Monthly Archives: November 2023

Mariana on the Night Shift

By Ann Malaspina, New Jersey

Mrs. Benton called out from the front of the classroom. “Are you with us, Mariana?”

Mariana lifted her head from her desk. She had fallen asleep in history class. How embarrassing!

“Sorry, Mrs. Benton,” she murmured, sitting up straight.

A boy giggled. Abby, who sat next to her, leaned over. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “Everyone falls asleep at least once in this boring class.”

History class wasn’t boring to Mariana. She loved learning about the past. Mrs. Benton made history interesting by talking about ordinary people, not just presidents and other famous men. This week, they were learning about Dolores Huerta, the labor leader who helped farmworkers earn better pay and improve their living and working conditions.

The lunch bell rang, and Mariana walked slowly out of the classroom.

“Are you okay?” asked Abby, coming up from behind.

Abby lived down the street from Mariana’s uncle and aunt, Tia Luna and Tio Miguel. Mariana had been staying in their house since the summer.

Mariana yawned. “I guess so.”

“My dad said he saw you at the factory the other night,” Abby said. “Were you visiting your uncle?”

Mariana’s uncle worked at the cereal factory, just like Abby’s parents. Her mother worked in the office and her father drove a truck for them. Almost every family in town had someone who worked at the factory.

“Yes,” Mariana lied.

But she could hear her mother’s voice. “Never lie, mi hija. A lie always comes back to bite you, like a mosquito.” Suddenly, she missed Mami, who lived in Mexico City, many miles from Mariana.

The two girls sat at a picnic bench. Abby began eating her lunch, but Mariana wasn’t hungry. She took a deep breath.

“I wasn’t there to see my uncle,” she said. “I work the night shift.”

“The night shift?” Abby put down her sandwich. “You’re not even fourteen! My mom said I can’t work until I’m sixteen.”

“My uncle got me the job. I help pack the cereal on the line,” said Mariana. “It’s easy.”

“Easy” was another lie.

The first hours of her shift weren’t so bad. Mariana pushed bags of oat squares into cereal boxes as they traveled past her on the conveyor belt. An older worker helped Mariana if she fell behind. But, by 11 PM, her feet hurt. Her back ached. And her head pounded from the noisy machinery. She still had three hours to go.

Before Abby could ask more questions, Mrs. Benton walked up them.

“Can you come see me after school, Mariana? There’s a book I want you to read.”

When Mariana stepped into Mrs. Benton’s classroom, her teacher asked her to sit down.

“I hear that some of our students are working at the factory!”

It was true. Mariana had seen a half-dozen other children working the night shift. Mariana felt like she might cry. Her uncle had told her not to talk about her job to anyone, and she’d already told Abby.

Mrs. Benton quickly said, “You don’t have to answer. I just want you to know the facts. It’s not safe—or legal —for children your age to be working in a factory. There are labor laws that protect children. The laws were written to keep children safe from harm.”

Mariana looked down. Her right thumb was bruised from two nights ago. It had gotten caught under conveyor belt. She overheard someone say Mariana was too small for the job.

Mrs. Benton pulled a book from the shelf. On the cover, a girl stood at a conveyor belt like the one at the factory.

Mariana put the book in her backpack. Ever since she started working, Mariana could barely finish her homework, much less read extra books. Luckily, today was Friday, her day off.

That night, Mariana read stories from history about a farm girl who operated a loom in a cotton mill, a boy who worked in a coal mine, and a boy who sold newspapers in New York City. A shiver went up her back when she read about the girl catching her finger in the cotton loom. “Even though laws protecting children from unsafe work were passed in the 20^th century, child labor continues to the present day,” she read.

Tio Miguel woke her up early on Saturday. “I got you a day shift today,” he said. “Hurry and eat your breakfast.”

Mariana sat down at the kitchen table. She stirred her scrambled eggs, thinking hard. Her teacher’s words —“It’s not safe or legal”—kept swirling in her head.

But the problem wasn’t so simple. Tia Luna had hurt her back while lifting heavy boxes at the factory. She hadn’t worked for a whole year. The family needed Mariana’s help to pay the bills. Still, there must be another solution.

Mariana put down her spoon. “I’m not allowed to work at the factory. I’m not old enough. It’s the law.”

“What?!” Tio Miguel’s coffee cup spilled. “I need you to work. Otherwise, you can’t stay here.”

Mariana touched the angel on her necklace. Mami had given it to Mariana when she left home. The angel made her feel strong. Maybe Mariana would be a writer when she grew up. A writer like the one who wrote about the mill worker, the coal miner, and the newspaper boy. To be a good writer, Mariana couldn’t fall asleep in history class.

Tia Luna rushed into the kitchen. “What’s all the arguing about?”

Mariana told her the same thing she had told her uncle. She added, “I fell asleep in class yesterday!”

Her aunt’s eyebrows went up.

“She’s right, Miguel,” she said, briskly wiping up the spilled coffee. “Mariana is a smart girl. She needs to be awake at school. Anyway, my back feels a lot better. I’m ready to go back to work.”

Tio Miguel sighed deeply. “Life is not easy. All I want is to pay our bills.”

Tia Luna hugged Mariana. “We love having you here. We made a big mistake. From now on, your job is to go to school.”

There was a knock on the door.

Abby held her soccer ball under her arm. “Can you practice soccer in the park?”

Mariana looked at her aunt and uncle. They smiled and nodded.

