● AMERICASORG● The man Who Took my Job: A NAFTA Journey By Dan baum Originally published in Rolling Stone April 27, 2000 David Quinn spent what President Clinton calls" the longest period of economic growth in our entire history"tumbling down the economic ladder-from having a shot at being the first in his family to get a college degree to living a life of working poverty. David is twenty-six, a shy, unassuming man more attuned to rock roll and classical guitar than to global politics, and his response to career calamity was simply to scale down his expectations and soldier on So while one could argue that Davis was forced out of college in 1997 because Clinton and Congress failed to reform health care, David would just say he was unlucky. He needed expensive oral surgery that his student health plan wouldnt cover, so he abandoned his education and took a union job(witl good medical insurance) making automobile steering wheels for Breed Technologies, outside Fort Wayne, Indiana. Davids father had been a union welder, and his grandfather had worked in the very same union plant, and David figured that as a consolation prize for giving up college, he at least had a secure gig. Higher education had been a stretch anyway, and he had $12,000 worth of student debt to prove it. He moved in with a woman he'd met in Spanish class, Alyssa Lewandowski, had his upper jaw sawed off and repositioned to correct a bad bite, and began thanking about buying a house. All day he pumped molten plastic into a chest-high mold and pulled out blazing-hot steering wheels. In his off hours, he coaxed fluid blues riffs from his Stratocaster guitar. It wasnt all he'd dreamed of, but David started settling into the blue-collar life Less than a year later, in March 1998, David was unemployed again. Breed closed the factory and fired all 455 workers-not because of a drop in sales, but because the company figured it could make steering wheels more cheaply in Mexico. All around him factories were closing, and David wasn't able to find another union job. He ended up delivering pharmaceuticals to discount stores for sever dollars an hour, no benefits and no future. Then he and Alyssa had a baby One day alyssa said, We're out of diapers, and without a word David took his beloved Strat to a pawn shop, sold it for a quarter of its value and stopped for a pack of Kimbies on the way home Still, he didn t get angry. A companys got a right to do what it wants, was how he put it Davids job at Breed was sacrificed to corporate globalism, specifically to the North american Fr trade Agreement, or NAFTA, which turned six years old on January Ist. By easing rules and erasing tariffs, NAFTA makes it easier for American companies to do their manufacturing in Mexico, where the minimum wage is about $3.75 a day and enforcement of safety, labor and environmental standards is notoriously lax Breed aggressively pursued these advantages. The company was founded in 1987, in Lakeland Florida, the brainchild of an engineer who had worked on triggers for the military and then applied
AMERICAS.ORG The Man Who Took My Job: A NAFTA Journey By Dan Baum Originally published in Rolling Stone April 27, 2000 David Quinn spent what President Clinton calls “the longest period of economic growth in our entire history” tumbling down the economic ladder – from having a shot at being the first in his family to get a college degree to living a life of working poverty. David is twenty-six, a shy, unassuming man more attuned to rock & roll and classical guitar than to global politics, and his response to career calamity was simply to scale down his expectations and soldier on. So while one could argue that Davis was forced out of college in 1997 because Clinton and Congress failed to reform health care, David would just say he was unlucky. He needed expensive oral surgery that his student health plan wouldn’t cover, so he abandoned his education and took a union job (with good medical insurance) making automobile steering wheels for Breed Technologies, outside Fort Wayne, Indiana. David’s father had been a union welder, and his grandfather had worked in the very same union plant, and David figured that as a consolation prize for giving up college, he at least had a secure gig. Higher education had been a stretch anyway, and he had $12,000 worth of student debt to prove it. He moved in with a woman he’d met in Spanish class, Alyssa Lewandowski, had his upper jaw sawed off and repositioned to correct a bad bite, and began thanking about buying a house. All day he pumped molten plastic into a chest-high mold and pulled out blazing-hot steering wheels. In his off hours, he coaxed fluid blues riffs from his Stratocaster guitar. It wasn’t all he’d dreamed of, but David