The men returned from the fields around eight o'clock at night, covered in dirt and sweat. housing The mobiles where they rested had no air conditioning and they still had to prepare their food.
Thomas Florek recalls that, even after that day of work, they welcomed the visitors with joy.
On Friday, October 2, history repeated itself in a field in the city of Wilson, and the workers welcomed Florek and his companions with the same hospitality.
For the Jesuit priest, that encounter sums up the meaning of accompanying those who work far from their families: being present, listening and making them feel that they are not alone.
That conviction has its roots in an adobe house in Tlaxcala, Mexico, where a family took him in when he was 19 years old and could barely communicate in Spanish.
“They shared everything with me,” says Florek, now CEO of Catholic Migrant Farmworker Network (CMFN), the Catholic Network of Migrant Farmers with Enlace Latino NC.
More than half a century later, it seeks to reciprocate that hospitality by forming communities that support agricultural workers.
Despite the difficulties, he is clear about what he wants to leave behind: “A sense of hope” and a good legacy for the next generation.”
Related: Vigil in Raleigh honors farmworkers who died from extreme heat
Migration, part of their family history
Before experiencing the Mexican countryside, migration was already part of their family history.
Florek, 76, was born in Wisconsin, a state he speaks of with humor:
“We are cheeseheads,” he said when introducing himself, referring to the nickname given to those who live in the Midwestern state of the country known for its dairy and cheese-making tradition.
His father was born in the United States, but his grandfather came from a territory that today belongs to Poland and which, when he emigrated, was under Russian rule.
Years later, during a trip to Poland with one of his brothers, he was able to get closer to those roots.
She discovered that her grandfather had been a landless farmworker. That family history helps explain why she feels so connected to the lives of those who leave their country to work in American farms.
“My parents come from poor, humble families,” he commented.
Looking back at the opportunities he had—education, a profession, and a life with his needs met—he recognizes a responsibility to others.
“I have already received a lot,” he said.
Mexico taught him to see things differently
Florek entered university in 1968, in a country shaken by the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. and the protests against the Vietnam War.
He participated in student marches and obtained recognition as a conscientious objector for not taking up arms.
That period, he recalls, taught him to look at the world critically and to guide his decisions with respect for others.
“He taught me how to see and act in the world in a critical way, not a 'critic' but a critical one, and to start making decisions with an ethical critique, simply out of respect for others,” he said.
A year later, he traveled to Mexico for the first time. He was 19 years old and had a limited understanding of the people who came to Wisconsin to work in agriculture.
“I had studied Spanish, but you know, you don’t really get the feel of a language until you truly immerse yourself in the culture,” he commented with a laugh.
Florek recalled that he went to the state of Tlaxcala to spend time with a group of exchange students affiliated with the Autonomous University of Mexico.
“This was a complete opening and understanding. I had never studied Mexico before, we knew nothing, least of all that Mexicans came to the north, to my state, to work in the fields,” he said.
The priest arrived in the early morning at Santa Cruz Tlaxcala, the receiving ranch where the difficulties in understanding Spanish and a house with a sheet metal roof gave him space.
“A 200% culture shock from a gringo from Wisconsin. So, 'Hello, how are you? My name is Thomas.' And then the second very important phrase is, 'And where is the bathroom?'” Florek recalled.
Among the anecdotes from his first day, the priest recalled the exchange of information with the family and the 'famous finger pointing' indicating the little corner of the house.
“It was a kitchen I used to see on National Geographic. A stove and oven with a mud floor. I started with the face of the man in the family who said, ‘This gringo didn’t understand any of his words,’” he commented.
“He started drawing something on the oven floor. And then the lady came out with a newspaper and handed me a sheet, and I said in English that I didn’t want to read a newspaper, until her daughter came out with an ear of corn and suddenly something fell. “Oh, my God! There’s no bathroom, is there?” Florek recalled, laughing.
Between bewilderment and shared laughter, the priest began to learn about a culture that until then had been foreign to him.
“They shared everything with me. They gave me their only room,” she said.
He returned to Mexico time and time again. He was drawn to it, above all, by the people and their hospitality.
Back in Wisconsin, he participated with other students in the rehabilitation of abandoned homes for newly arrived immigrants.
“Because the late sixties and mid-seventies is when a wave of immigrants arrived.”
Later he joined the Society of Jesus, the Jesuits in Chicago, and dedicated a good part of his career to the formation of leaders and to working with migrant communities in both countries.
Related: Food and cooking rights on the H-2A visa: Take this interactive quiz
Return the welcome
In August 2020, while the pandemic was underway, she returned to the United States after working in Mexico with communities affected by violence.
Then he received a call from a priest friend, the founder of CMFN: the organization was looking for a director.
“At first I didn’t want to accept. I knew the network because I had taught courses with it and I knew what it meant to take on that responsibility,” he said.
But, after reflecting, the priest found a connection between the proposal and everything he had experienced since his first trip to Tlaxcala.
“I must accompany the friends who are here as migrants because I was a migrant in Mexico,” he explained.
His first years leading the organization were also a learning experience. He traveled to communities, listened to those who worked directly with farming families, and sought to understand what he could contribute.
From that process Sembrador was born, a program to prepare parish communities in the support for workers.
Learn to listen
The first meeting of the program, in the diocese of Kalamazoo, Michigan, brought together 15 people, the priest explained.
“Fourteen had worked in the fields. They wanted to support those who came after them and knew, from their own experience, the difficulties of agricultural work,” he said.
For Florek, that disposition had to begin with something simple and demanding at the same time: listening.
“The first step is to listen,” she insists. “During the training, participants visited migrant homes to talk about whatever their hosts wanted to share. Afterward, they reflected on what they themselves had received in those encounters,” she commented.
“The question I used to ask them continues to guide their work: ‘What did you learn from them?’” he noted.
About 40 people attended the first retreat after the agricultural season, Florek said.
“Those who had started invited other members of their parishes. When they were asked to continue the training, they asked to continue together: they had also found a community among themselves,” he said.
Related: H-2A farmworkers warn of low income and rising expenses
A presence that gives hope
In North Carolina, Florek has heard stories about poor housing conditions, difficult days, and weeks with few hours of work.
He has also found workers who want to receive visitors and feel close to their Church.
The message the priest tries to convey begins by acknowledging their effort: “Thank you for being here sacrificing yourself for your family.”
To that gratitude he adds another recognition: their work contributes to the economy of the communities where they live.
That is why it seeks to strengthen the links between parishes and community organizations.
She hopes to leave groups prepared to listen, seek resources, and continue providing support beyond her own visits.
When asked what he would like to have sown when he looks back, Florek pauses for a moment. He speaks of united communities and people capable of continuing to work for others, even in difficult times.
"I want to leave a sense of hope," he replies. And he turns his gaze toward those who will come after him: "To leave a good legacy for the next generation."
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