My dad wanted more, he wanted to be a carpenter. He went to work at a construction site, much to my mother's dismay. He would, for the next 20 years, wander from construction site to construction site and on the journey lose his pride, his smile, the playfulness I knew in my childhood and eventually his self-respect. One autumn day my brother Larry and I went to work with my dad. We laughed as we drove the 1950 Chevy truck to the Salt Lake Avenues to clean his boss's yard. We were honored the boss would ask my dad to clean his yard, and Larry and I couldn't wait to work side by side with our dad.
We arrived early, threw junk into the truck bed and made periodic trips to the dump, stopping for drinks and basking in our dad's attention. My brother, 8 or 9, sneaked a jump on the trampoline, but he got off quick when my dad gave him the "eye." We had never seen a trampoline, and Larry had jumped on one, an enviable feat and one talked of long after.
On our way home we stopped at Liberty Park, splurged on ice cream and Dad paid us $1 each. I had pride in having done something that merited payment. I enjoyed the feeling of working like my dad. I vowed to work construction and clean yards. He enjoyed our company and promised to take us with him again.
Years later I accompanied my dad to a construction site. He asked if any jobs were open and was directed to another location. While waiting in the truck I overheard two other men ask the same guy for work. He looked around and then told them to come back the next day because he needed help. My dad returned and noticed the three men smoking and watched them shake hands. He looked at me and turned away, knowing I knew what happened. We went home in silence. He never took me job hunting again. He said I ate too much.
I never told anyone what happened that day. I didn't know why the man didn't want to hire the best worker in the whole world. I didn't understand why it would take two guys to do the job my dad could do alone. I didn't eat as much after that hoping my dad would notice.
As I began my work odyssey at back-breaking jobs, I watched my father end his and slowly perish from lack of self-respect, lack of a "man's" job. Work was all he knew how to do, and without it he was emasculated. The final blow was his wife going to work to help feed the family.
He never understood what happened to him in Zion, a place which held such initial promise. He didn't know why "Mexicans" were the last ones sent out on union jobs or why he wasn't considered to be a carpenter's apprentice. He just wanted to work and feed his family. Was that so much to desire?
When my dad died, I asked his union of 20 years for his $500 death benefit so we could bury him. I was informed he had not paid his $5 dues for three months and benefits were suspended. We borrowed money to bury my dad.
My dad died before his children knew him. As we made our journey through the homogeneous Zion workplaces, we came to understand Nelson Martinez and what he endured for his family.
A second generation of New Mexicans understood how hard life in Zion can be on Mexican-Americans seeking merely to feed their families. My father never stood a chance at fulfilling his dreams, but his children do because of his courage.
On this Labor Day I remember the invisible labor force that makes Utah a great place. I remember my dad, whose dreams and perseverance made my life possible.
Utah native Mike Martinez, an attorney in private practice, is active in Hispanic affairs. He has previously worked in the Utah Attorney General's Office, the Salt Lake County Attorney's Office and for the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission in Washington, D.C.
E-MAIL: mmartinez@inquo.net