I must have shed
my greenhorn skin
nonetheless.
temporary
I miss another English class
to attend a meeting
in a smoky union hall.
I am not the only girl
in attendance
but nearly so.
When I take my turn
to speak
it is as if all those long days
at the shop
all those years
of being told that a girl
cannot speak up
speak out
against a man
spill out of me
like a river
overflowing its banks.
I say,
We need representation.
We are made to work
long weeks—seventy hours
or more.
I say,
They do not allow us
to use the restroom
when we need it.
I say,
(even though it makes a flush
rise in my face)
They touch us
in inappropriate ways.
I say,
They lock the door
from the outside
so we cannot escape.
What if there was a fire?
I say,
There is no place for us
to hang our hats.
The men laugh at this
and use the break
in my words
to say:
We are concerned
with elevating conditions
for the working
man.
Girls are temporary workers
who could never be relied upon
to stand fast
in a long, drawn-out strike.
If you do not like your lot
perhaps you should
stay home.
Get a husband
to work for you.
Snickering
and taunts
ring in my ears.
My neck
pulses
with heat.
Temporary.
Of all their words, that is the one
that burns;
is that not exactly my plan—
to stay only as long as it takes
to pass the exams
to earn my college scholarship?
I feel a tap on my shoulder.
A girl with russet hair
and a long hawk-like nose
leans forward
and says,
You know they only say that
to make you give up
go away
quit pestering them.
She lifts a single eyebrow
as if to say,
Well,
did it work?
She thrusts a hand over my shoulder
and shakes mine
vigorously.
Pauline,
she says
by way of introduction.
Walk with me.
At the next meeting
we wear neckties over our blouses
part our hair
slick it back
in a fashion that is severe
serious,
masculine.
We settle into our seats
make ourselves comfortable,
and I say again
what I have come to say
but stronger this time
for my voice
is not alone.
talk
When I came to this country
I walked the winter sidewalks,
my breath lighting the way before me
in bright white bursts,
with only the brisk swishing of skirts
and the stamp
of thousands of boots
walking beside me
for conversation.
Now I talk
as I walk
between the vendors
wheeling pushcarts brimming
with a late crop of filberts,
gourds, crates of fresh eggs
into place,
I step over gutters
running with ice-cold water
that smells of day-old fish,
sidle up to the girls
on either side of me.
Is there a union
in your shop?
I say,
What would you ask for
if there were?
I am going tonight,
to petition
for a union of our own.
Will you join me?
fired (again)
When the shop doors open
in the morning
all the other girls file inside.
The foreman shoves me from the lintel
shouts something in English,
spits in my face
slams the shop door.
I wipe my skin clean
with a corner of my skirt,
my head ringing
with the one word
I understood:
union.
I feel like a sapling
torn out at the roots
just when I was beginning
to reach
toward the sky.
tar beach
If there is one good thing
about being fired
it is the chance to see
the shy winter sun.
My mind turns over the words
I will need for the exams
while I sit by the window
help Mama
with her piecework,
while Marcus studies in the parlor.
At noon,
I take my lunch
up to the tar-slicked roof.
On days like this,
with no wind
to sully
or scatter the cloth,
the roof is a quilt of blankets;
women working
a baby in the lap
a square of lace
in their hands.
I find an empty corner
close my eyes
tilt my face toward the sky.
I savor the chance to eat a hot meal
for once,
dipping hard bread into my bowl of
steaming soup.
I imagine the sun
soaking into the pores
of the skin
on my face
filling them,
filling me
with light.
scratch
In the classroom
desks are planted like rows
of cold crops
awaiting the spring;
pencils scratch
scribble
a stopwatch ticks the minutes down.
Numbers march across the page
in ordered, predictable sets.
If only all the exams
could be as easy as this.
speak
Mama and I
prepare the dinner
wash the linens
scrub the floor
and walls.
When at last
we have a break
in our work,
I walk
to the garment union headquarters,
say
what I have come to say
&nbs
p; over
and over
and over
again.
We have a right
to representation,
same as you.
We are workers
we have rights,
same as you.
I guarantee,
they will grow tired of me
before I ever stop saying
what I have come to say.
waiting
Rainwater runs,
funneling down coal-stained bricks
dripping off the eaves
in a steady stream
while I drum
my fingers
against the foggy pane.
It was only spelling,
I tell myself,
and elementary arithmetic.
I could have passed
even if the exams
were given in Greek.
twenty-five
We pushed
demanded
insisted
and the male leadership
at the union
finally,
finally gave in.
The announcement can hardly be heard
above the whistles and shouts and stomping feet:
We did it!
We have a local of our own!
The International Ladies’
Garment Workers’ Union
Local 25.