started settling into the blue-collar life. Less than a year later, in March 1998, David was unemployed again. Breed closed the factory and fired all 455 workers – not because of a drop in sales, but because the company figured it could make steering wheels more cheaply in Mexico. All around him factories were closing, and David wasn’t able to find another union job. He ended up delivering pharmaceuticals to discount stores for seven dollars an hour, no benefits and no future. Then he and Alyssa had a baby. One day Alyssa said, “We’re out of diapers,” and without a word David took his beloved Strat to a pawn shop, sold it for a quarter of its value and stopped for a pack of Kimbies on the way home. Still, he didn’t get angry. “A company’s got a right to do what it wants,” was how he put it. David’s job at Breed was sacrificed to corporate globalism, specifically to the North American Free trade Agreement, or NAFTA, which turned six years old on January 1st. By easing rules and erasing tariffs, NAFTA makes it easier for American companies to do their manufacturing in Mexico, where the minimum wage is about $3.75 a day and enforcement of safety, labor and environmental standards is notoriously lax. Breed aggressively pursued these advantages. The company was founded in 1987, in Lakeland, Florida, the brainchild of an engineer who had worked on triggers for the military and then applied
them to civilian automobiles. By the time David got hired, Breed was selling almost $800 million a year in air bags, sensors, steering wheels, seat belts and other car parts to just about all the major automakers. By the late Nineties, it had developed a strategy to buy up factories in both the United States and Mexico, moving production from north to south of the border. In addition to Davids workplace, Breed closed five other auto-parts factories across the U.S. in 1997, sending at least a thousand American jobs to Mexico and cutting labor costs on affected products by as much as ninety percent. But the company's orgy of expansion brought with it unbearable debt, and last fall Breed filed for bankruptcy. Company officials declined to comment for this article David Quinn didnt know it, but he was particularly vulnerable to such corporate maneuverings Being a young male without a college degree, he had a big bulls-eye painted on him. While the Dow was reaching delirious heights in the nineties, people with only a high school or some college education-most American workers -ended the decade earning less, in constant dollars than they had at the start. Being young in the Nineties hurt too: Entry-level wages fell more than seven percent, with mens wages dropping slightly more than those of women. And it happens that Indiana is one of seven states that suffered disproportionate NAFTA-related job losses their jobs to Mexico. The names of the departed were a gloomy roll call: Thomson Consumer ng One by one, factories that Indianans had worked in for generations were shutting down and send Electronics. Jay Garment. Magne Tek. Uniroyal Goodrich. Breed. Indianans blame NAFTA for job losses at 107 factories in their state so far Just how many americans have been hurt by NAFTA is unclear. The Clinton administrations, which sold NaFta to Congress partly on the promise that it would create jobs, sidesteps the question of exactly how many -if any -the treaty has created. The federal Bureau of Labor Statistics, which quantifies the workforce from every conceivable angle, chooses not to compile such a number nstead, the administration credits naFta only in general terms with helping to generate the current boom. Yet according to the Journal of Commerce, the U.S. went from having a $5.5 billion trade surplus with Mexico before NAFTa to having a whopping $16 billion trade deficit today, and the prestigious Economic Policy Institute estimates that almost 400,000 Americans lost manufacturing jobs due to NaFta in the agreements first three years Thats about the same number of jobs that have been created in the maquiladoras, or foreign-owned factories in Mexico, since NAFTA was signed. So one might conclude that there's been a huge transfer of wealth and that Mexican workers are profiting from the misfortune of their American counterparts. Mexican factory wages may be low by U.S. standards, but in the Mexican countryside people commonly earn as ten dollars a week -when they can find work. a job in an American factory, especially a new one, sounds better than whacking weeds with a machete in the hot sun or selling chewing gum to motorists on the streets of Mexico City. In raw terms, factories generate wealth-for those who work in them, for those who own them for those who market, advertise transport and sell the products they make. Shiny new American factories-built where once stood only a patch of beans or a few goats- sound like a dream come true for Mexicans The transfer of wealth, it turns out, has not been nearly so neat. David Quinn was painfully aware of how NAFTA had damaged his own life when, in January, he and I traveled together to Mexico. Our goal was to see whether we could find the worker who was doing his old job-to see, in essence, how Davids life had fared in translation. Id found David by calling trade activists around the country
