Remembering my parents and their role in the labor movement on this Labor Day
Another Labor Day is here, and once again I will be thinking of my father, who spent most of his adult life in support of the labor movement. Coincidentally, he also died on Labor Day weekend some 22 years ago.
My father worked initially as a construction worker (a metal lather to be exact, a profession that is pretty much now extinct, thanks to drywall). Working daily in construction is not easy, and back then if you did not work, you did not get paid. This could be problematic if there was a strike.
I distinctly recall a warm summer afternoon when my father came home early from work — never a good sign. He informed my mother that a strike was in place and there was no indication on how long it might last. For some reason, my mother took her tears out front and sat on our porch steps wondering out loud how the family was going to make ends meet. The answer, it seems, came from next door, where my grandmother lived. She had been witnessing the entire scene and told my parents she would assist if need be.
During this time, my father never lost faith in the union. He voted for Democrats because he believed they looked out for the common man, and we boycotted most products made by nonunion companies or, God forbid, companies that once were union but changed to the “dark side.”
The family dynamics changed in and around 1976 when my father decided to run for the position of business agent of his local. A victory would mean he would no longer work on the job but in an office. We anxiously waited by the door for him to return home on the night of the election, and finally about 9:30 he pulled up in the driveway to tell us he had, in fact, won. We went out into the backyard to celebrate that summer evening. My mother wept again, only this time there were tears of joy.
My father then proceeded to tell us about the election at his local. He had defeated a man who went by the name of Abe — because, as you might guess, he resembled Abe Lincoln. It seems Abe was not at all pleased with the election, saying the results had been rigged, and he demanded a recount. My father said he left that evening only to see Abe in the parking lot, down to his underwear shirt, threatening to fight anyone who disagreed with his election analysis. There would be no recount.
In his new job as a union rep, my father would usually go once a year to a national convention. He enjoyed the filet mignon and top shelf liquor at those conventions but could not help but feel guilty, thinking of the hard days he and his co-workers had spent on scaffolds out on many a construction site.
And even though my father was now working in an office, his years out on the job would seemingly catch up with him. At some point, both he and mother were diagnosed with “asbestosis,” due to my father’s contact with asbestos while on the job. (The conventional wisdom was that my mother was also exposed while washing my father’s work clothes). Making this situation all the more worse was that both of my parents smoked, and the combination of asbestos and cigarette smoking was, to put it mildly, not good.
It was not long after this, my dad and mother started receiving checks in the mail as part of the broad lawsuit
related to asbestosis exposure. But sadly it was also about the same time my mother was operated on for lung cancer. She passed away in 1988. I spent the night at my parents’ house the night before her funeral and was awoken in the middle of the night by my father sobbing, calling out my mother’s name. Seems no check or any amount of money could take away his grief.
My father remained on the job until 1996, the same year he was diagnosed with leukemia. We asked the doctor at Johns Hopkins a key question when we were at the hospital: What made the chromosome — which was apparently responsible for his disease — go rogue? The doctor answered, “We live in a hostile environment.”
My dad passed away in 2000. A year after his death, I decided to invite a few friends and family members to the school I work at for a memorial mass and dinner. The school was undergoing some minor construction at the time, and I was irritated to find the only open door to the school chapel somewhat blocked by a construction scaffold. I tried to move it but had no luck. We all could enter but had to awkwardly walk under it. Coincidence? Perhaps. Was the scaffold a sign of my dad’s presence? I think so, and, of course, it was Labor Day weekend.
I am not exactly sure if my parents would like some of these snapshots of their past shared in such a public manner. But their struggles were real, and not unlike countless others in this country who work hard and hope to have just enough to make ends meet.
I will be thinking of them all on this Labor Day weekend.