318. May 30, 1935: A Letter Typed
“Dear Mr. Roosevelt:
Sir, I’ll route this request
Through proper channels.
With your consent,
I’m also writing you.
First may I express
Appreciation:
Come last month, I’ve worked here
For three years.
I heard your first speech
On radio.
Next day, I went in.
Said: I want to work
For him.
I’m with Relief, Rural,
South Plains Office.
You remember
How we started out,
Relief Division–
No rules, no procedures,
Bedlam reigned.
I can see her still,
Our Supervisor,
First day, statewide meeting,
I arrived.
Hundreds of us,
Fumbling with those forms–
For Home Visits,
Change of Situation,
Medical Emergency of Minor,
Grocery Order,
Residence Appraisal,
Birth of Applicant,
Death of Applicant–
Fresh from the ditto room,
The ink still wet–
State forms, D.C., local.
We were frantic, wild
To get these straight.
Some girls broke down crying–
We were green,
Instructions made no sense–
Line B Here,
Subtract Lines C and A,
Tally Income,
Multiply Dependents.
I can see it–
Rows of folding chairs–
Miss Claire in charge,
Sailing to and fro,
Bending down, with us all
Shouting questions.
In between
The adding and subtracting,
Papers, beige, brown, blue–
‘Page Two’s missing? Two?’
She’d proclaim, head
Floating down the row:
‘Winter’s here
Before you know it–so
Clients need blankets, girls!
Move them out! Use
Warehouse Form, in gray!
Autumn’s on us–
Yes, I know, Page Two–
Move those first week’s groceries!
Office will okay
Delays in forms–
Keep your carbons–
Move those blankets out!
We’ll accept–girls, move those
First week’s groceries.
I want blankets out there,
Right away!’
Looking back,
She should have had a medal.
These days, sir, of course,
Those forms are mine.
I’m quick to catch on,
If nothing else–I know
‘Income Guidelines’
Better than my face.
Lately I dream forms,
Till I can’t sleep.
I mail two, three hundred out
Each month.
But, it seems
No matter what I send….
Sir, you know that old hymn,
‘Feed My Sheep.’
Not a Catholic hymn,
From way back home–
My mind wanders more and more
To Boston–
But I hear it sung
In churches here.
Well, last Sunday morning,
I’d heard that one,
As I drove off north,
To county seat.
Humming it,
I shook off my blue mood.
I’d a suitcase
Packed full with those forms,
All in order.
Then I looked ahead.
I saw children–five, six–
In the field.
Sisters, brothers–
Sir, I recognized them,
Clients, mine–
You’ll forgive me
If I keep their name–
Well, they’re out there,
Grazing,
On all fours.
Hands and knees.
Like a little herd.
I’d known that their teeth
Had all gone bad, and
Little food, but….
Sir, their father
Hasn’t held a job,
Since I don’t know when.
First he tried,
Drove here and there,
But now–
He sits. There’s really
Nothing out there. But
If I hear of yardwork, something,
Tell him–
He laughs. But it doesn’t
Sound like human laughing.
He’s not old.
It’s over for him, sir.
He’ll never work.
He drinks. Best thing
To say for him, he never
Hits the kids.
In my head, a voice:
Where did I fail?
Voices:
What’s the point?
What’s the point?
How I’d like to shake him….
For them, too, it’s over,
I’m afraid.
They’re not really mine, I see,
These children.
I see it more clear.
What would I do,
Even if they were?
Mine to care for, but
Not mine to save.
Fields of them!
South Plains Office of them.
A world….
Mr. Roosevelt, as of June tenth,
I hereby tender,
With greatest respect,
My resignation
As a Supervisor
In the South Plains Office,
Division of Relief,
State of Texas.
Sincerely,
K. Flynn”