them to civilian automobiles. By the time David got hired, Breed was selling almost $800 million a year in air bags, sensors, steering wheels, seat belts and other car parts to just about all the major automakers. By the late Nineties, it had developed a strategy to buy up factories in both the United States and Mexico, moving production from north to south of the border. In addition to David’s workplace, Breed closed five other auto-parts factories across the U.S. in 1997, sending at least a thousand American jobs to Mexico and cutting labor costs on affected products by as much as ninety percent. But the company’s orgy of expansion brought with it unbearable debt, and last fall Breed filed for bankruptcy. Company officials declined to comment for this article. David Quinn didn’t know it, but he was particularly vulnerable to such corporate maneuverings. Being a young male without a college degree, he had a big bull’s-eye painted on him. While the Dow was reaching delirious heights in the Nineties, people with only a high school or some college education – most American workers – ended the decade earning less, in constant dollars, than they had at the start. Being young in the Nineties hurt too: Entry-level wages fell more than seven percent, with men’s wages dropping slightly more than those of women. And it happens that Indiana is one of seven states that suffered disproportionate NAFTA-related job losses. One by one, factories that Indianans had worked in for generations were shutting down and sending their jobs to Mexico. The names of the departed were a gloomy roll call: Thomson Consumer Electronics. Jay Garment. MagneTek. Uniroyal Goodrich. Breed. Indianans blame NAFTA for job losses at 107 factories in their state so far. Just how many Americans have been hurt by NAFTA is unclear. The Clinton administrations, which sold NAFTA to Congress partly on the promise that it would create jobs, sidesteps the question of exactly how many – if any – the treaty has created. The federal Bureau of Labor Statistics, which quantifies the workforce from every conceivable angle, chooses not to compile such a number. Instead, the administration credits NAFTA only in general terms with helping to generate the current boom. Yet according to the Journal of Commerce, the U.S. went from having a $5.5 billion trade surplus with Mexico before NAFTA to having a whopping $16 billion trade deficit today, and the prestigious Economic Policy Institute estimates that almost 400,000 Americans lost manufacturing jobs due to NAFTA in the agreement’s first three years. That’s about the same number of jobs that have been created in the maquiladoras, or foreign-owned factories in Mexico, since NAFTA was signed. So one might conclude that there’s been a huge transfer of wealth and that Mexican workers are profiting from the misfortune of their American counterparts. Mexican factory wages may be low by U.S. standards, but in the Mexican countryside people commonly earn as ten dollars a week – when they can find work. A job in an American factory, especially a new one, sounds better than whacking weeds with a machete in the hot sun or selling chewing gum to motorists on the streets of Mexico City. In raw terms, factories generate wealth – for those who work in them, for those who own them, for those who market, advertise, transport and sell the products they make. Shiny new American factories – built where once stood only a patch of beans or a few goats – sound like a dream come true for Mexicans. The transfer of wealth, it turns out, has not been nearly so neat. David Quinn was painfully aware of how NAFTA had damaged his own life when, in January, he and I traveled together to Mexico. Our goal was to see whether we could find the worker who was doing his old job – to see, in essence, how David’s life had fared in translation. I’d found David by calling trade activists around the country
