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Moved to give up a migrant lifestyle

The high cost of a nomadic existence led some migrant workers to decide to stay put. No one benefited more than their children.

By CAMILLE C. SPENCER
Published February 6, 2006

DADE CITY - Like their parents, Juan and Maria Corona roamed the country picking tomatoes and strawberries. It was all they knew. And until the Coronas sat down to a dreary dinner in October 1993, it seemed likely their children were destined to become migrant workers, too.

That night, just returned from picking tomatoes in Indiana, the exhausted couple sat in a modest home off a dirt road near Dade City and took stock of their situation.

For all their hard work, they had spent almost all their earnings just to drive back to Florida. Taking expenses into account, they would net about the same money working part of the year near Dade City as they could at year-round migrant labor.

They knew their children - now jerked from one school to the other - would get a better education if they got off the road.

So the Coronas decided to stay in Dade City permanently.

Their decision put them at the front end of a wave of migrant workers choosing to abandon their nomadic lives to give themselves, and their kids, a shot at the American dream.

For the Coronas and their four boys, the decision has paid off. Their income now, about $20,000 a year, is a third greater than they made as migrants. Their eldest sons, Jamie, 21, and Juan Jr., 19, finished school and have nonagricultural jobs. The two younger children have the stability that comes from attending the same school full time with the same classmates.

Juan Jr. has realistic hopes his 3-year-old son, Adam, will go to college.

"I really want him to go and get an education and do a lot better than what my parents did," he said. "There's endless possibilities that they didn't have."

* * *

Settling down means migrant families, whose average annual income is about $12,000 a year, can break a generations-old cycle of poverty.

"It not only provides a stable home life for families and children, but economically, they (the children) will do better," said Sylvia Partida, director of operations at the National Center for Farmworker Health in Buda, Texas.

Roughly 40,000 migrants work in Pasco and Hillsborough counties. Increasing numbers of families in both counties have joined the Coronas in choosing to settle down. Perhaps the most striking evidence of the trend: The number of migrant children in the two counties' schools has dropped by almost a third.

And it's not just a Central Florida phenomenon.

"I think it's a national trend," said Lydia Chavez, a professor at University of California at Berkeley. "9/11 made it more difficult to go back and forth. It's going to be a tougher trip. And over the years, you have whole communities established that make it more comfortable to live in the United States."

* * *

Migrant parents don't just want more for their children. They want more for themselves. For some, the housing boom and the accompanying increase in construction jobs has made that possible.

Martin and Maria Pizano used to pick tomatoes and cucumbers in Decatur, Mich., and Wimauma and Myakka City. Now, they are full-time residents of Ruskin, where they live in a mobile home off busy U.S. 301. Maria works at Buddy Freddy's. Martin works in construction. Until they settled in Ruskin in 2002, they made about $12,000 a year on the migrant circuit. Now, they've doubled that.

The couple, both 37 and born in Mexico, married 13 years ago. They have four children who attend Cypress Creek Elementary and Shields Middle schools.

"We stopped (migrating) because we had a lot of bills," Maria said. "My husband has a knee problem, and he doesn't want to travel anymore. I want my children to go to a university and not work labor here."

* * *

It's easy to understand why children of migrant workers tend to do poorly in school.

"When families come later in the year or leave early, students don't get a full year of what's presented at that grade level," said Sharyn Disabato of the Pasco school district. "That interruption, on top of being second-language workers, makes it difficult for children to proceed at grade level.

"The long-term effect is, they just don't finish," Disabato said. "You become discouraged, particularly after middle school, when you aren't accruing credits to graduate. Or their parents don't understand the American system. There's a language barrier to be advocates for your kids."

Carmen Sorondo, a supervisor in the Hillsborough schools' program for migrants, knows the pattern. When spring crops come, families head to where the picking is good.

"The trend begins as early as February, then March," she said. "Some leave right before the end of the school year in May. Having kids there for as much time as possible to have consistent instruction is certainly a relief to school personnel."

In Pasco, many migrant workers get assistance from the Farmworkers Self-Help Organization in Dade City.

Margarita Romo, the organization's director, said families have become more aware of the detrimental effect migration has on adults and children, and are seeking opportunity in other arenas.

"We've been trying to teach our people that kids hate going into school and leaving early," Romo said. "When they come in late, kids have already made friends, and here comes this kid, and he's new. That's very traumatic to them. They don't like it.

As a result, Disabato says, "We have families who have decided to stay (in Pasco) because they don't want their (kids') education disrupted."

Three years ago, for instance, 564 migrant children attended Pasco schools. This year, the number is 388. The same pattern holds for Hillsborough, which traditionally had a migrant enrollment of about 5,000. This year, that number is about 3,600.

* * *

Maria Corona, 51, was born in Mexico, and often worked the fields with her father. Her husband, Juan, 52, was born in Mexico. He traveled with his mother and two sisters.

The two met in the fields of Decatur, Mich., in 1971, and would often see each other on work sites before they married 13 years later.

Money was tight, and the family sometimes had to sleep in their car. Even now, the Coronas wake before sunrise to make it to the field. Their eldest sons, Juan Jr. and Jaime know firsthand the effects their parents' work had on their education.

"We would ask teachers to give us extensions on our work," Juan Jr. said.

"Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. I would end up getting scored below a C or a D. It was pretty hard, dealing with all the stuff going on. You have no friends, and the friends you do have, you end up losing them."

But that changed when Juan Sr. and Maria made their decision to give up migrant work.

"The kids were happy they weren't going to be (moving) anymore," Maria said. "It was the best because there weren't anymore places to go north. We didn't get any money."

Juan Jr. graduated from Moore Mickens Education Center and now works as a land surveyor. Jaime graduated from Pasco High School, then took some college courses at Pasco-Hernando Community College but hasn't gotten his degree. He has a construction job.

Antonio, 17, attends Pasco High. Daniel, 13, who attends Pasco Middle School, will soon follow.

The younger boys still work the fields on weekends and summers with their parents, picking tomatoes for $5 a bucket.

For Maria, the experience has given her sons a peek into the farmworker culture.

"We try to put them to work so that they know how hard it is," Maria said.

"When we went to Indiana, it was hard," she said. "We'd wake up early and make lunches (for the boys). They'd say, "I don't like this kind of work. I don't want to get up early.' I'd say, "We have to work because we need to eat."'

Now, Maria says, "We hope the children will study and be more successful. I want them to have a career."

[Last modified February 6, 2006, 04:51:26]