The Way I See It: Perspectives on the Labor Movement From the People in It
A few days later I received a phone call in the middle of the afternoon from a union rep, an older Italian guy, at another local. He’s never called me. He asked a silly question. His voice slurred just a bit. At first I was annoyed. I imagined him sitting with a bottle and a shot glass. There was no noise in the background. I’d watched him get arrested for civil disobedience at a rally, his beer belly bulging out of his t-shirt, a baseball cap cocked backwards on his gray crewcut, his face beaming all the way to the paddy wagon. For that memory alone I gave him some time on the phone to chat in the middle of a busy afternoon. He told me about his dad, a flat janitor in the days when you got the basement apartment with the job. If your daddy lost his job, your family lost its home. He told me about the parents of the other children, who scolded them if they played with the janitor’s kid. He didn’t understand it then, he said. He didn’t understand it now. I closed my eyes to the piles of paper on my desk. He told me of how he and his dad signed up janitors for the union one at a time, all across the city. Each one who signed risked the roof over his head, each one knew the risk was worth it, to win a few more bucks a week, and maybe a little respect along the way.
“If you make people happy they will produce more for you. Here the foreman looks at you–bad–I’ve been here 20-30 years. Who cares? I’m a person like anyone else. Because I’m higher I’m not better. . . . What you gonna do? They don’t make you feel like a human being.” Hospital worker at a union membership meeting.
He gave me that story like a gift. For a moment no phones rang, no intercoms buzzed, no pagers beeped. It was a good moment, a voice needing to talk, a willing ear. After a while I sighed, knowing our time was up. “It’s been good talking, brother. Thanks for the call.”
When I hung up I looked around my office, at grievance forms scattered around, file folders, stickers and posters, leaflets and union cards. I felt like I was looking at two mirrors facing each other and the millions of reflections going back as far as I could see. I took a deep breath, and when I exhaled, that tightness in my chest from the weight of what hasn’t yet been accomplished was suddenly gone. I am one of those millions of images, and the image wasn’t so despicable after all. Maybe we have always been here, and having been here we have given this movement the soul it might have otherwise lost.
” . . . . if they don’t take care of members, there’s nothing to organize for. Business agents are not taking care of members. I wish I had a crystal ball . . . . We lack representation. We’re not out representing workers. Instead of sitting in offices, we should be in the employers’. . . . I can’t stand people not being out there. We need to emphasize representing members. I can’t sleep if I go home with a paycheck and haven’t seen members in months. They’re paying my salary. Some [members] are so frustrated. ‘They NEVER do anything. Union this, union that.’ I sit with my mouth shut and say, ‘let me show you.’ We’re going the wrong way if we don’t represent members that are here.” Union rep.