Poor housing plagues migrant workers By Federico Martinez Her body was weary after picking asparagus for 12 hours. Once in awhile, Griselda Coronado's mind would drift, and she would think about her four small children and the better lives she dreamed for them. Those thoughts were interrupted by an urgent voice, barely audible over the grinding engine sounds of the asparagus picker. The voice on the other end of the cell phone informed Coronado that the family's trailer -- where she had left the children earlier in the day -- was now engulfed in flames. Hysterical, Coronado dialed the number of her aunt, Reyna Hernandez, who lived in the Pentwater trailer next to theirs. She pleaded with her aunt to save the children. "Please, please move away from there," Coronado sobbed. "There's a big propane tank. ..." Then the phone went dead. Living With Fear Undetected gas leaks and electrical problems, exposed raw sewage near living areas, structural problems ranging from leaky roofs, rotted flooring and boarded-up windows -- these are some of the problematic living conditions migrant families report every year in Michigan. "I don't know that we're seeing more (housing complaints)," said Jennifer Mashek, a staff attorney for Michigan's Farmworker Legal Services. "We're more diligent about putting them in writing. We're filing more reports than in the past. But there have always been a lot." Migrant advocates across Michigan fear more problems with inadequate housing could occur because the number of inspectors is shrinking. Ten years ago, Michigan's Department of Agriculture employed eight full-time inspectors. Currently, there are four, and one of those inspectors, Art Hulkoff, also handles the department's administrative duties, limiting the amount of time he can go out and inspect. Those four inspectors are responsible for approximately 900 migrant housing sites, most of which contain multiple dwellings. In the past, migrant housing sites were visited twice per year, said Hulkoff and Mark Swartz, another state housing inspector. These days inspectors only have time for one visit -- which occurs before the migrants arrive. Landlords are asked to conduct their own property inspections, said Hulkoff. If a problem exists, landlords are required to report back when the issue has been resolved. Landlords often are on the "honor system," because followup inspections can't be done quickly. Fines for violating housing codes are small and rarely levied, critics contend. Inspectors and migrant advocates believe many housing problems go unreported each year. Some migrants fear they will lose their jobs and become homeless if they complain about housing conditions. Others stay silent because they are living and working in the U.S. illegally and fear being deported. A Dream Goes Up In Flames For most of their lives, Coronado, 25, and Rogelio Cruz, 32, have worked in the fields. Since the birth of their eldest child, Krystina, 6, the couple have been trying to escape the endless migrant cycle of traveling and picking. Three years ago the family purchased their first home in Alamo, Texas where Cruz found work at a local retail store. When that job ended last spring, the family was forced to return to its nomadic lifestyle. In the wee hours of May 22, the family arrived at Robert VanderZanden's Pentwater farm. By 7 a.m. they were harvesting asparagus, with promises a trailer would be ready for them to move into that evening, said Coronado. "Immediately, we smelled a gas leak," says Coronado, recalling the first moments when they entered 4754 W. Adams. "(The landlord) came over and turned on the furnace. But once it went off it would start again. "We left the windows open during the night and took turns going outside to get some fresh air." Their living situation remained unchanged for weeks. As chance would have it, a group of state officials whose agencies provide services to migrants was touring Oceana County on June 8. Their last stop was the migrant housing site where Coronado and Cruz's family lived. Officials noted that the children of Coronado and Cruz appeared dazed and lethargic. Eight-month-old Johnny Cruz's lips were a light shade of purple. A health department official participating in the tour realized there was a gas leak in the trailer and ordered everyone out. The family moved into a trailer next door while awaiting an inspector to return. Cruz and Coronado say their landlord informed them on June 14 that the gas leak had been fixed and they could move back in. After lunch that day the parents returned to the fields. Krystina and Joseph, 5, started to watch a movie. An aunt living next door kept an eye on David, 3 and the baby, Johnny. Later, another migrant worker who was in the area smelled smoke. The word quickly spread throughout the migrant community. A frightening memory Coronado's voice still trembles when she recalls the day of the fire. A report from the Hart Fire Department said the fire's cause was undetermined. VanderZanden did not return calls seeking comment. But Coronado believes the leaky furnace had not been repaired properly and was the cause of her family's terror. "I received a call at 7:30 p.m.," said Coronado. "The (asparagus) rider I was in makes a lot of noise. (The caller) asked me what trailer do you live in?" Then he told Coronado, "Your trailer is on fire." By the time Coronado and Cruz made it back to their home, several fire trucks and ambulances already had arrived. At first there was panic. Nobody knew where the children were. As it turns out, a visiting uncle from Texas had arrived at the trailer and, upon hearing the aunt's distressed efforts to get the children "as far away as possible," scooped up the children in his car and drove away. It was well after midnight by the time the entire family was reunited and cramped together inside the aunt's trailer. "If something would have happened," said Coronado, her voice breaking, "I don't know what I would do." Picking Up The Pieces A state housing inspector, unaware of the fire, showed up the next day to conduct the inspection. It was too late to inspect the burned out trailer. But, inspector Mark Stanfield cited VanderZanden for several other housing and property violations. Windows in other trailers were damaged and needed replacing -- a problem inspector Standfield had already told VanderZanden to correct after an April 17 on-site inspection. Stairs to one trailer were "uneven and wobbly," and "not secured to the ground," the June 30 inspection report stated. Rusty, discarded appliances littered the property, and a large dumpster was overflowing with trash -- problems also cited by the inspector. Stanfield indicated that he would return to re-inspect the property, but state officials could not confirm whether that has been done yet. State inspectors are reviewing how the department handled the incident in Pentwater, Hulkoff told migrant advocates in Lansing recently. "Should (the inspector) have been there by Monday or Tuesday?" said Hulkoff. "Probably. But, the owner had reassured us the problem had been taken care of."Almost everything the family once owned was gone. Toys. Clothing. Family mementos. All are charred memories. The family had hoped to make enough money this summer to tide them over until Cruz found another job in Texas. Instead, they find themselves stranded in Pentwater. Asparagus season ended several weeks ago. The family was without income for weeks. Another farmer provided them housing several miles away and the couple have found temporary employment working at an area cherry packaging plant. Emotional scars from that fire remain. Coronado weeps whenever she begins to talk about it. Cruz tosses and turns at night. Krystina clings to her mother. Even 3-year-old David remembers. David's parents say he recently shouted across the room: "Mommy, I saw the fire -- you didn't. It was ugly. Cruz vows the family's faith in God will help them endure. Coronado is even more determined to escape the migrant stream. "Three years ago I said I would never do this again," Coronado says. "I say again -- I'm never coming back."But, with a growing family and bills to play, there may be no other choice, Cruz admits. "I have to keep working to provide for my family," said Cruz. "Whether God sends me back here or another state, I have to keep working." |