By Beatriz (Bea) Palmer
It’s almost Sunday.
At dawn, my mother would wake before the sun, tiptoeing carefully through the house so as not to waken her children. As she prepared her cafecito (coffee), she poured a cup for herself and one for my father, then carefully filled their metal thermos with the rest of the pot. To this day, I don’t know how she found the time to prepare her burritos for lunch, leave us a small breakfast for when we woke up, and make sure there was food waiting for us when we got home from school.
Her hands, still aching from the day before, bore the sticky residue of the tomato plants—silent evidence of hours spent in the fields—and her shoes, damp and clumped with earth, were all reminders of the work that felt like it would never end.
By the time most families sat down for dinner, she was finishing up her work in the crops, her skin damp with sweat and carrying the scent of pesticides. To this day, the smell of nonorganic strawberries takes me back to my mother’s work shirts and handkerchiefs. When I look at her back now, I see the cost of our food imprinted on her spine. Her body, sore and exhausted, longed for just a little more rest, but it was only Tuesday, and the road to Sunday felt long.
Yet, in her exhaustion, she found strength in the promise of something greater. She reminded herself that her sacrifice was temporary, that her children would go to college and find careers that did not leave their bodies broken. The thought of us sitting in classrooms instead of laboring in the fields fueled her. It was a typical working week for my mother, a strong, hard-working woman, Graciela Esquivel Salazar.
Latino farmworkers have long fought for just wages, equitable working conditions, and basic human rights such as access to breaks, clean water, livable wages, health benefits, and the ability to take time paid off to attend their children’s school events. According to the National Agricultural Workers Survey (NAWS), approximately 78% of all farmworkers in the United States identify as Latino or Hispanic, with about 49% lacking work authorization. In California, this percentage is even higher, with 92% of farmworkers identifying as Latino, and nearly half of the nation’s undocumented agricultural workers residing the the state.
While farm labor is deeply rooted in the Latino immigrant experience, with Latinos making up the overwhelming majority of agricultural and factory workers in California and across the United States, many other ethnic communities, including Filipino, Japanese, Vietnamese, and other minoritized groups, have also contributed to this labor force.
Our nation remains divided on the value of immigrant communities, yet their impact is undeniable—without them, the agricultural industry and our food supply would be in crisis. Overall, immigrants make up 25% of the labor force, and undocumented workers alone contribute over $97 billion in taxes each year, says a study by the Institute on Taxation and Economic Policy, despite being excluded from many public benefits. If their labor were to disappear, who would step in to fill the void?
The Struggle
As the daughter of immigrant farmworkers, I have witnessed firsthand that the cost of our santos alimentos (sacred food) transcends the actual price we pay at the grocery store. I wonder if consumers reflect on the real cost of their food—the sweat, sacrifice, and relentless labor behind every bite we take. The production of food extends far beyond the fields; it includes everything harvested, processed, packaged, and prepared—industries many immigrants turn to in order to provide for their families, including factories and restaurants.
These are not the common temporary jobs that college students take on to sustain themselves financially while balancing study hours. Nor are they the types of jobs most new professionals add to their résumés as steppingstones to their careers. These jobs are often invisible and undervalued in career-building conversations, yet they are essential to sustaining the industries that feed our communities.
Behind every piece of produce and every factory-processed item, there are human beings—often our neighbors or the parents of the children our kids go to school with—making immense sacrifices. Cultivating the land is not just a job; it is an act of love and devotion, one that nourishes the body and soul—but at what cost?
These jobs begin before the rooster crows. Workers leave home before sunrise, often entrusting their children to others for school drop-offs. The work is grueling—hands chapped and bleeding, backs aching, bodies desperate for rest. Studies show farmworkers experience high rates of chronic pain and musculoskeletal injuries due to repetitive movements and prolonged exposure to harsh conditions.
I know this because my mother worked these jobs for most of my life. When I look at her back, I see how years of bending over to work the land have left her spine looking like vines climbing through her skin. Her pain is unbearable at times, and while she needs surgery, the risks are too uncertain. Instead, she endures—relying on self-care, santos remedios (holistic remedies), and Western medicine.
She, like many, never had the luxury of participating in the “cool moms” morning carpool. She wasn’t able to barter with neighbors for school pick-ups. Saturdays weren’t for extracurricular activities; they were for cleaning, washing, cooking, and taking my father his lunch in the fields—the closest thing we had to a weekend family meal. Eating out was a rare luxury because my parents’ wages barely covered rent, food, and sometimes childcare. The constant financial strain shaped every decision we made. When childcare was out of reach, the responsibility fell on me, the eldest.