who directed me to dozens of union locals savaged by NAFTA-related factory closures. He turned out to be a depressingly typical NAFTA casualty. Instead of him, someone from Lowland, Tennessee, McAllen, Texas; or Arab, Alabama, to name but a few places in America devastated by the treaty, might have made the trip. David was simply the first worker I found who was willing to go. But he turned out to be a staunch traveler, gifted with empathy, courage and a quiet knack for crossing Wayne on the pery and emerge ready to see what had happened to his life and why We left Fort h boundaries. During a four-day journey through modern industrial Mexico, David would wade through Dickensian m ne morning of January 29th, on the trail of the man who got his job It's freezing cold and pitch dark, and david shows up at Fort Wayne Airport for the flight to Brownsville, Texas, badly wanting a cigarette. This is his first airplane trip, and he looks a little miffed standing alone in one of those glass-walled airport smokers'lounges, wolfing a Marlboro Light and a Mountain Dew. He says he doesn t know what he expects to find in Mexico; he hasnt thought about it David is taciturn about the way he lost his job, too. He heard a rumor. Then it was posted on the bulletin board. No, the union didn t do anything, he says. There was nothing to do How did you feel about it? Bad. I guess Two years ago, when Breed announced that it would close the plant where David worked, Local 7452 of the United Paperworkers International Union offered to take a pay cut to keep it open. breed dismissed the idea. Management in effect told the union negotiators that American workers couldnt compete with Mexicans willing to accept fifty-one cents an hour. The union wasnt able to wrest anything more from the company than severance pay of $150 for each year of service, plus a few months of health insurance. So men and women who had worked at the plant for, say, twenty-five years, walked away with $3, 750-before taxes-to help them start again. ( Breed offered an extra $300 per year of service if workers would remain until the bitter end, though few did. Under similar circumstances, some unions do fight back. When Nabisco tried to close a factory in Pittsburgh last year, the Bakery, Confectionary and Tobacco Workers Union raised enough hell to attract the attention of a buyer. Impressed by the devoted workforce, the new owner found a way to keep the plant open. Elsewhere, unions made such a stink about the low wages their companies were planning to pay in Mexico that the firms tried to buy good will by offering retraining or college tuition to their laid-off workers. But Davids union didnt put up a fight Walking across the gateway Bridge from Brownsville, Texas, to Matamoros, Tamaulipas, David is wrenched through a transition that is neither gradual nor subtle. He's far from the sterile landscape o Fort Wayne where acres of parking surround homogenized outposts of national corporations-Ethan Allen, Cracker Barrel, Circuit City-and everything is experienced through the windshield of a car lere on the border, tightly clipped lawns, orderly intersections and credit-card-ready gasoline pumps give way abruptly to cracked and crowded sidewalks, business owners standing in their doorways urging you inside, the overamplified accordions of ranchera music competing with the roar of badly tuned bus engines and the blare of sound trucks hawking everything from lettuce to light bulbs
who directed me to dozens of union locals savaged by NAFTA-related factory closures. He turned out to be a depressingly typical NAFTA casualty. Instead of him, someone from Lowland, Tennessee; McAllen, Texas; or Arab, Alabama, to name but a few places in America devastated by the treaty, might have made the trip. David was simply the first worker I found who was willing to go. But he turned out to be a staunch traveler, gifted with empathy, courage and a quiet knack for crossing boundaries. During a four-day journey through modern industrial Mexico, David would wade through Dickensian misery and emerge ready to see what had happened to his life and why. We left Fort Wayne on the morning of January 29th, on the trail of the man who got his job. It’s freezing cold and pitch dark, and David shows up at Fort Wayne Airport for the flight to Brownsville, Texas, badly wanting a cigarette. This is his first airplane trip, and he looks a little miffed standing alone in one of those glass-walled airport smokers’ lounges, wolfing a Marlboro Light and a Mountain Dew. He says he doesn’t know what he expects to find in Mexico; he hasn’t thought about it. David is taciturn about the way he lost his job, too. He heard a rumor. Then it was posted on the bulletin board. No, the union didn’t do anything, he says. There was nothing to do. “How did you feel about it?” “Bad, I guess.” Two years ago, when Breed announced that it would close the plant where David worked, Local 7452 of the United Paperworkers International Union offered to take a pay cut to keep it open. Breed dismissed the idea. Management in effect