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Some companies, including Tyson, are responding to the crisis by implementing job rotation, better knife designs, and posture-improvement programs. But health experts say the industry will not see big results until the work pace is slowed down. The assembly line typically moves carcasses past the workers at a rate of 70 to 90 birds a minute. Many employees perform repetitive motions on every other bird at the rate of one every two seconds. "We are pushing workers to produce more and more, and failing to design their work stations properly," says David Cochran, a University of Nebraska ergonomist who has studied poultry plants. "It's just not right to put someone in a job where you know there's a high probability they will become disabled."
The industry relies on a constant stream of fresh labor; many employees quit within a year because they have become injured or disgruntled. At the Tyson plant in Dardanelle (pop. 3,722), workers complain that the lines have sped up, real salaries have declined, older injured workers are sometimes forced to quit and 30% to 50% of the employees have some form of repetitive-motion disorder. (The company's official estimate for its overall work force is 2% to 3%.) Workers also dispute Tyson's reported injury rate, which is one-fourth the industry average and is based on lost workdays. Labor officials claim that plant supervisors pressure injured workers to quit or show up for "light duty." Tyson fiercely disputes those allegations.
Workers portray a grim picture of their daily routine. "If you asked everyone who hated this place to step outside, you'd clear the entire plant, and maybe half the supervisors too," says Travis Coe, 21, a floor-jack operator with a pregnant wife and a second job as a construction worker. Chris Turic, a colleague, says his fingers sometimes lock up so badly, he has to pry them open. Turic, 30, suffers from a repetitive-motion illness that he says is the result of his job as a "backup killer" at Dardanelle for the past nine years. Specifically, Turic uses a long knife to whack the necks of any chickens that are missed by a circular saw. By day's end he is often covered with feces and blood. For this he gets about $7.10 an hour, more than most workers -- because, as John Tyson explains, "the messier the job, the more the pay." The last time Turic complained about his fingers, he says, he was given even heavier work scrubbing down rooms. "You get punished for getting hurt," he says. "Supervisors who treat people well don't last."
For the 6,000 farmers who raise rather than process the fowl, the main problem is not safety but low pay. Says Anita Scates, a single parent and grower for Arkansas-based Hudson Foods: "You worry about making your monthly bills. You smell like a chicken all the time. It's a full-time job and a rough life. I bring in around $45,000 and, after expenses, earn about $12,000 to $15,000."
The traditional agreement that binds the growers to the processors makes the farmers virtual serfs on their own land. The processors supply the farmers with chicks, feed, medicine and transportation of the chickens. The growers must provide chicken houses, labor and equipment, and pay all other expenses. The deal brings farmers about 4 cents per lb. of chicken, which is less than they received 30 years ago, after adjustment for inflation.