You may have heard about all the fabulous and well paid high tech jobs at
technology companies in such firms as Hewlett Packard in California.
There is a big workforce these large companies don't want to tell you
about.  it is the large number of low paid temporary workers who receive
low pay with no benefits.  Below is a chronicle of one such worksite
during the boom year of 1999.

Kelly

Silicon Valley's Underbelly
High-tech's temp troops: Overworked, underpaid, essential

by Raj Jayadev

Sunday, January 20, 2002
San Francisco Chronicle


At 5:30 a.m., not a lot of people are on the way to San Jose. A single-
file strip of red taillights leads to what, cloaked by early morning
darkness, easily could be a residential street but actually is the way
to Hewlett- Packard's back property.

I enter Building 535 and make my way to the production area. A
supervisor named Ana immediately hands me off to the line mentor,
Raquel. They are young Latinas, busy preparing the line for the workday.
Ana doesn't look up from her desk. "Take him to box load," she says.

Within two minutes, I'm at work on the assembly line for eight bucks an
hour with no benefits. But a job is a job -- for as long as it lasts,
anyway.

It's the height of the high-tech boom. There's no better place to work
than in Silicon Valley, where vast amounts of wealth are being made; the
average wage is more than $75,000. But I quickly learn that the engine
of the new economy is fueled by methods and labor practices more
commonly associated with the old industrial era -- assembly plants,
conveyer belts, physically demanding work and low pay.

My team is assigned to cut open and pile boxes, to pull printers from
stacks and place them on the conveyor belt. The work requires strong
hands, quick feet and a flexible back.

The machines are operated by loud gas pumps. The noise of their hissing
and bumping is overwhelming at first, but after a while all the sounds
seem to mute each other so you don't really hear any of them.

On this day I put 800 foam bases in 800 cardboard boxes, then put 800
plastic bags over the 800 boxes. The events of this day alone are
grounds to start a revolution.

I move extra fast because Miguel is working next to me. Although Miguel
is around my age, 23, he has worked at the plant for years and set his
sights on a mentorship position that would elevate him to $10 an hour.
Ambition fuels his speed, making him especially loud in demanding that
others match his pace.

I'm moving so fast I don't even have time to think. The cardboard boxes
keep jabbing me, leaving a half dozen cuts on each hand. I find out
later this is just part of the box-load job.

Every new box loader realizes he should wear gloves. After he wears them
for about a minute, he finds he can't open the plastic bags quickly
enough. Seconds after this epiphany, the supervisor yells an
inappropriately loud, "Come on, box load!" at which point the rookie
puts down the gloves, gets cut repeatedly and never again tries to be
innovative about his safety.

By midday, I have learned to be mechanical. Although usually an
undesirable state of being, it's one that you strive for on the line.
Any disruption means a buildup of boxes and printer skeletons. Maybe the
scanner isn't working or the boxes aren't coming out right but, whatever
the reason, the pressure grows.

People who have never spoken to me rain showers of, "What's the holdup?"
from all down the line. The shouts have no malicious intent, and there
is very little real curiosity; it's more a knee-jerk reaction. When I
ask Barbara, a four-year veteran, about this, she explains: "They want
to make target."

Close to day's end, the line pauses. I am confused. My hands are idle,
no work to do. I look down the line, and from my solar plexus, where my
deep lungs sit, I yell, "What's the holdup?!" I can't explain why. Maybe
I've learned to find comfort in the robotlike activity. A kink thrown
into the motions awakens me to reality. It is strange when being
reminded of your humanity is an insult.

The recent economic downturn has done nothing to change an industry
built on the backs of temp workers.

For entry-level workers, all roads lead to the more than 200 temp
agencies that have proliferated in Silicon Valley. According to the
state Economic Development Department, 40,000 people were employed
through temp agencies in Santa Clara County last year. That estimate is
conservative. It doesn't take into account, for instance, the thousands
of people who work directly for a company on temporary contracts.

When Silicon Valley's bubble burst last year, temp workers were first to
be fired. Analysts predict that as the economy picks up, as is currently
predicted, more employers than ever will hire temps. On the supply end,
many people will take whatever job becomes available as unemployment
checks dry up. Their lives are hard, and for some temp workers I meet,
about to get much harder.

I get to know some of the more than 700 Manpower temp workers at HP. I
learn that most folks are new -- to the country, to the city, or at
least to the plant and this work. For some, this means they've moved
from Los Angeles or another California city to booming Silicon Valley,
where, according to word of mouth, jobs are opening up every day. For
others, it means a move from politically torn homelands like Guatemala
and Ethiopia.