told the union negotiators that American workers couldn’t compete with Mexicans willing to accept fifty-one cents an hour. The union wasn’t able to wrest anything more from the company than severance pay of $150 for each year of service, plus a few months of health insurance. So men and women who had worked at the plant for, say, twenty-five years, walked away with $3,750 – before taxes – to help them start again. (Breed offered an extra $300 per year of service if workers would remain until the bitter end, though few did.) Under similar circumstances, some unions do fight back. When Nabisco tried to close a factory in Pittsburgh last year, the Bakery, Confectionary and Tobacco Workers Union raised enough hell to attract the attention of a buyer. Impressed by the devoted workforce, the new owner found a way to keep the plant open. Elsewhere, unions made such a stink about the low wages their companies were planning to pay in Mexico that the firms tried to buy good will by offering retraining or college tuition to their laid-off workers. But David’s union didn’t put up a fight. Walking across the Gateway Bridge from Brownsville, Texas, to Matamoros, Tamaulipas, David is wrenched through a transition that is neither gradual nor subtle. He’s far from the sterile landscape of Fort Wayne where acres of parking surround homogenized outposts of national corporations – Ethan Allen, Cracker Barrel, Circuit City – and everything is experienced through the windshield of a car. Here on the border, tightly clipped lawns, orderly intersections and credit-card-ready gasoline pumps give way abruptly to cracked and crowded sidewalks, business owners standing in their doorways urging you inside, the overamplified accordions of ranchera music competing with the roar of badly tuned bus engines and the blare of sound trucks hawking everything from lettuce to light bulbs
David is unruffled. He walks straight into a grubby little store and, in lumpy but serviceable Spanish buys himself a pack of Marlboro Lights and a 500-milliliter Coke "I liked Spanish class he First stop is Pastoral Juvenil Obrera, or Pastoral Working Youth, a Catholic group organizing to improve conditions in the foreign-owned factories. Its"office" is actually a tiny, windowless room in he back of a squat cement house, where portraits of Jesus Christ share a wall with pictures of Che Guevara and Salma Hayek Redheaded Maricela Rodriguez, whom everybody calls Gorda(Fatty), not only knows Breed workers. she used to be one I was there six months, sewing leather covers on steering wheels. Was that your job? she asks David David shakes his head. Tell her I operated a mold, he says Here's what I did all day, Gorda says, demonstrating three quick stitches and then a jerk of the threads to tighten them. I ended up hurting the nerves in my arm, got bad tendonitis. She does the stitch-stitch-stitch-yank again. Fifteen wheels a day. Thats 1, 600 repetitive motions. We did a tudy In walks Manuel Mondragon, looking like a Mexican revolutionary from a hollywood movie, with a akish beard and the yes of a panther. Manuel can t work in the maquiladoras anymore, he says, because the factory owners blacklisted him as a troublemaker now he works for pjo, his salary paid by the New York State Labor-Religion Coalition, which supports worker-justice programs in the U.S and Mexico. When asked whether he can help find a breed worker making plastic steering wheels like David used to, Manuel pushes his hands deep into the pockets of an old tweed sport coat and looks us up and down, as though deciding whether were worth the risk. After a long, frowning moment, he says, Lets go see Erick and Maribel It takes forty minutes to go six miles- not because of traffic but because any of the million potholes we skirt could total Manuels sprung-shot 1986 Buick. Once it's too late to turn back, he says that neither Erick nor Maribel has actually worked for Breed. But Maribel used to work in a different [American-owned] steering-wheel factory, he adds. " So she can describe the work. and mayb she 'll know somebody Maribel and erick turn out to be a well-dressed and handsome young couple who live with their eight-year-old son in a ten-by ten-foot plywood cube. With the growth of the maquiladora industry since NAFTA, the number of factories in and around Matamoros has expanded by a third but almost no additional housing has been built. Erick and Maribel's shack, which isn't much bigger than their double bed, is one of several slapped together in the garden of a dilapidated house that has another sprawling family crammed into it-and the only bathroom in the compound Maribel's job was to receive the plastic steering wheels hot from moldsmen like David. She enunciates carefully the chemicals she handled: Sicomet, toluene, Varsol and Lokweld. "I learned their names after leaving the job, she says. While I was working, the company refused to tell us what they were or what health effects to watch for. " They are associated with a horrifying list of
