大象传媒

This article is excerpted from the book Invisible Hands: Voices From The Global Economy, an oral history collection by publisher .

Name: Ana Ju谩rez
Age: 31
Occupation: Garment worker
Birthplace: Ecatepec, Mexico
Interviewed in: Mexico City, Mexico

Tehuac谩n, Mexico, was one of the main garment manufacturing hubs for brands like Abercrombie & Fitch, American Eagle Outfitters, Express, Gap, Levi Strauss & Co., and Calvin Klein for nearly a decade after the signing of the North American Free Trade Agreement in 1994. Then, in the 2000s, transnational clothing manufacturers began sourcing their goods in countries where labor was even cheaper, including Honduras, Guatemala, Bangladesh, and Vietnam. The rapid arrival and departure of garment work in Tehuac谩n brought thousands to the region during the nineties and left thousands underemployed after the boom ended in the 2000s.

We first talk to Ana Ju谩rez in early 2011 while she is living in Mexico City and looking for work. At the time, Ana has worked almost half her life in the clothing industry in Tehuac谩n: she started her first job at the age of fifteen, as a sewing operator鈥檚 assistant. In the years of garment work that followed, Ana experienced harassment, insults, mistreatment, poverty wages, unjustified layoffs, and poor work conditions.

In 2006, Ana was working at Vaqueros Navarra, a local contracting company of global brands like Levi Strauss & Co. That year, senior workers began to organize informally to demand across-the-board raises after two years without any increase in worker pay. Though they were able to win a 7 percent raise for all workers, the factory鈥檚 management responded to the action with a chain of layoffs and counteractions and ultimately closed the factory the following year. Because Ana emerged as a leader of the workers鈥� attempts to formally unionize, she found herself on a blacklist that kept her out of garment work in the region.

The story of my family is like that of many others who ended up in Tehuac谩n鈥攎y father struggled a lot before we went there. My dad was a mechanic in Mexico City. He worked at Ruta 100 for fifteen years.

Tehuac谩n is a city of over 250,000 inhabitants in the state of Puebla, 160 miles southeast of Mexico City. Ruta 100 was a federally operated bus transit line that ran throughout Mexico City and surrounding states. The route opened in 1981 and shut down in 1995, when it was replaced by private bus lines.

The friends he had at Ruta 100 were like family. We would go out to dinners or parties with other workers鈥� families, and my parents would be like, 鈥淭his is your uncle,鈥� although they鈥檇 just be talking about some guy who worked with my dad. My dad鈥檚 co-workers came to my house many times to drop him off after work, and my mom would ask them, 鈥淗ave you eaten? No? Come in and have an egg at least, or beans, or tortillas with salsa.鈥� Childhood with my parents was very good until Ruta 100 shut down. Our lives quickly changed after that.

In early 1995, we heard that Ruta 100 was bankrupt and would close. The Thursday before Holy Week,a bunch of my dad鈥檚 friends came over as usual for a few drinks at our house. My mom started talking with one of them, and he told her that it was important for them to have fun鈥攂e with friends, have parties, because things were so stressful. My mom told them, no, what they really needed was to find new work, since they鈥檇 all be out of jobs soon. That weekend, maybe around two in the morning on Saturday, twelve of my dad鈥檚 friends came looking for him. They came practically in their underwear and pajamas, and they told my dad, 鈥淭he control center has just been taken.Get your coat, let鈥檚 go!鈥�

When my dad and his co-workers got to the control center, the police had occupied the building. They were officially shutting down Ruta 100 for good. Many of the workers couldn鈥檛 even get their clothes that were inside. They left with what they had in their hands. I remember that my dad said he left with only a piece of cheese he鈥檇 had in his locker.

After that, my dad couldn鈥檛 find work, and unfortunately he fell into alcoholism. And soon my parents didn鈥檛 have the money to send us to school. For me, it was very traumatic. Before the layoffs, money was tight, and sometimes we had to go without new shoes or clothes. But now that my dad was without work, we couldn鈥檛 afford even to go to school. My parents needed us to help support the family. I was only twelve, and I had it stuck in my mind that I would go back to school soon, after my dad got a new job and things returned to normal. I would think, How can I not go school? I want to study.

I remember times that we just didn鈥檛 have anything to eat. So I had to go and collect leftover food from other families. It was my sister Azucena, who was two years older, me, my twin sister Maria, and Lucero, though Lucero was too embarrassed to go out collecting leftovers. My mom would start crying because she didn鈥檛 have money to feed us, and she鈥檇 go to the neighbors鈥� to wash their clothes or to do whatever work she could find. I started thinking, I don鈥檛 want to just wait around for someone to give me food. And so my sisters and I started to look for any kind of work. While my mom washed clothes, we would go to the market to see what we could do. We might ask to help the man selling tortillas, for instance, and he鈥檇 give us tortillas as payment. I鈥檇 babysit neighbors鈥� children, I鈥檇 wash clothes for people. It was all about looking around, getting ahead.

