Diversity and growing pains come to small-town Wisconsin

Two cultures learn to value differences
By MARK JOHNSON
mjohnson@journalsentinel.com
Posted: July 24, 2004

Barron - Barron started as a logging camp in 1860, grew into a lumbering center, then an agricultural trading center, and today it bills itself as the turkey capital of Wisconsin.

But after decades of almost glacial transformation, this conservative city of 3,400 in the northwest part of the state has gone through a dramatic change, one that has tested America's reputation as a haven for those fleeing strife-torn homelands.

In less than a decade, a river of refugees from Somalia has flowed into Barron, lured by good-paying meatpacking jobs at the Jennie-O Turkey plant, the city's largest employer. Today, 12% of Barron's population is from Somalia, a small East African nation on the Indian Ocean.

The city's transformation can be seen in the Somali women dressed in traditional veil-like hijabs sitting at library computers and scanning online newspapers for reports from their homeland. It is evident in the teamwork of Somalis and locals on the high school's new soccer team, a regional tournament winner the past two years and a source of pride at a school that once struggled with racial tensions.

It is evident too as the high school's Class of 2004 walks across the stage to receive diplomas. Of the 125 graduates, 15 come from Somalia. As the female Somali graduates approach, District Administrator Monti Hallberg takes care to say "Congratulations" but not extend his hand.

"You don't reach out and shake a Muslim woman's hand," said Hallberg, who came to the Barron schools after 11 years of teaching in Saudi Arabia and five years in Pakistan. "Muslim culture discourages touching between men and women who aren't married."

Until recently Barron was hardly a case study in diversity.

The 2000 census recorded the city's population as 97.2% white. Over the years, a smattering of Hispanic migrant farm workers had settled in Barron.

The first Somali refugees began showing up in Barron about eight years ago to fill jobs at Jennie-O.

Today, Somalis account for about 200 of the plant's 1,250 workers, earning wages that start at $9.25 an hour for cutting, blending and packaging meat. Nasra Xashi, the refugee services coordinator at Barron's International Center, puts the city's total Somali population at more than 400 and, she said, growing.

Fleeing their homeland

In 1997, Xashi was among the first Somalis to come to Barron. Her story is similar to those of other refugees here. She fled the civil war in her homeland, lived for three years in refugee camps in Kenya, and finally came to the U.S. in 1993. Somalia, which won independence from the colonial powers of Britain and Italy in 1960, fell into war and turmoil in the late 1970s and again in the '90s.

One advantage Xashi enjoyed over other Somali refugees was that she had learned English before coming to the U.S.

At first, she lived in Minnesota, but when a plant there closed she learned of openings at the turkey plant in Barron. That was what kicked off the Somali migration to Barron - jobs.

"On any given day they were short 50 to 100 employees," said Peter Olson, the city's former mayor.

The work required little knowledge of English, a benefit for the many Somalis who had not yet learned the language.

Moreover, Somalis represented an eager and willing work force for an industry that consistently ranks among the most dangerous in America for on-the-job injuries. The Somalis were also a work force unlikely to press for union representation.

"I've worked with Somali workers in the past, and in their language there's no word for union," said Bernie Hesse, director of organizing for United Food and Commercial Workers Local 789. "You've got your work cut out for you when you're explaining it to them."

But it wasn't just the turkey plant that made Barron a desirable destination for Somalis. A number of them who moved from the Twin Cities to the smaller Wisconsin community - about 90 miles away - were high school students facing Minnesota's new basic skills test. The test, which began in 1998, requires all students to meet specific standards in English and other subjects in order to graduate.

In Wisconsin, Somali students struggling with English faced no such barrier at graduation, so some came to Barron for the second semester of their senior year. Wisconsin planned to introduce a graduation test, but it was never funded and has yet to take effect.

Many of the Somali students in Barron not only attended high school but also worked full shifts at the turkey plant. Besides the jobs and the lack of a graduation test, Somalis found something else appealing: the small-town feel of Barron, where a car wasn't an absolute necessity.

'An invisible minority'

When Nasra Xashi first arrived in Barron, local residents were barely aware of the Somali migration.

Many Somalis worked second shift, spending afternoons and evenings at the turkey plant and resting in the mornings when other Barron residents were out and about. Nor were they likely to meet up with the locals at church, as many of the Hispanic migrant workers had.

