by Bill Bailey
Two days later we read in the Maui newspaper that the governor was urging the men on the island of Maui to return to work immediately. Some "hotheads" were being blamed for the strike. Nowhere was there mention of the conditions on the plantations or the reason for the strike. The governor was definitely on the side of the planters. This was no great surprise to me.
Fagel was becoming bewildered by the complex problems arising from the strike. The strikers were running out of money and Fagel had to shell out some dough from time to time to meet some of the essential needs of the strikers. He didn't like that too much. The strikers asked him questions he could not answer, and many times he provided the wrong answers form the top of his head. If only I could have relayed my thoughts to the men directly, I knew their ranks would have held solid. I had the feeling that Fagel never interpreted correctly my answers to their questions. The frustration kept my stomach in continuous turmoil. I could not argue with Fagel in front of the men. It was my duty to put up a good front with him in front of the men, as weak as he may have been as a leader. After all, he was their leader.
I was posting a letter at the post office when a man introduced himself to me. "Bill Bailey? My name's Clem Crowell. I'm the sheriff here. I don't know whose job is worse, yours or mine. But I'm pleased to meet you." He was an easy-going man with a nice manner about him. I might have expected some hostility from a sheriff whose territory was shut down by a strike, but not from Crowell. We exchanged pleasantries in the few minutes we stood together. Then he said, "Bill, I don't know about you, but I hate violence. The men have a lot of confidence in your word, and I'd like to share that confidence. I'll work with you and the men on strike any way I can, if you'll work with me and give me your word that you'll sit on any hotheads who want to create violence. Can I get your promise?"
I told him there should be no need for violence because it was self-defeating. If violence were to take place, it would not come from our ranks. We shook hands and went our separate ways.
Aside from the regular patrols which we organized to monitor activity around the plantations and the relief committee, we found little else for the men to do. They went fishing or lolled around town. It distressed me to see this mass of men doing nothing when it was a perfect opportunity to educate them in the class struggle. It was impossible for me to attempt it.
The small Island newspaper had handled the strike with a small item which read, "Puunene One and Two are experiencing some labor difficulties." There was not one word about the reasons for the strike or the number of men involved. On that same page was a headline: "Moscow Prepares for May Day."
An idea took hold of me. "We'll have a May Day parade on May 1st," I told Fagel.
"And what is May 1st?" he asked, surprised.
"It's International Workers' Day, the biggest day for the working man, when we lock arms around the world in solidarity with our brothers. It's a day to display our banners and proclaim our aims and make the bosses shudder. In every corner of the world men and women will be parading. Why not right here? It's the perfect place."
"I don't know if the sheriff will allow us to parade. We'll have to get a permit. What if he refuses?" asked Fagel.
"Look," I said. "When you have a couple of thousand people who want to parade, you don't ask for a permit. You just parade. It's as simple as that."
The message went out. Strikers and their friends would gather at strike headquarters at ten in the morning on May 1st for a parade. We purchased paintbrushes, ink and placard material. All night we cut placards, painted them and nailed them to sticks. I wrote out the messages on paper while the other men busied themselves painting the slogans. No one complained about the work; they found it meaningful and pleasing. I had all I could do dreaming up slogans: "Give us justice or return us to the Philippines; Eight hours a day is enough; Let the governor cut cane; Solidarity forever; Celebrate International Workers' Day; Mules enjoy better working conditions; Unions are the workers' best protection." All these had to be translated to Tagalog.
We studied the route we were going to take and wondered about the endurance of the workers. The plan was to start in Waikiki and march through the town on a good highway. From there we would continue to Kahului. An open-air meeting in the baseball field was to end the march. The parade might take several hours and tax the frail bodies of some of the workers. We made preparations for some cars to follow behind and pick up any marcher who could not endure the long walk.
On May 1st I awoke after two hours of sleep feeling as if my head were encased in cement. I was worried. Had the workers gotten the message from the runners? Would they turn out for a long, grueling march of over two hours? Had I done the right thing? What if only a few showed up--should we march? How would the bosses view all this? I walked out into the bright sunlight and my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. It was an hour before the start of the parade and the street was crowded with smiling faces awaiting the word to form ranks and march.
"Where's the band?" I shouted. A four-piece band was rushed into the small overcrowded room. Did they know "Solidarity Forever"? Did they know "Joe Hill"? No, no. But they did know "Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here". Something would have to be done quickly. I hummed"Solidarity Forever" and they quickly picked up on it. I would have given my right arm to hear them play the "Marseillaise" or the"International" but both were too difficult to learn on short notice. Also, I doubted if theses workers understood the meaning of such songs.
The call went out to form ranks. "Hey, Bill," I heard a voice call. It was Sheriff Crowell. "This is highly unusual," he said.
"It's an unusual time," I replied.
"You know you're supposed to have a permit from my office to have a parade?"
"Maybe so, but all this happened so fast that we simply forgot to get one."
"That may be true, but you're breaking the law just the same," he said.
"Look Sheriff Crowell. You and I pledged each other that there would be no violence. Do you want me to tell this crowd of 3,000 people that they can't parade? That's what this parade is all about--cutting out the violence. It's a better way to show their wrath against injustices than through violence, right?"