“YOUR MOM LEFT”

A telesecundaria is a school with classes broadcast through a public-access television channel.

Since we couldn鈥檛 afford to buy supplies for school, I started studying in a telesecundaria when I was around fourteen, in 1997. I dreamed of being in a normal school, but I actually had a very good experience in the telesecundaria. My older brother Gerardo was in his twenties and was good at math, and he would help me out a lot. He鈥檇 say, 鈥淢aybe Dad doesn鈥檛 scold you but I will. You have to show me your tests, show me your homework.鈥� And he was the one who watched over me very carefully.

Unfortunately, the following year, in 1998, my mom decided to leave the house. She couldn鈥檛 put up with my dad anymore. She didn鈥檛 tell me she was leaving. She just left one day when all of us kids were at school. And when I got home that night, my dad said, 鈥淪it down, I need to talk to you. Your mom left.鈥� I asked him where, and he said, 鈥淪he went to Tehuac谩n, she鈥檚 living with your grandfather, and she won鈥檛 come back. You can go live with her or you can stay here.鈥� My sisters Maria and Azucena left to go live with her, but I stayed at first, because I wanted to continue studying and be around my older brother. I also went to work part-time in a clothing store. But then my dad became very violent with us kids. And then, a month after my mom left, her dad passed away. So I went to Tehuac谩n for my grandfather鈥檚 funeral. I said to my mother then, 鈥淚 want to be with you, not with Dad anymore.鈥� And so I went to live in Tehuac谩n.

鈥淒O WHAT YOU鈥橰E TOLD, AND DON鈥橳 TALK BACK TO YOUR BOSS鈥�

I was fifteen when I moved into my grandfather鈥檚 old house in Tehuac谩n at the end of 1998. I lived with my mother, my two aunts Juana and Rafaela, who were twenty-six and twenty-seven, and my sisters Maria and Azucena.

My aunts worked as sewing-machine operators in a jeans factory. My mother had always done things like wash clothes, iron, but she was older and did more work around the house鈥攕he didn鈥檛 bring in much income. 

When I got to Tehuac谩n, it was clear that I needed to work to help support the household. I told one of my aunts, 鈥淚 don鈥檛 want to work in a factory; I know how to do other things, like sales.鈥� But my aunts convinced me, and they got me and my two sisters in to work at Vaqueros Navarra when it was called Calle Isabel la Cat贸lica.

Vaqueros Navarra was a maquila鈥攁 factory set up in a free-trade zone immune from import and export taxes. Isabel la Cat贸lica is the street where the maquila was located.

The factory was growing fast at the time and they needed new workers to keep up with orders from companies like Abercrombie, Lee, and other big brands. This was in December of 1998, and I was fifteen, almost sixteen at the time.

I started working as a manual, or manual laborer, who helped the sewing-machine operators. Most days we鈥檇 get to work at eight a.m. and start assisting the sewing-machine operators right away. Where I first worked, they were sewing back pockets of jeans, and then it would be my job to gather up the pockets into bundles of fifty, tie them up, and send them off down the line where they鈥檇 be sewn onto the jeans.

I鈥檇 be helping two machine operators at the same time, and they had quotas. When they finished their work for the day, they could leave. For example, they might each have to sew fifteen hundred pockets that day, which meant that I had to make sure that the three thousand pockets they made between them got bundled. If there was a mistake with how they were made, I鈥檇 have to send them back or find another operator who could fix them before I was done.

I remember one of my first days there, one of the operators I was working with, called Blondie, said, 鈥淚f you hurry up, we can leave early.鈥� But Blondie and the other operator were too fast for me at first. The pockets would pile up on me and then a supervisor would come by and yell at me, cursing at me and insulting me. I started crying in front of everyone, and then I went to the bathroom and cried there. Then I came back from the bathroom and tried to act as if nothing had happened, and Blondie whispered to me, 鈥淲e鈥檙e going to help you with the work, but don鈥檛 tell the boss.鈥� I was naive when I started at the clothing factory, and I didn鈥檛 know how to stand up for myself. I鈥檇 think, I just have to put up with what the bosses say.

After a couple of weeks, I caught up with the pace and could go faster. Since my supervisor saw that I hurried, he鈥檇 say, 鈥淕o to the machine over there because a girl has fallen behind.鈥� So I would go help the other girl, but when I turned around my work had already piled up on me, and my supervisor would complain.