The Somalis are Muslim, and because there were no mosques in Barron, many drove to the Twin Cities for worship.

"They really are an invisible minority," said Jessica Schaid, an undergraduate at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire who wrote a paper in March on the settlement of Somalis in Barron.

Olson, a lifelong resident, recalled his surprise at learning that some Somalis had been in the city for more than five years.

It was in 2001 that the Somali minority became much more visible. For a while, conflict was also visible.

"The two questions I would hear were: Why are they here, and when are they leaving?," said Olson, who was mayor from 2002 until this year. "My answers were: 'They're here because there are jobs, and like the rest of us they'll leave when they find a better job.' "

'Barron needs a soccer team'

Fear and suspicion of Muslims were peaking after the Sept. 11 terror attacks. There were racial incidents at Barron High School, mostly fights and name-calling. In May 2002, three teenagers stole a Somali flag from school and spray-painted it with "KKK."

Police arrested the three; two were fined $213 for damage to property, and one, a juvenile, was referred to the Department of Human Services for informal supervision.

"The students who did that had to come before community members and explain why they did it," said Hallberg, the district administrator.

That same year a fistfight erupted among 10 students playing basketball in the high school gymnasium. School officials met with the students involved and held a round-table discussion about the Somali refugees with other students.

"We had students on both sides," Hallberg said. "Someone said, 'Hey, these are good visitors. They provide Barron with a richness it didn't have.' And some said, 'No, they should go back to Somalia.' "

Tensions weren't confined to the schools. Barron had a shortage of affordable housing for the refugees working at the turkey plant. Landlords groused about renting to one Somali worker only to find four or five living in the apartment. There was a cultural reason for this: Somalis feel duty-bound to open their homes to friends or relatives in need.

The language barrier created practical problems at the hospital, police department and courthouse as officials struggled to communicate with Somali residents.

And the Somalis sometimes noticed unfriendly looks from residents when they struggled with English or spoke their native language. In Barron, they found no mosque to worship in and no stores selling Somali food or clothing.

By late 2001 and early 2002, school and city leaders were taking steps to address relations between Barron's natives and its newest residents.

In October 2001, Hallberg was driving by a playing field in Barron when he saw a group of 50 Somalis playing soccer. He stopped the car to watch, then told his son, a student at the high school: "Barron needs a soccer team."

The next fall the school's newly formed soccer team won the regional tournament.

"After the first year of soccer, we did so well, some people started talking to the Somalis," said Brett Rosvold, a member of the team entering his junior year. "After the second year, I can't think of one time I heard one of the racists call a Somali the 'n' word.

"I think soccer really helped bring us together."

At lunch the Somalis still tend to sit together, except on days when there's a soccer game, said Rosvold, who became close friends with two Somali students. Although relations have improved markedly, he said, there remains some resentment among native students who believe the Somalis are held to lower academic standards.

At the middle school, educators held a Diversity Day at which students were given passports that they could get signed and stamped by visiting some of the 40 booths representing different nations.

Outside the schools, Barron had formed a Diversity Council to foster better communication and relations between different cultures. Interpreters were trained to help health and law enforcement officials.

Workforce Resource, a private, non-profit agency involved in employment and training, received a grant to open an International Center in Barron. Xashi, who was already helping Somalis navigate their way through life in Barron, was selected to staff the new center full time. Today she helps Somalis find jobs, housing, health care and classes in English and civics.

Xashi said the turkey plant has also taken steps to accommodate its Somali workers, setting up prayer rugs in a locker room so Muslims can meet their daily prayer obligations. The company has also installed foot baths; Muslims are supposed to wash their feet, hands and hair before they pray.

"In 2001 and 2002 we did have quite a bit of tension," said Barron Police Chief Byron Miller. "I'd say it was mainly between students. We used to have fights and name-calling. Since then things have gotten a lot better."

Still, there are occasional culture clashes, such as the day a few weeks ago when Xashi visited the Kmart in nearby Rice Lake, dressed in her hijab veil. A man said, "Osama bin Laden is here."

"What?" Xashi said, challenging the man, who then tried to apologize by saying, "I love colored people."

Despite the incident, Xashi has grown more comfortable.

"I feel I'm part of Barron," she said. "My kid is going to say tomorrow, 'I am a Barron kid.' "