Homage to the Filipino Worker

I’ve been observing the manner of Filipinos working upon their allotted tasks with uncomplaining purpose and energy. Many of the jobs would be considered humble, even demeaning to Western eyes. Despite toiling in uncomfortable and frequently unsafe conditions, their demeanour remains the same. This is not to discredit the occupational safety standards and conditions we enjoy in the West – rather focussing on the way we do what we do.

How many of us have an ungrateful attitude to our work, or forebear the complaints of workmates griping about the hours, the pay, being taken for granted, this or that slight upon our precious integrity? Colleagues who dress for work as though having rolled out of bed and into the workplace. We’ve grown used to the slack-jawed, resentful eye-roll of the shop attendant who should have gotten a better job, if only… The pierced and tattooed, more at home in a nightclub than having to provide a service to a plebeian. Sooo uncool!

Heather’s mum, Trish, had a saying that sums it up:

“If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.”

Our family encountered a bus conductor on our journey between Bataan and Cubao, Manila. 

To the Filipino worker, we humbly submit this poem:

                                                 He Came From Calaguiman

Five foot ten and three quarters,

Hair coiffed with military precision,

A hint of perspiration adorns his brow.

Bright eyes purposefully survey his domain,

New customers – he approaches.

Starched white uniform,

Ironed to a crisp point at the sleeves.

A gold-buckled, black leather dress-belt atop shimmering shark-skin trousers.

Sawn-off winkle-pickers promoted to a high polish,

Complete the ensemble.

“Where to m'am, sir?” (faultless English)

We gargle our most presentable Tagalog,

Conveying our destination.

He smiles.

Not a condescending or patronising smile,

Simply the smile of one who knows.

Impeccably manicured hands sweep through a bank of tickets.

It was then that we first saw the clippers.

To the uninitiated something resembling heavy-duty nail scissors, 

But in the hand of a master…

Whipped from its holster beneath the uniform and whirled into position,

He dispatches each ticket with a staccato symphony.

The clippers blur as four tickets are deftly fashioned.

Adult/child, date, pick-up time, destination, kilometres to be travelled,

Hundred, ten and unit pesos – all clipped, all recorded.

An origami of indentation.

Had he blown blue smoke from between their metal teeth,

It would not have seemed out of place,

As the clippers twirled again and were gone -

Returning to nestle snugly in their holster.

But this was no show pony –

His art demanded no audience or appreciation.

After all, he’d just sold four tickets.