Even when I finished all of my work early and was supposed to go home, the line boss might tell me, 鈥淣o, no, you can鈥檛 leave, go over there to lift those bags.鈥� Basically they wanted me to work overtime when it was time for me to leave. Usually I was supposed to leave when I was done with my bundles, but many times I鈥檇 have to stay until seven thirty or even much later to finish, and I wasn鈥檛 paid overtime.

At Navarra, my two sisters were working on line 6, and I was on line 7. At the time, I believe, there were thirteen assembly lines all together in three factory buildings at Navarra, with about 260 sewing-machine operators and bundlers in each line. The work there was really boring, especially because there were a lot of bundles to lift. I often had to stay very late. Sometimes I鈥檇 see that my older sister Azucena would leave earlier than me. 鈥淗ow is it that you leave early and I can鈥檛?鈥� I asked her. And she said, 鈥淲ell, I fight back with the supervisor.鈥� But I was afraid that I would get fired if I fought back. I鈥檇 complain to my aunts, 鈥淭hey always make me do more than I鈥檓 supposed to.鈥� And they鈥檇 say, 鈥淲ell too bad, that鈥檚 work. Just stay and do what you鈥檙e told, and don鈥檛 talk back to your boss.鈥�

My aunts were very nosy. We didn鈥檛 have privacy in the house we shared. My aunts would come into the room where my mom and sisters and I were staying whenever they pleased. They鈥檇 even sleep there with us sometimes. My sisters and I would hesitate to talk about work in front of them. Even though they were the ones who had helped us get in the company, they were also always telling us what to do and what not to do, how to behave. My aunts had the mentality that if a boss tells them to work longer hours than they鈥檙e supposed to, then they work for him for free. But I understand how they could get that way. At first when I started working at the factory, I was grateful to have a job at all. I got to the point of thinking that the boss was very good, that it was only because he employed me that I could eat.

The work wasn鈥檛 just boring, it was dangerous. One Friday about a month or so after we started working, my sister Maria came home with her waist hurting a lot. She鈥檇 been given a bundle of about a hundred finished jeans to carry鈥攊t was bigger than it was supposed to be鈥攁nd she鈥檇 strained her back. By Sunday morning, she couldn鈥檛 get out of bed, and she screamed because she couldn鈥檛 feel her legs. At the time we didn鈥檛 know if she was paralyzed. We took her to the regional hospital, where they told us we should apply for workers鈥� compensation. But my sister was too young to work legally and she wasn鈥檛 qualified for social security benefits, so we just had to wait out her injury until she could work again.

It took two months for my sister to walk again. We lost my sister鈥檚 income, so during that time, my mom would take food to work for me, my aunts, and Azucena to save money on expenses. Maria would stay at home alone. We were still at our grandfather鈥檚 home at that time, and Maria told us that she heard his ghost walking around sometimes. One day after a couple of months, my mom came home after bringing us food at the factory, and to her surprise, she found my sister standing. My sister said, 鈥淎ll my pain is gone.鈥� Later, Maria told me, 鈥淚 heard Grandpa walk up to the door and say, 鈥楽tand up, you lazy girl. Your mom needs you to help her. Your mom doesn鈥檛 want to see you at home. Stand up.鈥欌�� And three days later Maria went back to work.

WE JUST HAD OUR CLOTHES AND THAT WAS IT

So, by the time I was sixteen, I was living the life of an adult and going to the factory every day. But after we were working at Navarra for a few months, my aunts began to argue a lot with my mom. They wanted my grandfather鈥檚 house to themselves. Finally, in the spring of 鈥�99, they just kicked us out of the house. We didn鈥檛 have any furniture. We didn鈥檛 have much of anything. We just had our clothes and that was it.

We rented an apartment near the factory. At first, we had to sleep on cardboard because we didn鈥檛 have a mattress. The good thing was that it was warm during the summer, and during the fall each of us had a sweater, and we鈥檇 cover ourselves with our sweaters at night. We sat on empty vegetable boxes and we cooked with a portable stove and a pan. My sisters and I took care of the expenses of the house, even though my salary was not much, just 261 pesos a week.

At the time, 261 pesos = approximately US$26.

It was hard. I would say, 鈥淚n our house with Dad, we didn鈥檛 live like this. I had a bed, I had a TV to watch, I had a radio to listen to.鈥� I remember that I sometimes dreamed of returning to live near Mexico City with my dad. I used to think, I hope my dad calls today to say, 鈥淐ome home.鈥� It was the hope that my dad might repent and that we鈥檇 return to school, that I could finally have real opportunities in life.

