The unchosen

I have been driving South Cooper in Arlington, Texas, around 3:30-4:30 p.m. each week day for a few weeks.  Which means I am passing the area of Cooper Street where day laborers assemble.  In the early morning there may be from anywhere from 50-100 or so men gathered in small groups spread over a 3-block area.

These day laborers must become expert traffic watchers, able to discern which vehicle means business, which does not.  A commercial vehicle or pickup commands their attention, a compact car not so much.  This has been going on for years now.   I admire these strangers, who I assume do not have the legal documentation to work in this country.

By mid afternoon their numbers are reduced, and still there are men obviously waiting for work, waiting to be picked for a job that likely will pay very little.  Day laborers show up for the possibility of work every day, rain or shine, in ungodly heat or extreme cold.

So as I am now driving by daily in the later hours of the afternoon, I look for the handful of men remaining.  I can't explain the fascination, but now I can't not look.  I feel as though these men in the later hours of the day stand little chance of getting work, but even that doesn't seem to dissuade them from leaving their work post.  Waiting for work is part of the job description.

Last week during my daily assessment of the remaining laborers, it struck me that they appeared to be older, maybe not so strong, although that's a hard thing to assess.  Even so, the men still waiting didn't appear to stand as tall, were not as alert to traffic flow or to vehicle type. 

In that moment, I get a flashback.  I am transported to Northeastern South Dakota, year 1963.  There I am, standing in a row with a dozen or so other kids, hoping against hope I will not be the last one picked for a game of Capture the Flag.  Literally all the boys get picked first.  Of course it is boys doing the choosing, including a couple of my brothers.  The picking process is not pretty.  It's as if you are not there because you hear the already chosen players assessing the not-yet-picked players. 

We don't want to pick her because.... the rest is too painful to recall.  But it struck me that these laborers face this kind of harsh judgment daily.  Of course I understand my deep-seeded anxiety at not being chosen in a game in no way equals the stakes of not being chosen for work.  For day laborers and their families, not working means basic survival - providing for food, shelter - just got harder.  Not being picked until almost last for a game means hurt feelings, loss of dignity and loss of other good but less important stuff higher up the needs chain. 

My admiration for these laborers has now multiplied.  I don't know anything about their personal lives, if they are good people or bad people or whatever.  I do know that every day they face the prospect of not being picked for a job and yet they still show up.  That is some work ethic.