When we arrived, the first thing we saw was a hand drawn sign that read, âAnyone entering or trespassing without my permission will be shot if caught.â It was signed by the campâs owner, Jay DeBadts. The entire entourage of about twenty people stopped in front of the sign, except for Bobby. He kept right on walking, his head down, into an old bus that was the living quarters for three migrant families.Â
He walked into the bus and saw some children, alone, playing on a filthy mattress. The children were covered with unhealed scabs and flies. There were no toilet facilities on the bus, and the windows were filled with torn cardboard.Â
Bobbyâs hand began to shake from the rage he felt looking at the children. It was like watching a man going through a religious conversion. Then an old, bent Negro woman wandered into the bus, and Bobby, on instinct, reached out to touch the back of her neck. He asked her how much money she earned, and she told him one dollar an hour for picking celery. He made a face like a child tasting medicine, and shook his head, and then he just stood there, with no one else in the smelly bus, holding the calloused hand of the old woman for about a minute. Then he went out and rejoined the rest of the entourage, which by then was being shouted at by the campâs owner, Mister DeBadts.
When DeBadts saw Bobby he said, âYouâre just a do-gooder. Youâre here just trying to grab a few headlines. Get off my property."Â
In a whisper, through clenched teeth, Bobby replied, "Youâre something out of the nineteenth century. I wouldnât let an animal live in those busses."Â
The next day Bobby wrote a letter to Governor Rockefeller asking him to investigate the health conditions in all the migrant worker camps in the state.Â
- Jack Newfield, That Shining Hour
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