Sometimes my sisters and I would talk about the things we were missing. 鈥淲ell, we can鈥檛 do all of that with what we earn,鈥� we would tell each other. Because we had to pay for food and rent and utilities and we had to somehow help my mom, because she was fifty-two years old at that point, and she was not well. She had breathing problems. In Tehuac谩n, there was a lot of smoke from wood fires used for cooking as well as smoke from the factories, and after we moved out from my grandfather鈥檚 house, my mom got pneumonia. She was really ill, and there were nights that I was scared that she鈥檇 die and leave us there in Tehuac谩n, without anything, without stability.

I admit, I was angry with my life. I鈥檇 think, Why did I have to go through this? I could have had a normal life. As much as I wanted things to be the way they were before my dad lost his job, I started to realize that wouldn鈥檛 ever happen. I鈥檇 think, The problem is, Dad didn鈥檛 step up to the plate. And then with time, I began thinking that we were in Tehuac谩n for a reason. To realize that not all things come easy鈥攜ou have to keep going and learn to overcome all the bad things that happen to you.

THE NEW SUPERVISORS FORCED ME TO STAND UP FOR MYSELF

I decided to leave Vaqueros Navarra in the fall of 1999. I hadn鈥檛 even been there for a full year, but I didn鈥檛 like the way I was treated, or the way that my sister was treated. I told my mom, 鈥淚 don鈥檛 want this anymore. I can鈥檛 stand it. I鈥檓 going to look for another job.鈥� My sister Maria left too, but Azucena stayed at Navarra鈥攕he was old enough to be employed there legally, and she was treated a little better.

I found a job at a small jeans maquila in town called Choco. When I started, the supervisor asked me, 鈥淲hat can you do?鈥� I told him, 鈥淲ell, I鈥檓 manual labor.鈥� Luckily, the supervisor wasn鈥檛 a creep, and he told me, 鈥淚鈥檓 going to teach you to sew. Sit down, you鈥檙e going to learn. Do you know what a bobbin is?鈥� I said I had more or less of an idea because we had a machine at my grandpa鈥檚 house, but I didn鈥檛 know how to sew on it. He told me, 鈥淲ell, I鈥檓 going to teach you. Step on the sewing-machine pedal just a little, otherwise you鈥檒l get your fingers caught by the needle. It can move fast.鈥� Choco was a very small shop, but I got paid a little better, around 380 pesos a week since I was doing needlework. I worked there for a couple of months, but it was hard: it was far from where we were living, and the hours were long.

At the time, 380 pesos = approximately US$28.50.

Then one of our neighbors told us about openings at a bigger maquila called Industrias Georgia that did jeans for brands like Polo. The factory was only three blocks from our apartment, so I decided to apply. The supervisor who interviewed me asked what I could do, and I said that I could sew pockets鈥攖he fastest, easiest part of the jeans to sew. They tried me out and saw that I knew a little, but not a lot. Still, they took a chance on me and taught me how to sew more, as well as assemble parts into a finished pair of jeans, how to fold and pack the jeans鈥攂asically all the jobs that go into garment production.

At the time, 450 pesos = approximately US$33.50.

At Industrias Georgia, they paid me a little more, maybe 450 pesos a week before overtime pay. But they also treated me with respect, and that was more important to me. They didn鈥檛 insult me or my family, I didn鈥檛 have to stay late if I didn鈥檛 want to, and if I did stay late, they would pay me overtime.

In my first year at Industrias Georgia, I became very skilled as a needleworker. After a year or so, my sisters joined me there as well, and we were all important employees. Every once in a while, a representative from a brand like Polo would come and request that we produce samples for new jeans they wanted to manufacture, and my sisters and I were usually chosen to help produce the samples. The representative would watch us work on the samples, and the size of the order they placed would depend on how fast and how well we could produce the jeans. When the brand representative came, he was very good toward me and my sisters. He鈥檇 say, 鈥淵ou鈥檙e very good at sewing, you don鈥檛 leave behind anything that needs corrections or any extra mending, you鈥檙e fast.鈥� I came to like sewing jeans.It was something I was good at.

But after the first year at Industrias Georgia, things began to change. I think it all happened after Vicente Fox was elected in 2000. Not long after he came into office he signed the Puebla-Panama Plan. It was like a trade agreement, and the idea was to make it easier to do business with countries south of Mexico like Panama.

The Puebla-Panama Plan was an economic development plan signed into law by President Vicente Fox in 2001. Its purpose was to enhance economic and industrial links between southern Mexican states and all of Central America and Columbia. Other than eliminating tariffs and other trade barriers, the agreement also funded industrial infrastructure such as roads and telecommunications integration.

