Audacity

by Melanie Crowder

  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