David is unruffled. He walks straight into a grubby little store and, in lumpy but serviceable Spanish, buys himself a pack of Marlboro Lights and a 500-milliliter Coke. “I liked Spanish class,” he says. First stop is Pastoral Juvenil Obrera, or Pastoral Working Youth, a Catholic group organizing to improve conditions in the foreign-owned factories. Its “office” is actually a tiny, windowless room in the back of a squat cement house, where portraits of Jesus Christ share a wall with pictures of Che Guevara and Salma Hayek. Redheaded Maricela Rodriguez, whom everybody calls Gorda (Fatty), not only knows Breed workers, she used to be one. “I was there six months, sewing leather covers on steering wheels. Was that your job?” she asks David. David shakes his head. “Tell her I operated a mold,” he says. “Here’s what I did all day,” Gorda says, demonstrating three quick stitches and then a jerk of the threads to tighten them. “I ended up hurting the nerves in my arm, got bad tendonitis.” She does the stitch-stitch-stitch-yank again. “Fifteen wheels a day. That’s 1,600 repetitive motions. We did a study.” In walks Manuel Mondragon, looking like a Mexican revolutionary from a Hollywood movie, with a rakish beard and the yes of a panther. Manuel can’t work in the maquiladoras anymore, he says, because the factory owners blacklisted him as a troublemaker. Now he works for PJO, his salary paid by the New York State Labor-Religion Coalition, which supports worker-justice programs in the U.S. and Mexico. When asked whether he can help find a Breed worker making plastic steering wheels like David used to, Manuel pushes his hands deep into the pockets of an old tweed sport coat and looks us up and down, as though deciding whether we’re worth the risk. After a long, frowning moment, he says, “Let’s go see Erick and Maribel.” It takes forty minutes to go six miles – not because of traffic but because any of the million potholes we skirt could total Manuel’s sprung-shot 1986 Buick. Once it’s too late to turn back, he says that neither Erick nor Maribel has actually worked for Breed. “But Maribel used to work in a different [American-owned] steering-wheel factory,” he adds. “So she can describe the work. And maybe she’ll know somebody.” Maribel and Erick turn out to be a well-dressed and handsome young couple who live with their eight-year-old son in a ten-by ten-foot plywood cube. With the growth of the maquiladora industry since NAFTA, the number of factories in and around Matamoros has expanded by a third, but almost no additional housing has been built. Erick and Maribel’s shack, which isn’t much bigger than their double bed, is one of several slapped together in the garden of a dilapidated house that has another sprawling family crammed into it – and the only bathroom in the compound. Maribel’s job was to receive the plastic steering wheels hot from moldsmen like David. She enunciates carefully the chemicals she handled: Sicomet, toluene, Varsol and Lokweld. “I learned their names after leaving the job,” she says. “While I was working, the company refused to tell us what they were or what health effects to watch for.” They are associated with a horrifying list of
ailments, ranging from"defatting of the skin and blurred vision to nervous-system damage and birth defects, according to medical journals, U.S. government bulletins and literature from the chemical manufacturers themselves Ask if she had a mask, " David says No, Maribel answers. Only goggles, and some days not even gloves to handle the chemicals and hot plastic.” David whistles When I got pregnant, I asked to be moved to a job where I didnt have to breathe chemical fumes all day she says. As Maribel talks, her son, Erick, bundled against the cold, walks in and scrambles across the bed for a hug. He's small for his age, and when he unwraps his scarf, he reveals a port wine stain that mottles half his face. Also, there' s something odd about his eyes they're unusually wide-Spaced, as though the top of his face is built on a broader scale than the bottom. When he pulls off his wool beanie, it's clear why: His head is twice the normal size, with two great bony growths the size of doorknobs sprouting from his forehead He's clearly not retarded -he has a sprightly, grown-up wit- but Maribel says he suffers terrifying seizures."And other children are afraid of him, "she adds, so he's lonely His parents dont know what's wrong with him. or even whether the chemicals caused his deformities because