Housing costs in Silicon Valley are astronomical. Some workers live as
far as 100 miles away. Patrick, an African American father of two,
leaves Stockton at 3 a.m. to beat the traffic. I am amazed to learn
there is a 4 a.m. rush hour. Patrick arrives at the plant around 4:30
and naps for an hour. Then he works until 2:30 p.m., clocks out, gets
some coffee for the road and heads back to Stockton. He arrives around
dinnertime if traffic is light.

Esther, a veteran worker on my line, assembled Hewlett-Packard
calculators in a plant in Cupertino from 1974 to 1977. I ask her what
has changed. She says she is most struck by all the new shades of brown:
Pacific Islanders, East Asians, South Asians and Africans have redefined
the workforce and the culture of her plant, as well as of Santa Clara
County. She hasn't seen much change in the work: the same assembly
production, same hours, same pay.

"Same pay?" I ask.

"Yeah. I was pulling in about the same amount per week that I am now.
Around $1,000 a month, except back then we had benefits, and HP would
hire you permanent or let you go after 90 days."

An African American woman, Barbara, has an unofficial (but unanimously
accepted) leadership role on the line. Initially drawn by HP's
reputation and good work standards, she worked at another of its plants
for nine years and seven months. She had planned to stay until she
completed a full 10 years in order to be eligible for retirement
benefits. Five months before her decade was up, HP moved the plant out
of the Bay Area (to a place where labor is cheaper), depriving her of
her retirement and her permanent job. Barbara has been temping in this
particular job for four years. She's what's known in the industry as a
"perma-temp."

No one on the line is supposed to talk. At the beginning of my second
week, Robert is describing his weekend and our line supervisor, Ana,
moves him to another part of the line.

During breaks and lunch, people usually sit according to ethnic group so
they can speak their native tongues. I don't speak the major native
tongue (Hindi) of my ethnic group (Indian), so the first week, I sit
blankly next to some South Asians who smile at me graciously now and
then. This changes when I share my mother's food with them during lunch.
Her cooking, apparently, is a lot more authentically Indian than I am.

We quickly assume the roles of me as "beta" (young boy) and them as my
honorary aunties and uncles, with all the resulting rights and
responsibilities. Every conversation is capped with the kind and
prodding advice to leave "this place."

"Beta, you are young. This," they say, looking around disgustedly, "is
no kind of life. You should go to school, then get a good job. You
should learn computer science." I tell them I have some schooling, and
that I will go back later.

"Close the door -- shut it quick!" The guys in box load always manage to
have fun at David's expense. His job is to tend to the machine that
spits out the boxes I dress with plastic and foam. The machine looks
like a one-man shack. When it breaks down, which is often, David has to
enter it. A safety mechanism stops the machine from operating when its
door is open. The guys joke about how they are going to close the door
once David is inside. I picture a cartoon of David coming out looking
like a Laser Jet printer box.

Some of the guys start teasing. As usual, David erupts, but this time
the argument escalates into a minor scuffle. Most folks are having a
good time watching, welcoming the interruption of the monotonous day.
Some goad David on.

But Christopher, recently from Ethiopia, steps between the two brawlers,
and they cool down.

Ana, oblivious to this spontaneous ringside show, thinks we have stopped
because we are tired, a sorry excuse. "Anyone who doesn't want to work
can go home!" she shouts. I pull out my notebook and begin writing down
what Ana has said, as I do after most supervisor power trips.

My coworker Jivan asks, "What are you writing?" Jivan immigrated from
southern India two years before. We have a running dialogue about life
in India, and its differences from America. He declares, "You know, in
India, workers would never stand for this!"

Jivan runs through a flurry of tactics employees use to force
management's hand. They put salt in machines to disrupt production
output. They hold a garehoe, surrounding the higher-ups, not letting
them leave until they agree to negotiate. They organize bandhs, city or
even statewide strikes that paralyze all movement until worker demands
are met. This technique was popularized in the struggle for independence
from Britain and continues as a strategy against domestic oppression.

I ask Jivan if we could take these actions in the United States, in
Silicon Valley, maybe even at HP . . .

"No, Raj," he says. "You need a union to do all that."

Trust is one of the first casualties of temp work. It's replaced with
suspicion, created by spontaneous layoffs, downsizings and messages left
on answering machines saying your assignment is over.

But fear of betrayal is not the only obstacle blocking temp workers from
seeking improvements. Who exactly are the decision-makers? Assembling HP
printers at an HP site would seem to make the target simple:
Hewlett-Packard. But our checks say "Manpower," and Manpower says its
boss is a company called MSL.

