Dignity Of Labor Poem by Raj Arumugam

During the day
I punch keyboards and meet deadlines;
I work in enclosures and hold my face away
as I answer calls
(I am practiced in cadence,
sounding confident and caring
and yet distant)
and send off neat replies
I need not be responsible for; in the evenings
I stop at Coles and pick what I need:
bananas, oranges, tomatoes, vegetables, greens,
bacon, lamb chops and beef steaks and my six-pack and
cokes and pizzas in boxes and sauces in tubes.
I work and I eat and the basis of my life
is the dignity of labor.

We care; we serve;
We protect the Department
So what do you make of me?
What do you make of me
that you issue me these letters and forms
and make me wait endlessly and give
good circumspect chatter if I ask what I
should do next?
What secret conclusions
form the basis of your dealings?
What do you intend to make of me?
Perhaps you visualize my future as a
mute tight-lipped nodding Indian
in his convenience store,
neatly put out in the
quietest lane
of a distant suburb. Pleasant and agreeable
you will have me, smiling and ready to serve,
immobile at the counter, briskly walking
to the shelves to serve you
when you deign to come on an odd
shopping spree
to get exotic spices and newly-heard of condiments
that you will probably store for long in
your kitchen and throw away anyway.
You will not have me out of your
collection of stereotypes, will you?


No, I shall not allow you to
insinuate me into worthlessness
with your cold and bureaucratic silences
and ready-made answers
for I know my worth
as you yours.




(from The Migrant - notes of a newcomer (February 1997- July 1998))