feathery seeds, explaining it was an herb for Mexican cooking that he’d brought from Michoacán for Jackie to plant. Enthusiastically, José invited me to his sanctuary, his woodworking studio. When Habitat for Humanity helped him construct this house — the ribbon was cut only a year before — this studio wasn’t part of it. He built it himself. He opened the lock on the front door and smiled as he led me inside. José’s shop was filled with the smell of fresh wood. Colorful paint was splashed on the walls like a Jackson Pollock painting. He proudly showed me his tools, the latest band saws and dowel inserters, and some of his furniture.
It was beautiful work. Fine tables and cabinets, mixing his native Mexican folk art with contemporary style. He worked into the night crafting this furniture and sold it door-to-door in Siler City. When I asked him why he put in such long hours, he said, “It keeps me out of the chicken factories.” Hundreds of his fellow Latin Americans manned the blades, conveyor belts, and trucks of the Gold Kist factories not twenty minutes away. “I don’t like that much blood,” José added.
But José had a problem. People in North Carolina were not used to buying handmade Mexican furniture from door-to-door artisans, so business was difficult. He’d been able to scrape a living together selling to other Mexicans, but now, with Wal-Mart in Siler City offering cheap Chinese-made furniture, selling his furniture was even harder. Scrambling, José found a job as a handyman for a Pittsboro based company that produced piping for various manufacturing processes. Still, José’s dream was to make beautiful furniture fulltime.
He invited me into his home, Habitat for Humanity’s standard two-bedroom. José disappeared into the kitchen to fix something for us while I sat on his sofa watching his thirteen-year-old son, Hector, kill chickens with a shotgun and pitchfork. The computer game was called RuneScape.
“I kill these chickens for their bones,” he said. “I need more bones.” He pronounced the word bones with a strangely elongated o .
“You see,” he said, showing me the screen, “I’ve already got 3,200 bones.”
“3,201,” I said with a gulp, watching him pitchfork another one.
My eyes drifted to the open window, as the setting sun painted the sky orange and crimson over No Name Creek. The colorful rays illuminated the silk of several spider webs attaching the window to surrounding bushes, and as I watched the different-sized spiders labor — each in its own way — it occurred to me that my neighborswere trying to become the equivalent of free-range chickens: free-range people. They were extracting themselves from the most poisonous parts of globalization and were in the midst of an exciting, if quixotic, experiment to create a fruitful life on the margins.
How difficult it is, and how elusive, I thought. A plump, half-dollar-sized spider grasped a cherry red flying ant in its pincers. In the neighboring web, not one but rather a hundred spiders the size of poppy seeds had spun an intricate, three-dimensional web. Two spiders, two strategies; nature splintering itself off, playing the odds. Both of the strategies worked. I looked over at José, who was running his hand gently along a gorgeous antique-accented dresser he’d made in his shop, and felt a tinge of pity: he could hardly sell such beautiful wares. Though he had escaped the industrial chicken factories, and the Thompsons had escaped a monoculture of doublewides, both families were still surrounded by a pervasive blight. “Look!” Hector cried out, showing me the screen of his video game. “I pitchforked five more chickens.” Out the window, the plump spider downed his cherry red ant while the pinhead spiders entombed gnats in silk.
WHILE I WAS WALKING IN THE WOODS ONE DAY , a loud crack startled me as a branch snapped above my head. I cried out and covered my head; above, an enormous hawk took awkward
It was beautiful work. Fine tables and cabinets, mixing his native Mexican folk art with contemporary style. He worked into the night crafting this furniture and sold it door-to-door in Siler City. When I asked him why he put in such long hours, he said, “It keeps me out of the chicken factories.” Hundreds of his fellow Latin Americans manned the blades, conveyor belts, and trucks of the Gold Kist factories not twenty minutes away. “I don’t like that much blood,” José added.
But José had a problem. People in North Carolina were not used to buying handmade Mexican furniture from door-to-door artisans, so business was difficult. He’d been able to scrape a living together selling to other Mexicans, but now, with Wal-Mart in Siler City offering cheap Chinese-made furniture, selling his furniture was even harder. Scrambling, José found a job as a handyman for a Pittsboro based company that produced piping for various manufacturing processes. Still, José’s dream was to make beautiful furniture fulltime.
He invited me into his home, Habitat for Humanity’s standard two-bedroom. José disappeared into the kitchen to fix something for us while I sat on his sofa watching his thirteen-year-old son, Hector, kill chickens with a shotgun and pitchfork. The computer game was called RuneScape.
“I kill these chickens for their bones,” he said. “I need more bones.” He pronounced the word bones with a strangely elongated o .
“You see,” he said, showing me the screen, “I’ve already got 3,200 bones.”
“3,201,” I said with a gulp, watching him pitchfork another one.
My eyes drifted to the open window, as the setting sun painted the sky orange and crimson over No Name Creek. The colorful rays illuminated the silk of several spider webs attaching the window to surrounding bushes, and as I watched the different-sized spiders labor — each in its own way — it occurred to me that my neighborswere trying to become the equivalent of free-range chickens: free-range people. They were extracting themselves from the most poisonous parts of globalization and were in the midst of an exciting, if quixotic, experiment to create a fruitful life on the margins.
How difficult it is, and how elusive, I thought. A plump, half-dollar-sized spider grasped a cherry red flying ant in its pincers. In the neighboring web, not one but rather a hundred spiders the size of poppy seeds had spun an intricate, three-dimensional web. Two spiders, two strategies; nature splintering itself off, playing the odds. Both of the strategies worked. I looked over at José, who was running his hand gently along a gorgeous antique-accented dresser he’d made in his shop, and felt a tinge of pity: he could hardly sell such beautiful wares. Though he had escaped the industrial chicken factories, and the Thompsons had escaped a monoculture of doublewides, both families were still surrounded by a pervasive blight. “Look!” Hector cried out, showing me the screen of his video game. “I pitchforked five more chickens.” Out the window, the plump spider downed his cherry red ant while the pinhead spiders entombed gnats in silk.
WHILE I WAS WALKING IN THE WOODS ONE DAY , a loud crack startled me as a branch snapped above my head. I cried out and covered my head; above, an enormous hawk took awkward
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