For Tehuac谩n, this meant that brands that made pants in town started looking toward Central America, because labor was cheaper there. In fact, some factory owners here would take a few Tehuac谩n workers with them to places like Panama to teach new workers how to sew.

Suddenly, there was more pressure to hold on to clients at places like Industrias Georgia. After 2001, a lot of new supervisors were hired who were very rude. They wouldn鈥檛 say please, they would say, 鈥淚 don鈥檛 give a damn, you do it, and do it faster!鈥�

If you don鈥檛 treat me with respect, then I鈥檒l treat you the same way. The new supervisors forced me to stand up for myself. It was there that I became very vulgar.

IF I DIED, HOW WOULD THEY PAY FOR THE BURIAL?

My sisters and I worked very hard back then. Sometimes I鈥檇 work for fourteen hours straight, but I鈥檇 tell myself, I can handle it, I can handle it. But when we finished working it was midnight, and we were very tired. Our backs ached. It was nasty. Unbearably painful.

Then around the spring of 2002, I got sick. We had a lot of orders to fill, and I was working quite a few extra late shifts, working a lot of overtime. I鈥檇 think, I can do it, I can do it. I didn鈥檛 have the luxury of going home to rest, because I knew that there were expenses coming. I had to pay the rent, pay the electricity, pay for food. I started on Monday, and all night into Tuesday morning I had a fever. I slept a little and then Tuesday morning I went to work with the fever lingering.

By Wednesday, I was getting worse and having stomach problems. And I worked like that until four in the morning on Thursday. I slept a little again and went in Thursday morning, but I wasn鈥檛 feeling well enough to work. I told my supervisor, 鈥淕ive me a pass so I can go to the doctor. I鈥檓 very sick and I鈥檝e had a fever for over three days, and it鈥檚 not going away.鈥� He told me, 鈥淚f you sacrifice a little and work tonight, I鈥檒l give you the pass tomorrow.鈥� That鈥檚 when I woke up. I said, 鈥淚鈥檝e already sacrificed for you, and now being sick is what I get for trying to help you meet these orders. Go to hell.鈥�

When I got home, I was at the point of severe dehydration. I remember I was crying, and I told my sister Maria, 鈥淭ake me to the hospital, because I can鈥檛 make it.鈥�

When we got to the hospital, the doctor who saw me told Maria, 鈥淚f you hadn鈥檛 brought her right this minute, your sister might have died from her fever.鈥� I got scared then because I thought, If I died, how would they pay for the burial?

I remember that we got there at nine, ten at night and they let me go at four in the morning. We got home walking because we didn鈥檛 have money for a taxi. I woke up the next day around eight and I still had a fever. But I told my mom, 鈥淚鈥檓 going to work.鈥� And I was walking toward the door when I passed out. After taking some antibiotics for a few days, I started to feel better, so I went back to work. I couldn鈥檛 really afford to take much time off.

October 2 commemorates the Tlatelolco Massacre of 1968, in which dozens of students and activists were killed by the Mexican army during a protest.

Then, six months after I got sick, the company shut down. It happened on October 2, 2002. It was very ironic. I remember that day well. We were all keeping up to date with the marches and protests that occur on that day. Then our supervisors told us there was no longer any work and that the severance papers were being filed. As they say, 鈥淣ever forget the second of October.鈥� I definitely won鈥檛.

I began to cry, because that鈥檚 when I understood my dad鈥檚 experience when Ruta 100 fired him. I thought, Where am I going to work if I don鈥檛 know how to do other kinds of work? I was already used to it there; it was my job for almost three years and I was established there.

There was another problem: the owners claimed they had no money to pay us the back pay they owed us. I had weeks鈥� worth of overtime and unused vacation time, thousands of pesos鈥� worth, and we were told by our bosses that we might not get it. We were also told we might not get any severance pay, that we hadn鈥檛 worked there long enough yet. At home, our mom heard me and my sisters talking about our predicament, and she encouraged us to talk to a lawyer whom one of our cousins knew. She told us to make sure never to just give our work away. So we ended up suing for back pay and severance.

At the time, 8,000 pesos = US$600.

The company lawyer tried to negotiate with us when we met. He told me that only I would be able to get my money, but neither Maria nor Azucena would get anything, because they had been there less than a year. It was going to be given to me because of the amount of time I鈥檇 put in. In the end I was able to get 8,000 pesos by negotiating with the company lawyers.

I think the other workers resented me, though鈥攖hey鈥檇 say, 鈥淲hy are you suing the boss? He鈥檚 a nice guy.鈥� Nice or not, the bosses will always win. We鈥檒l never win, unless we demand what we鈥檙e owed.