when Maribel quit work to care for him, the family lost its health insurance Manuel mentions a 1998 study conducted by the autonomous University of Mexico: Two-thirds of he maquiladora workers surveyed reported health problems from the chemicals they used at work Usually, Manuel adds, the workers have no idea what theyre using David swivels on the bed toward Manuel. In the United States, every container in the plant has to have a label, he says. "If it contains something dangerous, it has to have a big hazmat label with the name of the chemical and a number, one to four, that says how dangerous it is That s alla, says manuel ruefully meaning over there-the term mexicans use for the United State NAFTA may have created jobs in the maquiladoras, Manuel says, but working conditions have worsened. He brandishes a university study showing that wages in the maquiladoras around Matamoros have dropped since NaFTa was signed, in an era when inflation has run between ten and fifty percent a year. And in this town, ordinary consumer goods are more expensive than they are on the Texas side of the border. People who can get permission to cross into the U. S often do their grocery shopping in Brownsville, Manuel says. But low wages are only part of the problem for Mexicans, according to the university study: The workweek has gone from forty to forty-eight hours, benefits such as life insurance, scholarships and regular raises have been replaced by a bonus pegged to productivity; and the right to strike is gone It's what the Seattle protests against the World Trade Organization were about in December, Manuel says. Liberalizing world trade should not harden the lives of ordinary working people. It's
ailments, ranging from “defatting of the skin” and blurred vision to nervous-system damage and birth defects, according to medical journals, U.S. government bulletins and literature from the chemical manufacturers themselves. “Ask if she had a mask,” David says. “No,” Maribel answers. “Only goggles, and some days not even gloves to handle the chemicals and hot plastic.” David whistles. “When I got pregnant, I asked to be moved to a job where I didn’t have to breathe chemical fumes all day,” she says. As Maribel talks, her son, Erick, bundled against the cold, walks in and scrambles across the bed for a hug. He’s small for his age, and when he unwraps his scarf, he reveals a portwine stain that mottles half his face. Also, there’s something odd about his eyes; they’re unusually wide-spaced, as though the top of his face is built on a broader scale than the bottom. When he pulls off his wool beanie, it’s clear why: His head is twice the normal size, with two great bony growths the size of doorknobs sprouting from his forehead. He’s clearly not retarded – he has a sprightly, grown-up wit – but Maribel says he suffers terrifying seizures. “And other children are afraid of him,” she adds, “so he’s lonely.” His parents don’t know what’s wrong with him, or even whether the chemicals caused his deformities, because when Maribel quit work to care for him, the family lost its health insurance. Manuel mentions a 1998 study conducted by the Autonomous University of Mexico: Two-thirds of the maquiladora workers surveyed reported health problems from the chemicals they used at work. Usually, Manuel adds, the workers have no idea what they’re using. David swivels on the bed toward Manuel. “In the United States, every container in the plant has to have a label,” he says. “If it contains something dangerous, it has to have a big HAZMAT label with the name of the chemical and a number, one to four, that says how dangerous it is.” “That’s allá,” says Manuel ruefully, meaning “over there” – the term Mexicans use for the United States. NAFTA may have created jobs in the maquiladoras, Manuel says, but working conditions have worsened. He brandishes a university study showing that wages in the maquiladoras around Matamoros have dropped since NAFTA was signed, in an era when inflation has run between ten and fifty percent a year. And in this town, ordinary consumer goods are more expensive than they are on the Texas side of the border. People who can get permission to cross into the U.S. often do their grocery shopping in Brownsville, Manuel says. But low wages are only part of the problem for Mexicans, according to the university study: The workweek has gone from forty to forty-eight hours; benefits such as life insurance, scholarships and regular raises have been replaced by a bonus pegged to productivity; and the right to strike is gone. “It’s what the Seattle protests against the World Trade Organization were about in December,” Manuel says. “Liberalizing world trade should not harden the lives of ordinary working people. It’s