ABSTRACT
We are on a tomato farm in Leamington, Ontario. Representatives of the Mexican consulate have been called to the farm to address some ‘trouble’ with Mexican workers employed on the farm. A supervisor, a young Canadian man in a T-shirt and with rumpled hair, explains, ‘last weekend we had a problem where four guys got really drunk. Um, they came back around four or five o’clock in the morning, ah, they caused a little bit of trouble here, did a little bit of damage’. One consulate representative, a youngish man in a neat button-down shirt, takes notes as he listens to the complaint. Another, an older man in a suit, nods intently. Both men are serious, and their behaviour is formal in front of the camera. The supervisor adds, grudgingly, ‘mnn, basically, I know, I know they’re human, and they’re gonna do this, but, like where do you . . . , where do you draw the line, you know?’ Through the camera lens, viewers (and evidently the consulate representatives) do not learn the specifics of the complaint – some workers got drunk, they caused a ‘little bit of trouble’, and they did ‘a little bit of damage’. The supervisor calls the workers in from the greenhouses to gather inside a warehouse so that the consulate representatives can speak to them. The workers are in jeans, shorts, and baseball caps. Their respective clothing marks a deep division between the two groups of Mexican nationals. The consulate representative explains, ‘[the boss] would like some moderation with alcohol’. A second representative, perhaps attempting to bridge the class division with the inclusive language of a national imaginary, adds: ‘Look, we’re all far from our country. Each one of us is an ambassador of the country. Because they will judge all of us. “How are the Mexicans?” “Well, I know one and he’s this and that” ’.
