ABSTRACT
The IBP pork plant where I worked outside of Perry, Iowa, in 1992 pulsated with cockroaches. Trying to contain them, IBP had laid down sanitation rules controlling all food brought into the plant. To no avail. Feeding on the rich layer of lard that oozed over everything each day, the cockroaches marched across the walls, they crawled up our sleeves and into our pockets, and they eavesdropped in restroom crannies. They had won their rights and enjoyed their freedom with little harassment from the humans who shared their quarters.