WORKING IN A FACTORY, EVERYTHING SLIPS AWAY FROM YOU

After I was laid off from Industrias Georgia, I moved to Mexico City to look for work. I had heard rumors of blacklists for workers who sued, and I didn鈥檛 want any more conflict. Actually, the boss liked me enough that he offered to set me up at a maquila in a neighboring town even though I had sued him! It didn鈥檛 seem like an appealing place to work though, so I tried Mexico City. There I stayed with my dad in Ecatepec and made shopping bags at a small shop in La Merced, but I actually missed the work I had been doing.

La Merced is a neighborhood of Mexico City with a large open-air market.

When I first started working in a factory as a teenager, I鈥檇 think, I don鈥檛 want to end up like my aunts, chained to sewing work, dealing with the insults. Because yes, life slips away. Working in a factory, everything slips away from you. Your lungs wear out, your life runs out.

But then I thought, No, working is a way to move beyond the problems you have. The clothing factory becomes your home. For me it was about learning to be responsible and to have ambitions. That鈥檚 how I came to see the clothing factory. I also wanted to continue studying, I wanted to study medicine, and to do that I needed to work to save money.

So in May 2003, when I was twenty, I went back to Tehuac谩n and began working again at Vaqueros Navarra, the first company I鈥檇 worked for. My older sister Azucena was already back at Navarra, ever since Industrias Georgia closed. Maria worked elsewhere in town, but she鈥檇 eventually join us as well.

So for years I worked with Vaqueros Navarra as a needleworker, assembling completed pants. For me, there was beauty there at work. I began to enjoy myself in the clothing factory. There in the factory you get to know people. You get to know their lives, how they started out. And you begin to talk. You become part of the family. More than anything, I enjoyed making samples, models for pants. Because it made me proud to say, 鈥淚 made that pair of pants.鈥� The pants are not only a piece of clothing and nothing more. There are the workers鈥� experiences and life that they give each day to the clothes they sew. Tears go into it. Laughter goes into it. Dreams go into it. Many memories go into it.

WE WANTED TO KEEP OUR JOBS

I worked at Navarra again for years with everything normal. My pay was about the same as at Industrias Georgia, but at Navarra our contracts also included profit sharing, so we would usually see another 2,000 pesos once a year in May.

At the time, 2,000 pesos = approximately US$150.

Navarra was able to survive where other maquilas failed around that time because they were big. They formed an association with some other maquilas called the Navarro Group, and because of scale they could afford to offer better prices to companies like Levi鈥檚 and Gap. But they also got contracts because Navarra workers did good work, and the representatives and auditors from big brands who would come and see us work appreciated our care and speed.

The only thing I didn鈥檛 like about Navarra during the first years of my return was that I was asked to work as a 肠辞尘辞诲铆苍, or 鈥渨ildcard鈥� employee, who covered a lot of different assignments instead of just working at one sewing station. I鈥檇 make samples, make pieces like pockets or zippers, whatever was needed at the time. I made more money that way, but the hours were longer than if I had a set quota like I would have as a sewing-machine operator. But this way I also got to meet a lot of other workers, see what was going on around the factory.

In early 2006, maybe January, I first started hearing about workers organizing. We hadn鈥檛 been given a raise in two years, and some of the senior employees formed an informal commission and proposed a 20 percent raise to the bosses. I think the senior organizers never expected to win that much, but it was a place to start鈥攎aybe we鈥檇 end up with 10 percent. The workers agreed to strike, thousands of us, without any formal support from outside unions. Then one day in January four men showed up and met with company owners, and then called all the workers together during break time. They said they were representatives from CROC, and that they鈥檇 negotiated a 3 percent raise for all of us.

CROC is the Confederaci贸n Revolucionaria de Obreros y Campesinos, or Revolutionary Confederation of Workers and Farmers, a national coalition of unions in Mexico.

But none of us in the factory knew who CROC was, and none of us had signed any contract with them. We were like, 鈥淲ho are these guys?鈥� We didn鈥檛 accept the deal and carried out a work slowdown. We were making thousands fewer pieces a day than normal, and the company was losing money. Finally, after a few days, we got a 7 percent raise. We figured that was the best we could do.

As a wildcard employee, I knew the factory pretty well. Soon after our raise, I began to notice that certain people I was used to seeing weren鈥檛 around anymore. When I asked about them, I was told by supervisors that they鈥檇 been given new positions. Meanwhile, the bosses kept setting our daily quotas higher and higher, asking for faster work. Then I remember one day in April when a supervisor asked me to cover for a girl who didn鈥檛 show up that day. I was confused, since I remembered seeing her that morning. I ran into her later outside the factory, and she told me she鈥檇 been laid off that day. I started to worry.

