who directed me to dozens of union locals savaged by NAFTA-related factory closures. He turned out to be a depressingly typical NAFTA casualty. Instead of him, someone from Lowland, Tennessee, McAllen, Texas; or Arab, Alabama, to name but a few places in America devastated by the treaty, might have made the trip. David was simply the first worker I found who was willing to go. But he turned out to be a staunch traveler, gifted with empathy, courage and a quiet knack for crossing Wayne on the pery and emerge ready to see what had happened to his life and why We left Fort h boundaries. During a four-day journey through modern industrial Mexico, David would wade through Dickensian m ne morning of January 29th, on the trail of the man who got his job It's freezing cold and pitch dark, and david shows up at Fort Wayne Airport for the flight to Brownsville, Texas, badly wanting a cigarette. This is his first airplane trip, and he looks a little miffed standing alone in one of those glass-walled airport smokers'lounges, wolfing a Marlboro Light and a Mountain Dew. He says he doesn t know what he expects to find in Mexico; he hasnt thought about it David is taciturn about the way he lost his job, too. He heard a rumor. Then it was posted on the bulletin board. No, the union didn t do anything, he says. There was nothing to do How did you feel about it? Bad. I guess Two years ago, when Breed announced that it would close the plant where David worked, Local 7452 of the United Paperworkers International Union offered to take a pay cut to keep it open. breed dismissed the idea. Management in effect told the union negotiators that American workers couldnt compete with Mexicans willing to accept fifty-one cents an hour. The union wasnt able to wrest anything more from the company than severance pay of $150 for each year of service, plus a few months of health insurance. So men and women who had worked at the plant for, say, twenty-five years, walked away with $3, 750-before taxes-to help them start again. ( Breed offered an extra $300 per year of service if workers would remain until the bitter end, though few did. Under similar circumstances, some unions do fight back. When Nabisco tried to close a factory in Pittsburgh last year, the Bakery, Confectionary and Tobacco Workers Union raised enough hell to attract the attention of a buyer. Impressed by the devoted workforce, the new owner found a way to keep the plant open. Elsewhere, unions made such a stink about the low wages their companies were planning to pay in Mexico that the firms tried to buy good will by offering retraining or college tuition to their laid-off workers. But Davids union didnt put up a fight Walking across the gateway Bridge from Brownsville, Texas, to Matamoros, Tamaulipas, David is wrenched through a transition that is neither gradual nor subtle. He's far from the sterile landscape o Fort Wayne where acres of parking surround homogenized outposts of national corporations-Ethan Allen, Cracker Barrel, Circuit City-and everything is experienced through the windshield of a car lere on the border, tightly clipped lawns, orderly intersections and credit-card-ready gasoline pumps give way abruptly to cracked and crowded sidewalks, business owners standing in their doorways urging you inside, the overamplified accordions of ranchera music competing with the roar of badly tuned bus engines and the blare of sound trucks hawking everything from lettuce to light bulbswho directed me to dozens of union locals savaged by NAFTA-related factory closures. He turned out to be a depressingly typical NAFTA casualty. Instead of him, someone from Lowland, Tennessee; McAllen, Texas; or Arab, Alabama, to name but a few places in America devastated by the treaty, might have made the trip. David was simply the first worker I found who was willing to go. But he turned out to be a staunch traveler, gifted with empathy, courage and a quiet knack for crossing boundaries. During a four-day journey through modern industrial Mexico, David would wade through Dickensian misery and emerge ready to see what had happened to his life and why. We left Fort Wayne on the morning of January 29th, on the trail of the man who got his job. It’s freezing cold and pitch dark, and David shows up at Fort Wayne Airport for the flight to Brownsville, Texas, badly wanting a cigarette. This is his first airplane trip, and he looks a little miffed standing alone in one of those glass-walled airport smokers’ lounges, wolfing a Marlboro Light and a Mountain Dew. He says he doesn’t know what he expects to find in Mexico; he hasn’t thought about it. David is taciturn about the way he lost his job, too. He heard a rumor. Then it was posted on the bulletin board. No, the union didn’t do anything, he says. There was nothing to do. “How did you feel about it?” “Bad, I guess.” Two years ago, when Breed announced that it would close the plant where David worked, Local 7452 of the United Paperworkers International Union offered to take a pay cut to keep it open. Breed dismissed the idea. Management in effect told the union negotiators that American workers couldn’t compete with Mexicans willing to accept fifty-one cents an hour. The union wasn’t able to wrest anything more from the company than severance pay of $150 for each year of service, plus a few months of health insurance. So men and women who had worked at the plant for, say, twenty-five years, walked away with $3,750 – before taxes – to help them start again. (Breed offered an extra $300 per year of service if workers would remain until the bitter end, though few did.) Under similar circumstances, some unions do fight back. When Nabisco tried to close a factory in Pittsburgh last year, the Bakery, Confectionary and Tobacco Workers Union raised enough hell to attract the attention of a buyer. Impressed by the devoted workforce, the new owner found a way to keep the plant open. Elsewhere, unions made such a stink about the low wages their companies were planning to pay in Mexico that the firms tried to buy good will by offering retraining or college tuition to their laid-off workers. But David’s union didn’t put up a fight. Walking across the Gateway Bridge from Brownsville, Texas, to Matamoros, Tamaulipas, David is wrenched through a transition that is neither gradual nor subtle. He’s far from the sterile landscape of Fort Wayne where acres of parking surround homogenized outposts of national corporations – Ethan Allen, Cracker Barrel, Circuit City – and everything is experienced through the windshield of a car. Here on the border, tightly clipped lawns, orderly intersections and credit-card-ready gasoline pumps give way abruptly to cracked and crowded sidewalks, business owners standing in their doorways urging you inside, the overamplified accordions of ranchera music competing with the roar of badly tuned bus engines and the blare of sound trucks hawking everything from lettuce to light bulbs