"Maybe so, maybe so. Okay, I see your point. But do me one favor, please," he said.
"What's that?"
"Will you get rid of that sign that says `Mules are treated better by the planters'?"
"Okay, sheriff. But you and I know the mule has it made on the plantations."
We stepped out into the main street of Waikuku as the band struck up "Solidarity Forever". The sidewalks were lined with people clapping and smiling as the ranks filled with men, women and children. Leading the parade was a pretty, young Filipina girl, the daughter of one of the strikers. She was followed by a ten-foot banner which stretched across the roadway proclaiming, "May 1st, International Workers' Day" and myself, Fagel and three thousand workers. We were already two blocks down the main street and I could not see the end of the parade. The sun was unmerciful and sweat streamed down our faces.
Our little band was ecstatic as they crucified "Solidarity Forever" and "Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here". All traffic on the highway came to a stop as all watched, maybe for the first time, a streaming mass of workers parading in protest. Every half mile the Hawaiian Planters' Association had their stooges out, tabulating the number of marchers and taking pictures. In back of the parade several cars joined in to pick up tired marchers or bring up water.
Word had gotten to the people in Kahului that we were coming. They lined the streets to welcome us as we entered town. We marched into the ball park and held our meeting. History had been made. May Day in the Islands traditionally was celebrated as Lei Day, an adoration of flowers. Now we had given it a new meaning, a meaning more important than placing flowers on a pedestal. The parade did wonders for morale. Some of the strikers were so excited in recognizing their own strength that they wanted to have a parade once a week. I doubted if my flat feet could have wi
thstood the punishment.
I received word from Ed Berman in Honolulu that an agent of the National Labor Relations Board was flying to Maui to see what could be done to settle the strike. According to Berman he was a good guy, liberal and pro-union. He arrived in Maui and spent several hours meeting with the planters, listening to what they considered their limitations.
It was late in the evening when I arrived back after a trip to Lahaina. I received word that this guy wanted to see me. "As far as the record goes," he said, "we never met and this conversation never took place, okay?"
I agreed.
"I've had two sessions with the planters. They're not inclined to give an inch an anything. They're not worried about the crop since it's in the growing stage and not in danger. Maybe a month from now they'll be worried, but now, no. They're preparing to ask the governor for the use of WPA workers to enter the fields if necessary. That we don't need.
"Now, they made an offer. Not a big one, but an offer nonetheless. They will go for three cents more an hour and agree to recognize a workers' representative on the plantations. Maybe, if we're lucky, I could get them up to five cents an hour. Between you and me, I don't think there's a chance in hell to get any more from them.
"Fagel knows about this offer since I talked to him earlier today, but he hasn't said one word like yes or no. I have to get some answers by tomorrow noon, otherwise I fly back to Honolulu. Setting up another meeting with the planters may be hard to do."
On my way to headquarters I gave the situation a lot of thought. Of course three cents more an hour was not the greatest victory. But for the plantation barons to accept a workers' representative on the plantations was a gigantic step forward. The more I thought about it, the more enthusiastic I felt. When I arrived, Fagel was telling his buddies that under no circumstances would he accept such a settlement. He felt the men should hold out for at least 20 cents more an hour; the question of a workers' representative was not as important in the long run as a big wage increase, he said.
I entered the debate and explained how important the recognition of a representative was. Wasn't this strike touched off by the planters' dismissing someone who had declared himself a shop steward? With the recognition of union representation on the plantations he, Fagel, would have his right-hand men in a position to properly organize the ranks for a broader walkout in six months. True, the three-cent increase might not buy a lot of rice, but it was a recognition by the planters that the workers meant business and were a force to be reckoned with. Aside from that, no one knew what the situation would be like a month from now when the work force was needed in the fields to burn and harvest the cane. We could proclaim this a victory and use it to organize dozens of other plantations on the other islands. I told Fagel and the men it was their strike and the decision was up to them. It was, however, my belief that it would be to their advantage to grab the offer, go back to work, and organize in the near future for a bigger and better strike.
Fagel would have no part of it. No, he said, I know we can get 20 cents more an hour, maybe 25 cents. The NLRB man flew back to Honolulu. The strike went on.
For the next five days Fagel and I spoke very little. Every time I saw him, the worried look on his face grew heavier. Some of his close supporters he kept around were no longer bursting with enthusiasm. The numbers of men coming to headquarters daily for information began to diminish.
I realized that my effectiveness now was limited. I was wasting my time and eating the strikers' rice to boot. There were a lot of things I could be doing in Honolulu. I told Fagel there was not much more I could do and that I was going back to Honolulu, but if he needed me I would make myself available. That night I sailed back to Honolulu, feeling sorry for the strikers and hating myself for not being able to communicate with them better.
Two weeks later several strikers noticed one of their members busy at work in a field close to the roadway. They attempted to talk him into rejoining their ranks. He refused. The strikers pounced on him, chaining his feet and hands and putting him in the trunk of their car. They drove him to strike headquarters. There they again talked to him about rejoining the ranks, with the promise that they would unchain him and allow him to go back to his family if he did. He agreed and the chains came off. He immediately went to the sheriff and reported his story, and nine strikers were arrested for kidnapping.