My sisters and I did work on the side as party planners, fixing up birthday parties and videotaping them, things like that. Around that time we did a birthday party for the daughter of a man who worked in human resources at Navarra. At the party, he told us that Navarra was firing people who had been there only a few months, and also those who had been there many years. The company didn鈥檛 want to have to pay the pensions of older employees nearing retirement age, and the newer employees hadn鈥檛 been there long enough to be given a severance. He told us Maria would probably be fired, since she鈥檇 been at Navarra less than six months. And she was. Maria was laid off a few weeks later in May, along with twelve others the same day. Nobody knew what was coming next.

We were also accustomed to receiving profit share every year around May, somewhere between 1,500 and 2,000 pesos. That year we received virtually nothing. That month my envelope had only 125 pesos in profit sharing, when I was used to seeing thousands of pesos of profit share every year. The thing was, we were working more than ever. We didn鈥檛 believe we were getting less because of fewer orders. And we didn鈥檛 believe it was because of our 7 percent raises. What was happening was that the company was subcontracting some work to smaller maquilas in the area, small shops where brand auditors wouldn鈥檛 see what was happening and the company could make jeans without the same high standards we had in the main factory. We鈥檇 make samples and models in the main factory, but a lot of the manufacturing was shifting elsewhere.

One day in early summer of 2006, just a couple of weeks after my sister Maria had been fired, a labor rights organizer named Mart铆n Barrios and a couple of his associates from the local Commission for Human and Labor Rights came by the factory to hand out flyers.

Mart铆n Barrios is the director of the Commission for Human and Labor Rights, founded in Tehuac谩n in 1995.

The flyer invited workers to a meeting at the house of one of his associates who lived nearby. My sisters and I and some other workers began to attend meetings with Mart铆n regularly. When we first started talking about organizing, we just wanted the layoffs to stop, and we wanted people who were laid off to get fair severance pay. Mart铆n explained that under federal law, anyone terminated without cause was entitled to ninety days of severance, and twelve days of pay for every year served. This was important to learn about, but mostly, we wanted to keep our jobs.

We didn鈥檛 have a formal union that really represented us, but from Mart铆n we got the idea that we could organize a collective bargaining agreement so that we could negotiate our contracts with the bosses. We wanted to figure out how to negotiate contract terms directly with the bosses. There were hundreds of us participating in making a collective bargaining agreement, and we elected eleven leaders, a commission, at a meeting away from the factory. The next day, ten of those eleven workers were fired. Someone had told the boss. The factory manager distributed flyers to all us workers explaining that those who were fired were rotten apples and that the company wouldn鈥檛 employ people like that. I guess he only wanted apples that were ready to be eaten.

The next day we elected a second commission, eight workers including my older sister Azucena. They lasted only two or three days before they were fired鈥攁ll but my sister. I鈥檓 not sure why she was spared; it might have been because she denied being part of the commission.

The layoffs stopped for a few weeks, but started up again. In August, Mart铆n said to me, 鈥淭here is going to be a meeting. Can you attend?鈥� I told him, 鈥淚 don鈥檛 want to lose my job right now because we鈥檙e not in the position to lose it.鈥� Because of what I鈥檇 seen my dad go through, I said, 鈥淚鈥檓 not going to go to marches, I鈥檓 not going to go to meetings anymore. I鈥檓 not going to expose myself.鈥� But the more I thought about what happened with my dad, the more I realized I needed to stand up for myself or I could lose everything. So I went to a meeting one Sunday and helped form a third commission. Azucena was in that one, too. We tried to be quiet about it, and our job was to report about what was going on in the factory. Mart铆n鈥檚 group was in contact with transnational brands as well, and some of their representatives secretly interviewed us away from the factory to learn about what was going on. We told the brand reps that the bosses claimed that orders weren鈥檛 coming in and that鈥檚 why they had to lay off workers. But the reps showed us the contracts they had with Navarra鈥攖hey had orders placed for years鈥� worth of production!

WE WEREN鈥橳 ABLE TO KEEP THE FACTORY OPEN

In September 2006 we sought the support of formal union backing. There were big national unions like CROC, but many of us workers thought that they were too big and too friendly with ownership to really represent our interests. We didn鈥檛 think they鈥檇 push for enough. We learned of a smaller union called the 19th of September, and it was made up entirely of seamstresses like us鈥攊t was named in memory of the 1985 earthquake where hundreds of seamstresses died, and thousands were left without jobs. By this time there were less than five hundred workers left at the Navarra factory, where once there were thousands. We had a vote about which union should represent us as part of collective bargaining, the 19th of September, CROC, or one other national union, and 19th of September got the majority of votes.

