Stand Up and Be Counted

…or don’t, but just be nice to your U.S. Census worker. I applied to be a census worker right before everything shut down for Covid. Not only did I want to serve a civic duty and help the residents in one of New Mexico’s least populated counties and largest county by area, but I wanted to earn some extra money to buy a new couch. Just as I was beginning to think that I was not going to be hired, I got a call to ask if I was still interested. I wasn’t sure and expressed by concerns for my health and the health of others. The person on the other end assured me that safety precautions would be in place and no one would be required to do anything that would make them feel unsafe. That’s what I needed to hear—who knew that safety from “the virus” would be the least of my safety concerns! Then there was another long wait when I thought that they had changed their mind about hiring me, but at the end of July I was called in for training. True to their word, appropriate safety precautions were taken for orientation where the appropriate paperwork was signed and census equipment was given out, and all the training was done via phone and video conference and online modules. The training was very interesting and included learning about the history of the census; however, no amount of training could have prepared me for what I was to experience in our neck of the woods.

Here I am decked out with my census issued phone, badge, and bag all prepared and excited for my first day on the job.

Now, I have sworn an oath of secrecy for life (under risk of penalty and/or prosecution), about any personal identifying information I obtained while working for the census, so I won’t be giving any specific information. However, there are a few stories to be told about my experience overall.

Due to lack of cell service in our area and my terrible sense of direction, Jim decided to chauffer me on my first day. After my first day was complete, two things happened: 1) Jim declared that there was no way I would be going out alone, and 2) we purchased a handheld GPS capable of satellite communications. First of all, II would like to make it clear that not every experience was negative or potentially dangerous. I met some wonderful and kind people who offered water, or welcomed me inside for the air conditioning, or provided a tour of their place, and I was even given a delicious salmon filet caught a week earlier by the resident. However, those who were not wonderful or kind or even respectful made for an interesting yet terrifying experience.

While a census worker would never jump a locked gate or try to open the door to a domicile, we are trained that as an employee of the United States government being sent to a specific address we are lawfully allowed to open a gate to be able to access that address to knock on the door. Not even a no trespass sign applies to a census worker doing their constitutional duty of counting the people. Unfortunately, not everyone got that message. As a matter of respect, I always honked the horn (whether a house could be seen or not), before opening an unlocked gate to drive onto someone’s property. Also, as a matter of respect, I never argued or proclaimed my right to be on someone’s property. However, there was not one work day that went by where I wasn’t yelled at or thrown off someone’s property, (with the exception of days that were filled with locked gates or wild goose chases with hours of driving to a residence that didn’t exist). Being cursed at and thrown off of properties tends to wear on me, (a yucky feeling that sticks to me like tar and I have a hard time removing it). Thankfully, there was just enough pleasant people and great scenery to keep me motivated.

I’m sure you must be wondering what was so dangerous. After all, words don’t hurt—well they do, but not mortally. I will share with you two of my worst experiences to illustrate the potential danger. On my very first day we drove up the drive to a house, and I hopped out of the car to approach the door wearing my badge and holding my census bag in clear view. I saw a person at the glass door who looked to be trying to control the three barking dogs to get outside while leaving them inside. At least I assumed that’s what was happening in my eager innocence and pre-census job belief in humanity. What was really happening was the dogs were being let out first and sent after me. They were on me in a heartbeat. As I turned away from the dogs and bowed my head and crossed my arms in front of my chest in a primal act of protecting vital organs in fear, the person yelled out to me from the doorway, “I wouldn’t move until I get there if I were you!” Caveat one: I have been terrified of dogs most of my life. Thankfully, having Lily, a dog of my own, has tempered my fear enough that I didn’t just run away screaming and crying. Caveat two: Jim is watching all of this unfold from the car. The person did eventually walk out to me and tell the dogs to sit and stop barking. I can’t remember if I was able to talk this person into answering my questions, (something I got fairly good at by assuring people they did not have to answer any questions they didn’t want to, but that if they could at a minimum tell me how many people lived there it would help in funding things like schools, clinics, and emergency services in our county), but before the thank you and goodbye I decided to acknowledge the dogs for being so good…big mistake. These were perfectly trained guard dogs that let me know immediately not to mistake their quiet calm for dereliction of their duty to protect by all means necessary.

The second experience happened much later in my short career as a census enumerator after I’d become jaded to the anger and violence some people showed towards me. New Mexico is an open carry state, so many people carry a sidearm. While technically it is a felony to threaten a census worker in any way, I never reported anyone because it seemed to just come with the territory out here. In stark contrast with those friendly and hospitable neighbors, there are many out here that have moved to these sparsely populated parts in order to not be found, counted, or otherwise bothered in any way. By this point I’d become accustomed to knowing when someone had a gun by watching Jim (much more observant than I). Whenever he saw someone with a gun, while approaching or parking, he would raise his hands in surrender and slowly lower them to the steering wheel. It happened pretty frequently, so I mostly thought nothing of it and just jumped out of the car and approached the person or the door without a second thought. This particular time, Jim stopped me before I could get out to inform me that the person approaching us had cocked his gun and left it holstered but kept his hand ready. I exited the vehicle to introduce myself and explain why we were there. I got him to trust me enough to take his hand off his gun, but he was otherwise uncooperative.

I guess there was one other experience—well, more of a situation than experience that made things potentially dangerous for me out there. One of the friendlies I interviewed expressed some worry for my safety because of a post she saw on a local agriculture Facebook page. There are many ranchers out here, and ranchers are always on the lookout for strangers/livestock rustlers. The post mentioned a man and woman in a small white car using binoculars and acting suspicious in general. I didn’t think too much of it at the time since we mostly took Jim’s truck due to rough terrain, and since I put several signs in the windows identifying us as census workers. But after checking out the post for myself, I was a bit shaken by the comments to the post and the general shoot first, ask questions later attitude of those commenting. I left a comment of my own, introducing myself and explaining that the nature of my job might look like a suspicious stranger driving back and forth or stopping along the road, and asked if they saw me (or any census worker), not to shoot.

There was lots of driving. Sometimes we drove several hours one way to find a place unoccupied, abandoned, or non-existent. We saw some very interesting and creative structures. Here is one of the most interesting structures we saw. It was a 20 mile drive off the nearest paved road. The dirt road got so rough, that we had to leave the truck and hike in the last half mile or so (not a completely uncommon event in my time working the census here). Unfortunately, no one was home—we would have loved to talk to them about it.

Overall, I enjoyed the experience and would do it again. And in ten years at the next census I will likely need a new couch again!