You never get used to cow blood, or being covered in it. My father assured me it was nothing and that my summer job slicing specialty cuts of meat was bearable. I took his word for it but boy, was I in for a surprise!

Cow blood smells, the metallic odor was so bad that I couldn’t eat any meat. Sometimes the blood splattered and stung my eyes or it was simply on my face. What is the point of giving us a white frock if by the end of your shift it looked like bloody murder. But who was I to ask so many questions? I was just there for the summer.

I counted the minutes and the seconds to when my shift ended. I prayed I’d make it home alive without losing a limb. People joked about that but I took it seriously.

The job might sound disgusting but like most people who live in Liberal the meat packing plant, National Beef, is the main place of opportunity for my family. It can be said that the majority of the 20,000 people or so in town works at or has stepped foot into that plant at some point, meat packing plants are part of Southwest Kansas DNA.

The bureau labor of statistics in the U.S states that Kansas has one of the highest concentrations of meat packing job concentrations. There’s meat packaging plants within an hour between towns.  

There’s a wide range of diversity, majority of the working staff is latino, followed by a wide range of asian portion. There is a growing number of Guatemalan staff as well as workers from Somalia, Sudan, and other parts of the world. When it comes to work although not all know how to speak english hand gestures make up for that. It’s a growing plant where many cultures come together and coexist with one another.

My own father is part of that working staff. 11 years on the job and several excruciating hours of hard work he keeps going back for one reason— Provide a better life for his family. That is the goal both of my parents had in mind. 

Growing up in Mexico was a hard life for both of my parents. My father only got a second grade education because he ran away with the circus due to my grandmothers harsh abuse. He fended for himself. He spent most of his childhood without a pair of shoes.

My mother worked from the age of six to buy her own school supplies. She dropped out of school in sixth grade to work full time and help out her family.

My parents wanted better for their children. We always had clothes on our backs, shoes on our feet- and food to eat. But most importantly we attended school.

“School is your only job and I want both of you to excel at it” my mother said to us and continue to say it to this day.

To them education is the “American Dream.”

Chasing this dream wasn’t an easy task but rather a long chain of risks. The first step was making it into the U.S. my parents crossed the border together and were overwhelmed with what was laid out in front of them.

“When we first arrived in the U.S we slept in a small van we brought from Mexico. My mother recounted. “I left your older brother with your grandma so he wouldn’t have to suffer along with us.”

They spent three days without any food. They had no money. One day my mother saw a lady selling quesadillas on the street and offered to help in exchange for food. She agreed and even let them stay in her back room on a spare mattress.

“We suffered a lot those first months, then we began to follow the produce seasons. Whether it was onions, tomatoes, limes, or potatoes we went where there was work. My mother said with a shrug.