LINCOLN, Neb. — Every so often, Al Juhnke, executive director of the Nebraska Pork Producers Association, says he'll get a phone call from one of his farmers about how to solve Nebraska's severe labor shortage..
It goes something like this: "Al, I got a great idea. Why don't we invite any immigrants? Legal, illegal … I don't care. Invite them to Nebraska because we have lots of openings out on our farm and we need help."
Juhnke smiles wearily as he tells the story.
Nebraska is one of the top meat producers in the U.S. It also has one of the worst labor shortages in the country. For every 100 jobs, there are only 39 workers, according to the U.S. Chamber of Commerce.
Last January, the state's economic chamber released a report saying Nebraska had no choice but to welcome immigrants to "address the workforce gap."
Nebraska might need immigrants, but it also voted overwhelmingly for President-elect Donald Trump, who has threatened to carry out mass deportations of people living in the U.S. illegally.
Juhnke says attracting workers to Nebraska is not about wages. The average pay for a meat trimmer is close to $18 an hour — well above the state minimum of $13.50. "These are good paying jobs in the plants," he says. "People say, 'Well, just double or triple the pay [and] you'll get United States citizens to work.' No, you won't."
In the past few years, Juhnke and several dozen other Nebraska advocacy and business groups formed an alliance to demand reform of federal immigration laws and state policy. Among their requests: expanded worker visa programs, and a pathway to residency for immigrants already living in the U.S.
Juhnke says he has been around long enough to know that it has become an impossible task to talk about immigration reform with politicians.
"We go out to Washington, D.C., and they'll tell us, 'Immigration reform is the third rail of politics.' Really the last time we saw something was during the Reagan administration," he says, referring to the 1986 Immigration Reform and Control Act (IRCA), which gave legal status to some 2.7 million immigrants. "That's a long time not to have immigration reform."
Juhnke expressed concern that the anti-immigration rhetoric that has been sweeping the nation will make people reconsider coming to work in the U.S.
"I'm worried we're going to lose legal immigrants, just because they're sick and tired of it," Juhnke says. "At one point, this was probably the best place in the world to come and work and start a good family life. Now they're maybe reconsidering that."
But he also believes the same voters who supported the Trump campaign know that his pledge to carry out mass deportations is just not going to happen. "There's no way it can."
Elsa R. Aranda, the state director of LULAC, the oldest Hispanic civil rights organization in the country, rejects that argument. "Tell that to the families that got separated and still haven't found their children," Aranda says, before apologizing for getting heated.
Aranda says she wants to hear more talk about protecting immigrant lives, beyond the economic benefits of immigration. "It's dehumanizing — 'Let's harness immigrant labor.' Like an animal."
At the end of the day, she says, Nebraskans have no other choice but to consider how immigrants are treated. "Yes, yes, we know people hate immigrants who are not here legally, deport them all, etc., etc. Well, what are you going to do when you don't have workers?"
The governor of Nebraska, Jim Pillen, recently assembled a taskforce to examine the state's labor shortage. "No industry is exempt from current shortages. We need to solve this problem if we are to continue growing Nebraska," Pillen said in a statement.
The taskforce included the state's health care industry, education department and various chambers of commerce.
NPR reached out to his office for comment about the state's labor shortage and how an immigration crackdown could further exacerbate the situation but did not receive a response. Like many other Republican governors, Pillen has also pledged his support for Trump's "commitment to deporting 'dangerous criminals, gang members, and terrorists' " without legal status in the U.S.
But Trump has repeatedly suggested his mass deportation plan would target a wider group of immigrants — not just those with criminal records.
And in the meatpacking towns, the rumor mill is working overtime.
You can see the city of Fremont long before you arrive.
The billowing smoke towers from the massive plants are visible on the flat horizon. Some days, you can also smell it. This is where America's meat comes from. If you buy chicken at Costco or eat Spam, it was very likely processed here.
On a recent Friday evening, the streets and bars are covered in Christmas lights and are eerily empty.