My mother was not alone. While working at a local community college, I met several students whose experiences mirrored my own. Though a substantial age gap separated us—they were in their early twenties while I was in my forties—we shared a common understanding of sacrifice.
One student spent summers and holidays helping his father at the aguacatera (avocado farm) instead of joining alternative spring break trips or service programs. Another, a DACA recipient, grew up watching her mother toil the land just as mine had. Both became the first in their families to graduate high school and pursue a college degree.
Today, one of them is on their way to becoming a Doctor of Physical Therapy, likely continuing to help his father during his breaks, while the other is a respected community leader working at a local youth center, helping kids and families from similar backgrounds. Their career paths may look different from their parents’ labor-intensive work, but they remain deeply aware of the sacrifices that made their futures possible.
Morelia Merida, a former student, shares how her family’s sacrifices shaped her upbringing and future. “Now that I have finished high school and attended college, I realize how much we gave up as children of farm and factory workers so that others could enjoy the meals around their dinner tables. I don’t remember having family dinners with my parents. My sister and I cooked dinner and ate without them because they were still working. It felt like they were taken away from us to care for other people’s needs. Even at school events, I noticed that parents who didn’t work in agriculture could attend, while those who did were often absent because they were in the fields, factories, or hotels.”
In addition to economic hardships, many farmworkers suffer serious health consequences. Exposure to pesticides is a silent danger that can cause serious illness. Studies have found that pesticides can increase the risk of developing non-Hodgkin lymphoma, leukemia, and bladder cancer. In my own family, my uncle beat lymphoma, but my dad died after his first round of chemotherapy. Both suffered the effects of pesticides through their work in the fields. Workers also face extreme heat, few opportunities for rest, lack of access to restrooms, and very low wages with no medical benefits.
“My mom, from being bent over for so long in the fields, now suffers from chronic knee pain,” says Morelia Merida. “The treatment is difficult because she was always agachada (bent over), and on her knees. After working under the sun for so many years, you can see the sun damage her skin has endured.”
The next time you enjoy your fruta con Tajín or your organic salad, think beyond the price at the register. Even as eggs remain costly, reflect not just on the price of a dozen but on the labor that makes it possible for us to eat every day. Because the true cost of food is more than dollars, and farmworkers do more than provide food; their work is an act of sacrificial love for this nation.
A Call to Action
As my parents always reminded us, go to school, work hard so that our back-breaking sacrifice isn’t in vain.
Here’s how we can honor that sacrifice:
- Know Your History. Understand the true cost of food, beyond sales and price tags. Acknowledge the human labor behind each meal and recognize the communities sustaining our nation’s food systems.
- Support Local Vendors. Buy from local farmers and producers when possible. And while labor strikes are important, remember that some workers cannot afford to take a day off—even for their own benefit.
- Debunk Myths. While Latino immigrants make up the majority of the agricultural and factory workforce in California and across the country, farm labor is not just Latino labor. These injustices transcend cultures and ethnicities, affecting immigrant communities at large. It is an honorable, difficult, and often underappreciated profession carried out by diverse communities who deserve dignity and respect.
- Civic Engagement and Advocacy Opportunities. Advocate for farmworker rights by supporting policies that ensure fair wages, access to health care, livable wages, safe working conditions, and protections from hazardous pesticides. Support legislative efforts like the Farm Workforce Modernization Act, which seeks to provide a pathway to legal status for undocumented farmworkers, or the Farmworker Protection Rule, which enhances safety standards and employer accountability. Engage in petitions and amplify farmworker voices in policy discussions.
- Volunteer during Cesar Chavez Day of Service
- Support organizations like Universidad Popular https://www.unipopular.org/about
- Make a financial contribution to CSUSM’s Camp program (a program that supports college students whose parents are farm workers) https://www.csusm.edu/camp/index.html
- Connect with San Diego Farm Worker Care Coalition: https://www.sandiegoleaders.org/farmworkercarecoalition
- Support your district’s Migrant Education Programs https://www.sdcoe.net/special-populations/migrant-education,
- Make a donation to your local college’s scholarship and ask that your contributions support a student of immigrant farm workers https://www.miracosta.edu/student-services/financial-aid/types-of-aid/scholarships/index.html
Beatriz Palmer is the daughter of farmworkers.
