LEXINGTON, Neb. (AP) — On a frigid day after Mass at St. Ann’s Catholic Church in rural Nebraska, worshippers shuffled into the basement and sat on folding chairs, their faces barely masking the fear gripping their town.
A pall hung over the room just as it hung over the holiday season in Lexington, Nebraska.
“Suddenly they tell us that there’s no more work. Your world closes in on you,” said Alejandra Gutierrez.
She and the others work at Tyson Foods'
beef plant and are among the 3,200 people who will lose their jobs when Lexington's biggest employer closes the plant next month after more than two decades of operation.
Hundreds of families may be forced to pack up and leave the town of 11,000, heading east to Omaha or Iowa, or south to the meatpacking towns of Kansas or beyond, causing spinoff layoffs in Lexington's restaurants, barbershops, grocers, convenience stores and taco trucks.
“Losing 3,000 jobs in a city of 10,000 to 12,000 people is as big a closing event as we’ve seen virtually for decades,” said Michael Hicks, director of the Center for Business and Economic Research at Indiana's Ball State University. It will be “close to the poster child for hard times.”
All told, the job losses are expected to reach 7,000, largely in Lexington and the surrounding counties, according to estimates from University of Nebraska, Lincoln, shared with The Associated Press. Tyson employees alone will lose an estimated $241 million in pay and benefits annually.
Tyson says it's closing the plant to “right-size” its beef business after a historically low cattle herd in the U.S. and the company’s expected loss of $600 million on beef production next fiscal year.
The plant's closure threatens to unravel a Great Plains town where the American Dream was still attainable, where immigrants who didn't speak English and never graduated high school bought homes, raised children in a safe community and sent them to college.
Now, those symbols of economic progress — mortgages and car payments, property taxes and tuition costs — are bills that thousands of Tyson workers won't have an income to pay.
At St. Ann's church, Gutierrez sat between her daughters and recalled being told of the plant closure just before Thanksgiving while she visited a college campus with her high school senior, Kimberly.
“At that moment, my daughter said she no longer wanted to study,” Gutierrez said. “Because where would we get the money to pay for college?”
A tear slipped down Kimberly's cheek as she looked at her mother and then down at her hands.
If you threw a dart at a map of the United States, Lexington — called “Lex” by locals — would be just about bullseye.
It's easy to miss driving down Interstate 80, half hidden by barren hackberry trees, corn fields and pastures of Black Angus cattle, but a driver can spy the plant's hulking industrial buildings pumping steam.
The plant opened in 1990 and was bought by Tyson 11 years later, attracting thousands of workers and nearly doubling the town's population within a decade.
Many came from Los Angeles, then stricken by recession, including Lizeth Yanes, who initially hated what she called “a little ghost town."
But soon Lexington flourished, with suburbs sprouting among bur oak and American elm trees. The downtown, a strip of cobblestone streets and brick buildings, has a Somali grocer that abuts a Hispanic bakery; locals attend over a dozen churches and several city recreation centers.
To this day, the plant creates the town's rhythm as workers roll on and off the daily A, B and C shifts and fill restaurants, school pickup lines and the one-screen movie theater showing “Polar Express.”
“It took a long time for me to actually enjoy this little place,” said Yanes. “Now that I enjoy it, now I have to leave.”
The atmosphere inside the Tyson plant, where workers process as many as 5,000 head of cattle a day, laboring on slaughter floors, cleaning crews or trimming cuts of meat, feels “like a funeral,” she said.
“Tyson was our motherland," said plant worker Arab Adan. The Kenyan immigrant sat in his car with his two energetic sons, who asked him a question he has no answer to: “Which state are we gonna go, daddy?”
The only thing Adan is set on is that his kids finish the school year in Lexington, where school officials say nearly half of students have a parent working for Tyson.
The school district, where at least 20 languages and dialects are spoken, has higher high school graduation and college attendance rates than the state and national average, and one of Nebraska's biggest marching bands. Residents are proud of the diversity and the tightknit community, where young people return to raise families.
During Mass at St. Ann's, parishioners gave the cash in their pockets to a fund for families in financial need, despite knowing they'll be out of work next month. Afterward, Francisco Antonio ran through his future employment options with a sad smile.
After the plant closes on Jan. 20, the 52-year-old father of four said he'll stay a few months in Lexington and look for work, though “now there's no future." He took off his glasses, paused, apologized and tried to explain his emotions.
“It’s home mostly, not the job,” he said, replacing his glasses with an embarrassed smile.
“We need another opportunity, job, here in Lex,” he said. “Otherwise Lex is gonna disappear.”
The domino effect could go something like this: If 1,000 families skip town, said economist Hicks — who wouldn't be surprised if it were double that — seats would be left empty in schools, leading to teacher layoffs; there would be far fewer customers in restaurants, shops and other businesses.
Most of the customers at Los Jalapenos, a Mexican restaurant down the street from the plant, are Tyson workers. They fill booths after work and are greeted by owner Armando Martinez’s mustachioed grin and bellow of “Hola, amigo!”
Martinez’s grandson once told his grandfather that when he grows up he wants to work at Tyson. The child's fifth-grade sister recently gathered with classmates to talk about the changes happening with their parents. Some were headed to California, others to Kansas. All were in tears.
If he can't keep up with bills, the restaurant will close, but “there’s just nowhere we can go," said Martinez, who undergoes dialysis for diabetes, has an amputated foot and prays for a miracle: that Tyson will change its mind.
He knows it's unlikely. Asked by The Associated Press for comment about plans for the site, Tyson said in a statement that it “is currently assessing how we can repurpose the facility within our own production network.” It did not provide details, or say whether it plans to offer support to the community through the plant closure.
Many, including City Manager Joe Pepplitsch, are hoping Tyson puts the plant up for sale and a new company comes in bringing jobs. That isn't a quick fix, requiring time, negotiations, renovations and no guarantee of comparable jobs.
“Tyson owes this community a debt. I think they have a responsibility here to help ease some of the impact,” he said, noting Tyson doesn't pay city taxes due to a deal negotiated decades ago.
Near the plant, at the Dawson County Fairgrounds, Tyson workers recently filled a long hall as state agencies — responding with the urgency of a natural disaster — offered information on retraining, writing a resume, filing for unemployment and avoiding scammers when selling homes.
Attendees' faces were subdued, like listening to a doctor’s prognosis. “Your financial health is going to change," they were told. “Don’t ignore the bank, they will not go away.”
Many of the older workers don’t speak English, haven’t graduated high school and aren’t computer savvy. The last application some filled out was decades ago.
“We know only working in meat for Tyson, we don’t have any other experience,” said Adan, the Kenyan immigrant.
Back at St. Ann's, workers echoed that concern.
“They only want young people now,” said Juventino Castro, who's worked at Tyson for a quarter-century. “I don’t know what’s going to happen in the time I have left.”
Lupe Ceja said she's saved a little money, but it won’t last long. Luz Alvidrez has a cleaning gig that will sustain her for awhile. Others might return to Mexico for a time. Nobody has a clear plan.
“It won’t be easy,” said Fernando Sanchez, a Tyson worker for 35 years who sat with his wife. “We started here from scratch and it’s time to start from scratch again."
Tears rolled down his wife's cheeks and he squeezed her hand.
