[Reader-list] Silicon Valley's Underbelly - High-tech's temp troops: Overworked, underpaid, essential

[Harsh Kapoor]

San Francisco Chronicle
Sunday, January 20, 2002

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

Raj Jayadev	 

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.

©2002 San Francisco Chronicle   Page D - 1
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