These layers represent another key feature of the new economy:
subcontracting. Subcontracting might be the strongest defense the top
employer has against workers organizing, insulating the company from
labor abuses in its own factories. The original puppeteer -- HP --
officially has no personnel at our plant. So complaints are directed at
a management that is at most something like a ghost.

The rumors of a line shutdown by management are like the slight breeze
before a storm. The topic dominates the break-room discussion. The
rumors coincide with complaints by employees who are getting
systematically shorted on weekly paychecks. The strategic management
response is certain: Never answer questions.

A young mother named Kuldit, recently immigrated from Punjab, is missing
a full week's pay, and the Manpower rep, Mark, looks annoyed whenever
she asks him about it.

The question travels from one end of the conveyer belt to the other:
"Did the Indian lady get her money yet?" A couple minutes later, "Nah,
Mark told her to check in next week."

Later in the week, Ana calls a line meeting. I ask about the paycheck
problems. She says to ask Mark.

We decide to draft a letter to Manpower summarizing our concerns. The
next day, Barbara looks it over and gives a thumbs-up. I tell her that
it might be safer just to sign it "Manpower Employee" instead of
identifying herself. She looks at me the way my mother does when I've
said something especially foolish.

She takes out a pen and signs her name, then gathers 10 more signatures.

The letter becomes a petition, then develops into a plant-wide action.
An impressive 70 out of 100 workers sign.

Ten people volunteer to deliver the letter to Manpower, but in the end,
just three of us go: Miguel and I from Line 1 and Joel from Line 3. We
are all under 25 and people of color (they are from Mexico).

Sue, the recruitment manager, is a Caucasian whose face is tense with
rage, in combat mode from the moment she enters the room. Like a teacher
who has found a cheat sheet, Sue tells us she has heard about the
letter, as if this will foil our plans.

"It was just a systems error!" she says.

Joel and Miguel explain the hardships of shorted paychecks. Rent isn't
paid.

Checks bounce. We tell her we sympathize with Manpower's situation, but
its actions are illegal. That takes some aggression out of Sue's voice.
She tells us that "Manpower has been doing everything possible to fix
the system," and that "everything will be back to normal soon."

We take the petition with us, so that those brave enough to sign won't
be punished.

Almost every paycheck problem is resolved within two weeks, but the
petition drive is a rubber band, stretched by workers wanting to express
their rights. Unfortunately, the further the band is pulled, the
stronger management snaps back.

One day, I see Ana meeting with several people, very rare for her.
Later, she calls Barbara over, and her words bring a smile to Barbara's
face. When Barbara returns, she winks at me.

"She was just telling me I had nothing to worry about if and when a line
shutdown came," she says, "since she knew what a reliable worker I was."

Barbara sees right through the ploy to defuse further group action.

Then Ana begins calling on people who had been particularly insistent
about meeting with managers. She tells them they are on a "hot list" to
be fired. One more problem will result in their termination. The hot
list is soon the talk of the line, and by lunchtime everyone has an
opinion about who is on the list and why.

The tactic is already working. Linda, for example, tells me: "I saw
Raquel staring at me. I'm not gonna say anything anymore."

That Wednesday, Mark says he wants to tell me about a job, elsewhere,
for $10 an hour. He tells me to call Susan, another manager, to find out
more details. I do, hoping to also get a place for my friend Thomas, but
during our talk, Susan reveals that only people on the layoff list are
getting referred for these jobs.

I go back to Mark. "So I guess I am getting laid off?"

He looks sheepish. "Layoff list? I've never seen it. Let me ask around."

He avoids me until the next day. When I finally corner him, he says,
"Oh, Raj, yeah, I am still trying to get ahold of that list."

"I just want to know if I should be saying goodbye to my friends."

"I will talk to Ana today," he promises.

Mark drags up to me later that day and says, almost apologetically, "MSL
policy won't allow us to say. If I tell you anything, they will come
down on me."

When I get home, a nice woman from Manpower calls to tell me my
assignment has ended and that I need to hand in my badge.

"Do you know why my assignment was ended?"

"No, I'm sorry, I wasn't given that information."

"Could I ask the supervisor at the plant?"

"No, you are not supposed to have any contact with anyone from the plant
anymore. When you return your badge, please do so at our main office,
not the plant."

I receive one more phone call that night. It's from Kuldit, the coworker
who complained about the missing paycheck. She too has received the
phone call from Manpower.

Raj Jayadev is editor of siliconvalleydebug.com, a Web magazine
sponsored by Pacific News Service devoted to improving working
conditions in Silicon Valley. Jayadev worked at Hewlett Packard for six
months in 1999. A version of this article originally appeared in To-Do
List magazine.


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