don’t let my stone face,
my shufflin’ up and down
the rows in the cafeteria,
fool you.
I’m not bitter or broken.
and don’t mind that I stop
at every table left crooked
and take such care to make it straight.
this ain’t some kind of punishment
for a mess up I made earlier.
and my periods of row walkin’,
my stoopin’ and eyein’ up tables,
ain’t for the sake of any principle.
I’m not a reminder
to the boys and girls
that some in the world
are still pickin’ cotton.
these kids don’t think that way,
they’re too young.
but they sure don’t much care
for tables like I do.
the fact is that
I’m just doin’ my job,
and I’ve been row walkin’ for so long
that now I got a voice inside sayin’:
“Don’t be satisfied till you got straight tables.”
Dave,
The picture you painted of the school janitor (?) in Straight Tables hopped off the page for me. I especially love the line, “but they sure don’t much care for tables like I do.”
The poem brought to mind two very different memories. First, I’ve often heard elderly men (especially black men) tell of the awareness of their lowly positions, yet wanting to do their work with dignity because of the belief in themselves as honorable and worthwhile men. (Pullman Porters come to mind.) I once rode a train across country, and “my” porter shined my shoes like they’d never been shined. Now, I wonder if in doing this kind act, he followed that voice inside himself which found satisfaction in his work.
Second, I had a superior who used to refold towels and sheets after some of us had folded them quite well. She was obsessed with order. I wonder what the voice inside her was saying. It doesn’t ring true like your janitor and my porter. Not trying to analyze, just remembering.
Thanks. Carol
Carol–
Thanks again for responding to this poem. Your insight into the thinking of black workers carrying out their work–as menial as if might be–with dignity is very perceptive. My hope is that most of them do, in fact, think of themselves as honorable and worthy.
Dave