My eyes turn to glass
relief floods out of me
prickling like electric currents
in my fingertips.
I have only been in this country two years
but quickly, I learned
you have to fight for what you want
you have to take what you need.
somersaults
I stand outside the union office
for a moment
tuck my hair
behind my ear
pinch some color
into my cheeks
while I wait for my insides
to quit
their somersaults.
When I swing through the door
I am stunned
by the lack
of noise
by the presence
of light.
This,
this is what a workplace should be.
We look across the table at one another
seven women
six men
this small
but determined force
that would shake the very foundation
this city was built upon;
tear it down
and build it up again.
I sign my name
pay my dues
cup my membership card
as if I held a hatchling
in my hands.
Executive Board Member
This will only earn me more attention
from the bosses
when I go looking for work
at a new shop;
in this battle I never intended to join
I have officially
taken a side.
This card is my
sharp
shot
across the bow.
disorderly
If I am to represent my union
if I am to be taken seriously
I cannot dress in old-world rags
anymore.
I dip into my savings
just a little
for a shirtwaist
a smart skirt
new stockings
a hat
and a pair of boots
that fit.
I march across town
wait on the sidewalk
for the girls to be let out
of the worst shop
in the city.
I am sure
once or twice
I spot tawny wings flitting
at the edge of my sight
and out of view.
The workers take the circulars
I offer them
though it does nothing
to lift the haggard
hanging of their heads
the defeated
dim look in their eyes.
A policeman grabs me from behind
my papers flutter
to the ground.
Let go of me!
I shout.
I have done nothing wrong!
Disorderly conduct, ma’am,
the officer says.
He hefts me up
into the shadowed maw
of a police wagon.
We lurch away
and I grip the bench
to keep from being thrown to the floor
caked in filth.
I lift my feet up onto the wood beside me
tuck my head between my knees
try to coax
my stunned breath
back.
the beginning
After a few hours
in the dank row of jail cells
called the tombs,
the magistrate issues a stern warning
and I am released.
I thought our local
was the answer;
I thought
if I just made a place
for the girls to go
—a union to hear their grievances
to work on their behalf—
my attention
could return
to my studies
but if there is no justice here,
in the law courts
in the city jails
I am afraid
my fight
is only beginning.
I fired my warning shot
they fired theirs;
it seems
a war
has begun.
fire
1908
New Year’s Eve
In America,
the new year does not begin with Rosh Hashanah,
but on the first day of January.
Last night, a giant ball of light
slid down a flagpole
atop the Times Square Building.
On the ground below
thousands of people whispered wishes
waiters served champagne,
the year 1908
emblazoned in miniature lightbulbs
on battery-powered top hats.
If I have one wish for the new year,
it is only
that I will study harder,
that I will be stronger
that the fight will never leave me,
no matter how hard it gets.
Weisen & Goldstein’s
I walk uptown to West Seventeenth Street
to a modern
airy shop
with new machines
windows to the street
a locker to hang my hat.
I call myself a draper
My hands are small,
I say,
and quick.
The boss says,
I pay ten dollars a week
for my drapers.
I take a breath
to steady my fingers
as I set the pins
sculpt and shape,
make the first
decisive
cut.
poetry
In this shop
division among the workers
/> is carefully cultivated.
A Jewish girl sits in between
two Italian women
so the workers cannot speak
to each other.
A girl making three dollars a week
sits beside another
making three times
her wage.
At lunch,
when we are free to mingle and chat
with whomever we choose
division of another kind
emerges:
clusters of quiet conversation
form around the worktables
one for the men
one for the Italian women
one for the Jewish women
trading recipes
prayers asking forgiveness
for working on Shabbos
one for the girls saving their pennies
for tickets to the theater
to watch Vera Komissarzhevskaya
in one of Chekhov’s plays.
I sit with the girls warming their hands by the stove
reading from a book of Ibsen’s poems.
The words
keep my mind
humming
all afternoon.
the bottom line
In between lectures
on the way to union meetings
Pauline is teaching me about commerce:
pressure
competition
sweat.
The links in the chain
that connect
the consumer looking
to purchase a clean white shirtwaist
demanding
a lower price from
the clerk in the storefront looking
to move his family to a better part of town
demanding
a lower price from
the owner of the garment shop looking
to put food on the table
demanding
a lower price from
the cotton farmer.
In the chain of exalted commerce
each link sweats the one below.
And who suffers?
The workers.
Stripped
drained
bled
dry as the barren
cotton-wasted soil.
trouble
A modern shop
comes with its own
set of troubles.
There are windows
but they are locked.
There are new machines
but with them
we are expected to produce
twice as much.
The foreman
takes the same liberties
the boss
expects the same long hours
the floor
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