I saw an ad for census takers today. A nice-looking young fella pictured with the official US Government Census taker's briefcase/portfolio on his shoulder was smiling like he'd just landed his dream job. It is an important job, to be sure, but hardly a dream.
I was reminded of my direct experience assisting an official census taker yers ago. The job is as problematic as it is crucial. Like our elections, the census is subject to questionable procedures.
The year was 1970. My girlfriend at the time, Kim, had come down to Houston, Texas from her social work job in Chicago to spend the remaining weeks of my tenure as a VISTA Volunteer before we took our VW Bus to New York and then across the country from coast to coast as I awaited my fate with the draft.
Kim saw an ad for census takers in the city of Houston and figured it'd be a good temporary job as well as a way to make a few bucks of travel money. She tested well and was soon outfitted with all the paperwork and gear necessary to go door to door in the barrio of North Houston. As I recall, Kim was assigned a specific number of households to check and then she was free to move about the country. With most of my VISTA business tied up, I decided to accompany her for the last two weeks of May, so that she would have some assistance with speaking Spanish and some motivation to get 'er done in a timely fashion.
We knew that this was largely a Chicano barrio. What we didn't expect was that many folks simply wouldn't answer the door. Looking back today, it seems obvious that anyone who was undocumented would fear any branch of the US Government. It was simpler to just ignore the doorbell than to risk any representative of the government knowing who and how many people lived within.
At this rate, we were going to need an extra month to get the data sent in.
Then we got creative.
If people wouldn't answer the door, they would let their kids outside to play. In Spanish and English, we asked any kids we encountered if they knew how many people lived in various houses, duplexes, and apartments. They were of some help. Most often, however, we couldn't get any names.
Not to be denied, we simply opened up the local phone book (remember those) and determined what Latino surnames seemed most common. Clearly, Martinez was the winner. So we filled out the forms so the Census could be completed on time. Occasionally, we'd drop in a Ramirez and a Gonzalez from time to time. Now and then a Jones, Brown, or a Wilson, as the neighborhood did contain some elderly white folks who had been there for decades. In fact, one such person remains, to this day, one of the most unforgettable people I encountered. After ringing a doorbell many times and then knocking loudly on a ragged door with chipped paint, we heard, "Come around the back."
I started to say "Es El Censo," before catching myself and realizing the voice was speaking English to me. Walking down a vine-covered path and then turning the corner to find a back door opening, a rather large, rather elderly woman lifted up her head and asked, "Can I help you?" We soon were invited in and her answer to the first census question set the tone for the remaining 25 minutes we spent there.
"How many people live here?"
Stifling a cough, our interviewee said, "It's just me and I'm waitin' to die."
A most honest, if not disturbing answer.
But things weren't half as bad as we first thought. Our new friend proceeded to answer all the official questions and then some. We listened to her life story and tried to leave with some encouragement to keep on keepin' out. I think it's safe to say it was good therapy for all.
A week later we were on the road and crossing the Texas/Arkansas border after being asked if we were carrying "any hogs?"
I was reminded of my direct experience assisting an official census taker yers ago. The job is as problematic as it is crucial. Like our elections, the census is subject to questionable procedures.
The year was 1970. My girlfriend at the time, Kim, had come down to Houston, Texas from her social work job in Chicago to spend the remaining weeks of my tenure as a VISTA Volunteer before we took our VW Bus to New York and then across the country from coast to coast as I awaited my fate with the draft.
Kim saw an ad for census takers in the city of Houston and figured it'd be a good temporary job as well as a way to make a few bucks of travel money. She tested well and was soon outfitted with all the paperwork and gear necessary to go door to door in the barrio of North Houston. As I recall, Kim was assigned a specific number of households to check and then she was free to move about the country. With most of my VISTA business tied up, I decided to accompany her for the last two weeks of May, so that she would have some assistance with speaking Spanish and some motivation to get 'er done in a timely fashion.
We knew that this was largely a Chicano barrio. What we didn't expect was that many folks simply wouldn't answer the door. Looking back today, it seems obvious that anyone who was undocumented would fear any branch of the US Government. It was simpler to just ignore the doorbell than to risk any representative of the government knowing who and how many people lived within.
At this rate, we were going to need an extra month to get the data sent in.
Then we got creative.
If people wouldn't answer the door, they would let their kids outside to play. In Spanish and English, we asked any kids we encountered if they knew how many people lived in various houses, duplexes, and apartments. They were of some help. Most often, however, we couldn't get any names.
Not to be denied, we simply opened up the local phone book (remember those) and determined what Latino surnames seemed most common. Clearly, Martinez was the winner. So we filled out the forms so the Census could be completed on time. Occasionally, we'd drop in a Ramirez and a Gonzalez from time to time. Now and then a Jones, Brown, or a Wilson, as the neighborhood did contain some elderly white folks who had been there for decades. In fact, one such person remains, to this day, one of the most unforgettable people I encountered. After ringing a doorbell many times and then knocking loudly on a ragged door with chipped paint, we heard, "Come around the back."
I started to say "Es El Censo," before catching myself and realizing the voice was speaking English to me. Walking down a vine-covered path and then turning the corner to find a back door opening, a rather large, rather elderly woman lifted up her head and asked, "Can I help you?" We soon were invited in and her answer to the first census question set the tone for the remaining 25 minutes we spent there.
"How many people live here?"
Stifling a cough, our interviewee said, "It's just me and I'm waitin' to die."
A most honest, if not disturbing answer.
But things weren't half as bad as we first thought. Our new friend proceeded to answer all the official questions and then some. We listened to her life story and tried to leave with some encouragement to keep on keepin' out. I think it's safe to say it was good therapy for all.
A week later we were on the road and crossing the Texas/Arkansas border after being asked if we were carrying "any hogs?"
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