Priceless...

A couple of weeks ago, I spent my day off trying to make a little extra cash. I decided to go to the Garland Day Labor Center and see if I could pick up some random work. I got a job and that little bit of money, but I also gained an insight that I didn't intend on getting.

The center opened at 6:30 am, and since I wasn't really sure what to expect, I wanted to be there a little early. I got up around 5:15 and got some coffee, packed a couple of snacks and my work gloves and headed off. I arrived at about 6 in the morning, and started chatting (mostly just listening) with some of the other laborers who were waiting for work. I got the skinny on how the system worked, what jobs were the best, what jobs you really didn't want (like roofing in the hot Texas sun), and the various stories of the other guys that were waiting around.

I hesitate to generalize and further reinforce stereotypes, but most of the people that I talked to were on some kind of government assistance, most of them were people of color,  they looked hard - weathered, and all of them looked eager, hopeful, and willing to take whatever they could get.

The "system" that I mentioned before consisted of getting in line (in the order you showed up as a kind of unwritten code) and filling out an information form and getting a number. The whole time I was waiting I was told, "you really need to sell yourself." After I got my number (#5), I stood in a place of prime real estate in the line. The contractors that were looking for laborers would drive around the center and park. They would let the center manager know how many workers they were looking for and what kind of job they had. They didn't ever speak to any of us waiting for work. Most of them didn't even look at us.

The saddest part of this experience was that I watched as my fellow laborers lifted up their numbers, hoping that the contractor would pick them. At best, the feeling that I got took me back to elementary school where the kids at recess would pick teams. You know, that feeling, "Oh, please pick me, pick me. Don't let me be last..." But at worst, it reminded me of being on an auction block. I know that no one was forcing any of us to be there, and I know that we were all paid for our work, but the similarities were too striking not to notice.

This process of being a number, of being regarded as a worker, a laborer, as expendable, as invaluable, simply stripped away dignity and humanity. I don't know the story of everyone standing in line with me that day. No doubt, many of those men made choices with consequences that left them with a criminal record, unable to get work anywhere else. Even having a Day Labor Center was meant to ensure that everyone had a chance and that they were paid at least minimum wage, but the social gulf was too wide to bridge. With few exceptions, the contractors viewed the workers no more than a tool or an animal that was needed to do a task. The wage that was paid was simply a cost of doing business.

I don't own my own business, and I don't ever intend to, but I guarantee that if I'm ever in need of a day laborer, I will do my best to add dignity to the person that I hire. I don't have a solution for how this system works, and I'm glad a I got picked up that day and got that extra cash I was hoping for, but the lesson that I learned in valuing people and the need to extend humanity and dignity to everyone I come in contact with was priceless.