Picking Blueberries

Although they still picked twice as fast as me, their wrinkled and brown hands swiftly moving as if this rhythmic motion had been imprinted into them, I still like to think that my first day of blueberry picking was successful- and there’s no doubt that picking tomatoes on The Thirsty Goose Farm on San Juan Island helped me: my durability to work in heat, my desire to get the best product and to please, my soft hands careful not to destroy the fragile and perfectly round crop oozing with juice, and my utmost respect and admiration for the hard work put in by farmers. My hands were slower, yes, but I don’t pick blueberries for a living 6 days a week for 3 months straight. No, I don’t, but today I got a slice, just a small flavor of what 150 women (a few men), including my host mom do for a living, hoping to make enough during the summer months to last in the winter when there is no fruit to pick- and this was only one farm among hundreds in this area that export, potatoes, flowers, corn (grain), raspberries, nectarines, wine, etc. Picking blueberries all day in the scorching sun, blueberries that will be sent around the world, exported primarily to China and the United States. We woke up at 6AM, Saturday, just like everyday for Rebecca, my Chilean mom. The mornings here in Linares (central valley) are cold and crisp. We walked out together, water bottles and lunches in hand, wearing all the layers that I brought on this trip. As we walked 20 minutes into the agricultural fields that surround this city for miles, the clouds slowly began to light up behind the mountains, filling the sky with a soft blue color. I was introduced to everyone as the American student, coming to work in the Blueberry fields for the day to get a better understanding of their daily work. Soft smiles, shy smiles, and sleepy smiles- all very sweet smiles gazing back at me. Maybe 3 men, at the most, stood in the crowd. Women of every size, shape, color and age put their sunscreen on, their hats on, their layers (soon to be shed), and geared up with buckets strapped around their waist. Each picker got assigned to specific rows, to ensure fairness and efficiency. Like everyone- they each had their own style of working. Some were quiet, some didn’t stop talking, some continuously yelled across the field of blueberry rows making jokes and laughing, sending good energy into the air. The scene was focused let lighthearted. I worked with Rebecca, who has an allergic reaction to all the chemicals they use on the Blueberries. She, like everyone, has developed a persistent rash, especially on her knees from crawling to get the low-hangers. We dug our hands into the huge bushes, delicately fingering at the powdery blue balls and dropping them into our buckets. Conversations flew around me, mostly questioning fellow workers about family members, discussing Haiti and how awful and sad it is, talking about money gained, lost, and needed, and talking about how cold it was. In two hours everyone was over-heating and sweating, hoping to pick from the shade and trying to avoid the 90-degree sun. On Saturdays she only works a half-day, because she has another job on the weekends. We finished at 12. We had picked 15 buckets all together, each big enough to fill a large crate of blueberries, and each worth $1. On a good day she gets 20 buckets, $20. I think about what we buy blueberries for in the U.S., I think about all the middlemen and where and how the money is distributed in the process of exportation, I think about how this is not a sufficient wage for them. I think about the usage of chemicals- what it does for the animals that share habitats, the bodies of humans, the plants, what it does to farming in general. In our global world, how far, and through how may processing plants, does our food go through to get to our plate? Who will eat those blueberries I picked today? Fascinating world we live in.