Grabbing her cleats, Mariana ran out the door. “Yes, let’s go!”

The End

—Ann Malaspina, author and educator, New Jersey. Ann has published many picture books and nonfiction books on social issues, including on the important issue of child labor. Please visit http://www.annmalaspina.com to learn more about her literary work.

Betrayal

By Siah Giji, age 13, New York.

Betrayal, a word so bitter and cold
A stab in the back, a heart turned to stone
A trust once given, now broken and old
A bond once strong, now shattered and sold
The sting of betrayal, a wound so deep
A hurt so profound, it cannot sleep
The memories linger, the pain so real
A betrayal so cruel, it cannot heal
The world may move on, the pain may fade
But the memory of betrayal will never be made
A wound so deep, a scar so wide
A betrayal so profound, it cannot hide

By Siah Giji, high school freshman, New York, adds: “I am passionate about writing and determined to improve my skills. Despite English not being my first language, I’ve come a long way, and at just 13 years old, I’ve written a poem that reflects my growth. My first language that was taught to me by my parents is Malayalam and even though I do not know how to write in this language my family and I communicate using this language.

My South Indian cultural background has deeply influenced my perspective and creativity. What’s important to me is embracing diversity, preserving cultural richness, and promoting inclusivity.

In crafting this poem on betrayal, my aim was to capture the raw emotions associated with a broken trust, specifically in the context of a betrayal of my trust by so many of my closest people. The poem delves into the complex layers of emotions and reflections that arise when those you hold closest prove to be unreliable. It’s a personal exploration of the feelings one goes through when faced with the harsh reality of trust shattered by those who were supposed to be the closest.”

Irwin Noparstak, Social Justice Advocate

Our long-time friend and social justice advocate, Dr. Irwin Noparstak, passed away in late October at the age of 84. He worked on mental health issues, and after retirement, he became involved in several interfaith organizations because he felt it was important for him to represent progressive Judaism in various settings. Over 200 people of various faith traditions attended the service. My friend, Marion Malcolm of the Community Alliance of Lane County, who worked with Irwin for several decades, spoke at the memorial service held for him at the Temple Beth Israel in Eugene. Here are a few excerpts from her talk:

“Irwin did an amazing job of educating, advocating and organizing on a range of social justice issues. I was among the many who were fortunate to work side by side with him. To all the causes that drew his energy he brought both passion, deep passion, but also precision. Precision is not always a hallmark of grassroots efforts, but the efforts Irwin was involved with benefited from his attention to detail and to his careful note-taking. He often circulated notes the same day a meeting happened. Irwin was never a passive participant. He always more than pulled his weight in any group that enjoyed his involvement.

Irwin opposed U.S. intervention in Central America, distressed by the parallels he saw to the Vietnam War in which he had served and which he had come to strongly oppose. Irwin would have traveled to El Salvador or Nicaragua on the delegations that were happening in those years, but he didn’t feel he could responsibly do that, as he was a single parent at that time, devoted to his adopted daughter, Jacquelyn.

Irwin’s values and political perspectives influenced his practice as a psychiatrist. He served many Vietnam veterans, helping them work through the impact of their wartime experiences on their lives. He was at the same time part of a community of anti-war veterans. He also worked for Alternatives to Militarism and became engaged in counter-recruitment work, challenging the hype of military recruiters and making sure that young people knew what they were getting into before they enlisted. We knew that young people received a barrage of glossy materials from all branches of the military about the time they turned 18, and that the military promised job skills, education, and travel. So, using lists of new drivers from the DMV (Dept. of Motor Vehicles) back when those were still publicly available, we developed a “birthday packet” that we sent to young people turning 18, pointing them to other ways to find jobs and to serve abroad, ways that did not involve militaristic intervention. I remember sitting at the table in the CALC office with Irwin, addressing those packets.

Irwin was a strong advocate for LGBTQ+ rights and a key activist in the Religious Response Network. The RRN existed to make sure that far right groups and congregations were not the only voices emanating from religious communities, that an interfaith community could send messages of acceptance and love, could offer safety and support.

Irwin opposed bigotry of all kinds. He and his wife Joan were partners with us, in founding the Understanding Antisemitism Project… It involved vulnerability and a bit of courage. And I know that Irwin often did not feel safe in Eugene as a Jew. I know that he felt haunted by the cross that used to stand on Skinners’ Butte, where KKK crosses once burned. He may not have felt safe, but that did not stop him.

I want to say a few words that go beyond all Irwin’s work for human rights and social justice, all his challenging of militarism and bigotry, to talk about the way he did the work, to talk about the comradeship he built among those he worked with, the way he became a sweet, thoughtful, supportive friend to his colleagues. If you collaborated with Irwin, you knew he saw you, you knew he cared about you. You probably received some of his personal notes on cards that he made with his photos. He lent his love and strength to many of us who were fortunate to become his friends. He helped us all keep going.”

I knew Irwin for about 25 years. We saw each other at our Interfaith Dialogue group every month. He was a strong supporter and contributor to Skipping Stones. Each year he gave gift subscriptions to many people he knew—young friends, educators, rabbis, and ministers. We will miss him dearly.

Irwin touched so many lives and we’re sure, saved some lives too. So, in sorrow but with deep gratitude, we want to say, “Irwin Noparstak, presente, presente, presente.” Irwin Noparstak is still with us, still with us, still with us.

—Marion Malcolm and Arun N. Toké, editor.