Back in Honolulu I tried to catch up on things. I wrote a series of articles for some mainland labor papers urging support for the strikers.
The local newspapers were carrying stories about the war in Spain. One story told of men joining an International Brigade; they were already facing action on a front defending Madrid. Men from nearly every country in the world were fighting on the Loyalist side, including many from the United States. I could feel every fiber in my body react when I read the news about Spain. At last something concrete was being done to stop the ever-increasing advance of fascism. If they could defeat fascism in Spain, it could be defeated anywhere. Spain was on my mind every waking hour of the day.
I went about the usual routine of meeting with people, trying to draw people together, trying to cut through years of ethnic suspicion and bitterness on the parts of some groups against others. Right now the strikers on Maui needed all the support they could get. In spite of promises by Fagel, he did not remain communicative.
I picked up the morning paper, the Star Bulletin. The headline, "Alleged Labor Leader Faces Ten Years in Prison" caught my eye. Naturally I was interested in who this "alleged leader" was and what he had done to face ten years in prison. I was shocked to read that the "alleged labor leader" was Bill Bailey! The story mentioned speeches made to plantation workers that violated the Criminal Syndicalism Act. Such speeches, stated the article, "called upon the workers to commit violence. All the speeches were recorded verbatim, and the reports are now on the desk of the District Attorney, who will decide whether to issue a warrant for Bailey's arrest."
I wasn't that disturbed; this was part of the game and a risk one took for having convictions. Since they had not been able to stop me on other occasions, this would simply be another try at the old game of silencing me.
Later that afternoon somebody knocked at my door. I opened it to see a uniformed cop whom I knew from his beat along the waterfront. He wasn't as bad as most Honolulu cops tended to be at that time. "Bill," he said. "I have something to tell you. I have it from a good source that the D.A. is going to lower the boom on you. I also hear that the Lurline arrives in port tomorrow, then sails Saturday for San Francisco. If you're not on that ship, the D.A. intends to have you arrested."
That night I met with my group and relayed the news. "Look," I said. "I don't give a damn if they throw the book at me and throw away the key after they lock me up. If you guys want me to stay and fight it out, that's good enough for me. It's up to you."
To a man they were opposed to my staying and risking jail. They felt that they had learned enough about organizing to take it from there. If the Hawaiian planters and the Big Five were determined to throw me in prison, it would be done. No lawyer practicing in the Islands would dare stick his neck out to defend me. Better take off, they told me. You've made your contribution; it's up to us now.
I was sad to leave the Islands and all the wonderful friends I had made. I would always cherish the time I had spent in Hawaii, but already I had my sights set on Spain. It compensated for whatever I had left behind. One thing I did not realize at the time was that the nucleus I had left behind would one day make the Hawaiian Islands one of the strongest bastions of unionized labor. If I played only a small part in this development, I was happy.
Chapter XXI: Journey to War in Spain
It was nice to be back in my favorite city of strong unions and old friends. I would have no time to waste in San Francisco. My first task was to find all the information I needed to get to Spain. While looking up some old friends, I found out they had already reached New York on their way to Spain. I met some Par
ty comrades, expressed my desire and the machinery was put into motion to get me on my way. I would have to obtain my passport, which was easy. All I needed was a few dollars for some photos and the cost of the passport.
At the passport office I worked on my application form. "Where do you intend to go?" was one of the questions on the form.
"Paris," I wrote, "to attend the Paris Exhibition."
"What is your occupation?" read the form.
"Studen," I wrote. I signed the application and handed the money and pictures to the young man behind the counter. He read the application and neatly added a "t" to "studen." He looked up at me and smiled and said, "Don't forget to keep your head down."
In the week I spent waiting for my passport, I wrote several long articles for the Western Worker, the West Coast Party newspaper, about the workers' lives in Hawaii.
Almost every week, five or ten men from the West Coast would depart from San Francisco for New York, then Spain. When my passport arrived, there was a big inscription printed across the first page, "Not valid for travel in Spain." After a few warm handshakes and last minute instructions on whom to contact in New York, I was on the Greyhound bus as it headed east. There were five of us on that bus heading for Spain. Two comrades had come down from Seattle, one from Portland and two of us from the San Francisco Bay Area. Our limited funds for traveling allowed for nothing more than hamburgers and coffee for the next five days across the United States. The bus stopped for a ten-hour wait in Chicago. That suited me fine; I had a chance to see Pele. It seemed like centuries since I had last seen her.
I took off for Pele's home while my four pals roamed around Chicago taking in the sights. She met me warmly and introduced me to her parents. Her mother had prepared a wonderful Hungarian meal. I sat at the table like a 14-year-old schoolboy looking across at Pele, trying to communicate with her. She seemed distant. Her good manners, if one may call them such, told her to wait until I had at least eaten my meal before telling me the bad news. "I'm getting married," she said as one might say, "It's a beautiful day" or "Pass the salt."