Unfortunately, we weren鈥檛 able to keep the factory open. In December, Navarra announced that there was no work at the moment and they sent us on early holiday vacation on December 8. When we returned on January 3, 2007, much of the machinery had been sold. By January 20, we were all laid off. The union stayed in negotiations with Navarra the whole time. It turned out the bosses would rather close the factory and push orders on to other maquilas than negotiate with unionized workers. Even though Navarra was at one point the biggest, best known maquila in town, the group that owned Navarra was just as happy to send work to other maquilas that they operated. The 260 of us who remained to the end were able to fight for our full severance, though. We got 90 percent of it in February, and then the remaining 10 percent was paid in old sewing machines after the factory was taken apart the next fall.

I DIDN鈥橳 EVEN KNOW WHAT A BLACKLIST WAS

After Navarra, I started working at another small maquila in town. The first day, it was noon and I was almost done with my work. The line boss came to me and said, 鈥淚 need to talk to you.鈥� I said, 鈥淪ure, what is it?鈥� But I kept sewing. He said, 鈥淭here鈥檚 no work for you because you鈥檙e from Vaqueros Navarra. You鈥檙e part of the 19th of September committee, so there鈥檚 no work for you. I don鈥檛 want to have any problems. I鈥檒l pay your day. I鈥檒l even pay you more.鈥� He gave me 200 pesos, and then he said, 鈥淟eave your bundle, don鈥檛 finish it.鈥�So I left, crying.

Then I was hired in a second shop, and I lasted for only half an hour. I had just started, and a supervisor came up to me and said, 鈥淵ou know what, honey? Give me the work back. I think you already know why. I recognize you. You were in the newspaper.鈥�

When I first started organizing, I didn鈥檛 even know what a blacklist was. But now I realized how it worked. Every factory in town knew my story. Factory owners had been sharing names of individual workers affiliated with the 19th of September union鈥攏ot only in clothing factories but in the shoe factories, department stores, agricultural suppliers, and in the pork business too. I thought, It can鈥檛 be. Even the little shops are kicking me out.

With no garment work, I dedicated myself fully to the struggle, and I had a little income through work with Mart铆n鈥檚 organization. I鈥檇 visit workers and help organize meetings. I took charge of the attendance sheets. Mart铆n became my friend鈥攚hen he saw me, he鈥檇 ask me, 鈥淗ave you eaten?鈥�

In early 2008, when I still couldn鈥檛 find work, I came to Mexico City. I had a nephew there who had a small business. He told me he could give me work. But in the end I didn鈥檛 want to work for his business since he couldn鈥檛 offer health benefits. Large expenses were coming our way because my mom was having breathing problems again, getting sicker each day.

Pino Su谩rez is a neighborhood near the center of Mexico City.

Also, after working so long in Tehuac谩n, I started getting sick too. I was having breathing problems like my mother and I practically lost my sight in one eye. So to obtain the medical benefits, I went to Pino Su谩rez, where there are clothing factories that aren鈥檛 that big. But in every factory I went to, human resources would tell me that they knew about me already, that I was on a blacklist.

I think it鈥檚 not fair that one is denied work for fighting for one鈥檚 rights. If owners see it that way, I hope they never have the same needs as I do, and that they鈥檙e never in my shoes. But I haven鈥檛 lost hope of going back to work at a clothing factory. I want to continue working.

My sister Maria has said, 鈥淚t was wrong of you to get involved because, as you see, they won鈥檛 give you work. What did you learn from all this? Did you learn anything good?鈥� It was as if she were telling me, Did you learn to not get into trouble? And I told her, 鈥淚 did learn something. I have rights, and it was my job, and I knew that the company should not act like this. I would do it again.鈥� You can鈥檛 win if you鈥檙e afraid. To win you have to be brave, not remain ignorant. Everyone has dignity. That鈥檚 something that nobody will be able to change, and that鈥檚 what is most important: the dignity that one has as a person, as a worker.

My message for all the workers is to never think that you鈥檙e less than the boss. Just the opposite鈥攜ou鈥檙e worth more than they are. Because thanks to your work and your efforts, they have their car, they can eat better than we can. The work we鈥檙e doing is very worthy. If one works in a factory, whether it鈥檚 making televisions or a pair of pants, whatever we鈥檙e making we feel proud of. Every time I see a pair of pants I say to myself, 鈥淗ow proud I am that I made those pants. It was my work. It was my effort. It was my night shifts when I didn鈥檛 sleep.鈥� My youngest sister Lucero is a fashion designer now, and I tell her, 鈥淚t鈥檚 worthy to design something, but it鈥檚 more worthy to sew it together.鈥�

This article is excerpted from the book Invisible Hands: Voices From The Global Economy, an oral history collection by publisher .