By Yolanda Pinzon Uribe
Outreach and Special Programs Director
There are moments in the field when the present feels familiar, not because nothing has changed, but because something has been carried forward for generations.
New arrivers on the field
Early in the morning, the work has already begun. Rows of crops stretch ahead, and one by one, workers move through them—bending, lifting, repeating the same motion again and again. There are no machines. Just hands in the way we always do it here.
A young worker caught my attention. Not because he was doing something different or wrong, but because of how he looked around. He paused more often and watched others before continuing, as if he was learning the rhythm in real time. Definitely he was a new face for me, “We have new arrivals; it’s the first time he’s been here,” I thought.
Later, I saw him again at the camp. He was sitting quietly, scrolling on his phone. Around him, the space was shared—metal beds, a small kitchen, people coming and going. Functional. Temporary. Enough to get through the season.
I asked him how he was doing.
He smiled and said, “Good… just tired.”
Bit by bit through a simple and kind conversation he was telling me that It was his first time here. His first season. His first time away from home for so long.
He told me he didn’t really know what to expect, but he came because he needed to work. There are not too many options in his country of origin and this opportunity came and he took it, he wants to try it.
And as the conversation went on, I kept thinking about how much he didn’t know. Not because he wasn’t capable, but because no one had told him about the hard work or the conditions.
He didn’t know about the long hours. Or how the work changes with the season. How at the beginning they are paid by the hour, cleaning and preparing the fields, but when harvest comes, payment shifts to what they can pick, by the box. And that doesn’t always mean earning more.
He didn’t know the work is not always steady. That there are days—sometimes several—when there is no work at all. And those days, of course, are days without pay. He didn’t know about conditions that, for others, have already become normal.
Something became very clear:
There is nothing new about this work.
But there is always someone new arriving to it.
Someone learning the rhythm.
Someone trying to understand.
Someone carrying questions they don’t yet know how to ask.
And in that space—between what is known and what is not—
is where our outreach community health workers work begins.
Where our role becomes essential…
walking alongside.
More than ten seasons.
I met another worker years ago—but he had already been coming for much longer. He has been a migrant farmworker for more than ten seasons. Every year, he left his family behind and returned to the fields. Months away. Months of hard and constant work.
When he spoke about it, he didn’t complain.
“It’s hard… but it’s worth it,” he once told me.
That work had allowed him to support his family. Improve his home. Create opportunities for his children. The sacrifice made sense. There was a purpose.
This time, the conversation was different. It didn’t come all at once. It surfaced slowly. He spoke about the changes. About working more hours to earn the same. About wages going down. About everything costing more—here and back home.
The work, he said, is still just as hard. The heat. The hours. The physical toll. That hasn’t changed. But something else has.
He paused before saying it.
“I don’t know if it’s still worth it.”
He said it not with anger. With fatigue.
After so many years, he began to question whether the sacrifice—being away from his family most of the year, missing important moments, living between seasons, still leads to the same outcome and now less.
“Please do not misread me. I am very grateful” – he continued, “I did improve my family conditions. I built my house and I have some savings there.”
Then he added, almost quietly:
“But, this will probably be my last year.”
It wasn’t a dramatic statement.
But it meant something.
Because it wasn’t just about him.
It was about change.
What is really changing?
Between the one who is just beginning and the one who has done this for years, something becomes visible.
The work remains the same, but the experience does not.
One arrives without knowing, the other, after knowing everything, begins to question. And somehow-somewhere in between, a question remains: What is really changing?
To understand that, we cannot forget where this work comes from. Agriculture in places like North Carolina has long been described as tradition, family, and land. But behind that narrative, there is a history of labor that has often been invisible and unprotected.
After slavery, systems like sharecropping continued patterns of dependence. Later, programs like the Bracero Program brought Mexican workers under legal agreements that often failed to protect them.
Today, programs like H-2A have introduced structure—contracts, housing, transportation. That means… “Yes”, there has been progress. But structure does not always mean stability, and legal does not always mean protected.
Farmworkers still remain behind other labor sectors in protections, access, and mobility.
Not always in ways that are visible at first glance—but in ways that shape daily life, opportunity, and choice.
Now, something new is happening.
A generational shift is underway. Younger workers are arriving with less experience, fewer support systems, and little connection to the history that has shaped this work.
At the same time:
• wages are decreasing
• working hours are increasing
• the cost of living continues to rise
• access to healthcare remains limited
• and structural barriers persist
We will continue to see new faces in the fields. But the conditions they encounter… remain the same: The barriers, the social determinants of health. They have not changed.
But within this generational shift, new challenges also bring new opportunities. Technology and connectivity – for example- are becoming essential tools for communication, education, and connection. They can reduce isolation and expand access to information in ways that were not possible before.
They invite us to engage differently—
to be more creative,
to think beyond traditional approaches,
to reach people in new ways.
But even as things evolve, we cannot forget what matters most: meeting people where they are. Tools alone are not enough. Because at the center of everything—past and present— there is something that has not changed:
Outreach is about trusted relationships.
Outreach must be intentional
If the context is changing, then outreach must be intentional. It means ensuring access—not only to healthcare, but to food, transportation, and the conditions that shape health.
It means education—not just sharing information, but building the ability to make informed decisions and develop protective practices.
It means strengthening community—creating spaces where farmworkers can connect, participate, and be heard.
Not giving voice— but walking alongside, so voices can be expressed, heard, and valued.
What will make the difference is how we do it.
Ubuntu reminds us: I am because we are. And in this moment, that truth matters more than ever. We already have programs, we have tools., we have knowledge. But what will make the difference in our work is how we align, how we listen and how we choose to show up. Not working side by side—but truly working together.
Because if history is the light that guides us, then what we do now will shape what comes next.
NOTE: These images are inspired by the agricultural workers we accompany, but they do not represent any specific individual. They are the result of a creative process developed by the Outreach Team. Responsibility for their use and representation rests with Yolanda Pinzon Uribe.