Bertha Quintero, the owner of an empty restaurant downtown, leans up against the bar and sighs. "People are scared," she says. "Especially people with families. Business is bad because people don't leave home. They go from work to their houses."
The fear is not just out in the streets, it's in the plants, too.
Ariel Magania Linares grew up here. He's an immigration lawyer. His parents are factory workers. He's offered to give us a tour of the neighborhood where he grew up, where mostly workers live.
He says it's not uncommon for people to use fake names, to protect themselves from immigration checks. A few days ago, his mother told him about something that happened with a coworker.
"She addressed her by her name in the food court. And that person turned to her and whispered, 'Don't say my real name!' "
We knock on several doors, but no one wants to speak. Eventually, one man invites us into his garage for a chat. He doesn't want his last name used because he's scared of retaliation from his employer.
Richie is from El Salvador. He's here legally, applying for asylum from political persecution in El Salvador.
He says in the weeks after the U.S. presidential election, his plant let go many undocumented workers. But now, there's just not enough people to do the job. So he's been picking up double shifts.
He's grateful for the work, but his coworkers constantly joke about being deported. "They assume their fate is sealed. They sound completely resigned," he says. In Central America, there's an expression: tragar grueso. A hard swallow. That's what Richie says he does when they joke like that. He stays quiet and makes sure he tucks his work papers into his uniform every day when he heads out to work.
NPR reached out to several meat processing plants to inquire about how they are dealing with the possibility of raids but received no response.
The sense of impending doom at the plants is magnified by constant speculation. Richie asks if it's true that the U.S. government is going to start offering $1,000 for each undocumented immigrant reported to the authorities. He plays the Tik Tok where he saw it. It's false, but he says the workers at his plant have watched it many times over.
The situation in Nebraska is far from unique: Across the U.S., there's a labor shortage, which has clashed with anti-immigrant sentiment. But the situation is especially dire here, and it might come to a head in the city of North Platte.
The population in North Platte has been declining for the last decade or so. Unlike so many other Nebraska cities, there are no meat processing factories here. For now.
This summer, a plant called Sustainable Beef is slated to open. The company declined an interview with NPR, but it said that over 800 jobs will be created.
According to the North Platte Area Chamber & Development Corp., it'll add an estimated $1.2 billion to the local economy every year.
A large sign just off the highway, reads, "The Whole World Is Understaffed. Be Kind to Those Who Showed Up."
"We understand the economic necessity of it, and we are not stupid," says Janet Evans, a parishioner at the Episcopal Church of Our Savior.
She acknowledges there's been a lot of political divisions recently, but says, "I think there's still enough in our Nebraska DNA that we do depend on each other. We come from storms, weather incidents, where you depend on your neighbors and you go dig somebody out of a snowstorm. Even if you don't really like them, you go dig them out because it's what you do. Because we're Nebraska."
Religious organizations throughout the state have stood up for the immigrant community. Nebraska's Catholic archbishops have been public in their support. The Episcopal church of North Platte has also been unequivocal in its mission to provide what it calls "radical hospitality."
"From a theological perspective," says Rev. Steve Meysing, "will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself? Will you strive for justice and peace among all people and respect the dignity of every human being?"
The church is currently organizing a program to pair newly arrived migrant families who come to work at the plant with a host family.
As they give us a tour of the church, a black and white photo of a Japanese man, sitting in a jail cell, stands out.
Father Hiram Kano, was part of a wave of Japanese migrants who came to North Platte in the 1920's, to work in the beet fields. He was eventually taken to an internment camp during WWII. In the Episcopal faith, he is known as the Nebraska Saint.
Evans sighs. She says she's bracing for what the next four years will look like for immigrants: "I do not know. It is terrifying to me, too."
But she also believes the future looks bright for North Platte. Soon the new plant will open. More people will come.
"We will have lots of little boutiques," she says. "We'll have a diverse, lovely school system. We will have a growing number of people who are bilingual. That is what I dream of."
She knows that under Trump, the country's immigration policy is going to move in a different direction, one that prioritizes closed borders.
But her door is open.
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