To the officers, I said, “There’s nothing criminal about a woman taking charge of her own health and well-being.” My voice sounded far too shrill and strident, rather than the firm, decisive one I hoped to project. It only served to make me angrier. “Lewd is what goes on in the upstairs of the Palace and other fine establishments in this town. Why don’t you harass the married men taking their mistresses to private rooms?”
Nellie’s gentleman boarder stepped forward. “Shame on you, shame on all of you. You’ve no call to burst in here and treat these ladies this way.”
The third officer hung back as if he was indeed ashamed of their mission. Probably married and practiced contraception in his home. He would be the one I appealed to for decent treatment, if I could get him alone.
“I’m calling Val’s father right now,” Nellie said. To the policemen’s backs, she shouted, “Mr. Martin works at the Mint and he knows people. You’re going to be sorry for this. Really sorry. Wait and see if you’re not.”
The stocky fellow snorted.
“Very attractive,” I said, as he hustled me down the street. “I grew up in farm country and heard hogs make that very noise.”
How had they known to search my hotel room? Or that I would be at the boarding house? The traitor had to be someone who knew about tomorrow’s meeting. It wasn’t as if it were advertised. Only Nellie’s close friends had been invited. Or was someone shadowing my movements?
Since there was no way my arrest would stay a secret anyway, I would use it to stir up anger against those who would repress our right to understand and control our own bodies.
With effort, I twisted my head back toward the boarding house. “Make sure my arrest gets in the newspapers, Nellie. Call Mindy and Alexandra. Organize the women—we must show strength!”
The arrest made headlines the next day even though I spent only a few hours in jail. I had barely been shoved behind bars, when Mindy Kenneson showed up in a lovely mint green gown and exquisitely styled hair that looked as if she had been ready to go out on the town for the evening. She berated the police quite forcefully, a sight to behold in all her outrage—and she’d dragged a reporter along to make sure my release was known to the public. A photograph was taken of the two of us leaving the jail. The meeting on birth control, however, would be postponed, Mindy said, until after the pottery exhibition.
“Are you sure you want to go ahead with the show after all this bad publicity?” I asked. “Perhaps we should cancel it.”
She linked her arm through mine, her face lit by the happiest of smiles. “I won’t hear of it. We can’t let them win. Besides, everyone in town knows your name now. The gallery will have the grandest turnout ever.”
I couldn’t share her optimism, but she certainly knew the gallery business better than I.
Angie
Clarksburg, West Virginia, 2018
“We are at a critical juncture,” I say, gaining assurance as my voice stays steady, strong, while surveying the teachers and reporters in the meeting room. I feel myself getting comfortable with this leadership role. I only wish Dewey could understand how important fighting for public education has become to me. How it is changing the way I see myself. A leader, not just of children but of adults. Someone who could make a difference in the world outside the classroom.
I lean into the podium. “As you know, some southern counties have staged rolling walkouts the last couple of weeks, but our AFT leadership thinks we should keep negotiating.”
The room erupts with so many protesting voices I can’t keep track of who says what, but it’s impossible to miss the gist: the raise the legislature passed isn’t enough.
“Two percent sucks,” a middle school math teacher says. “We’ve been four years without a raise. Two percent won’t even cover the increase in our health insurance premiums. It actually amounts to a pay cut.”
Eve Carstairs stands, seeming to tower over us with far more than the actual five feet of her height. “He’s right. We’re forty-eighth in the nation in teacher pay. That’s pathetic. The state can do better. It must.”
Someone calls out, “Yeah, no wonder the state can’t find enough teachers. Everyone’s leaving for states that pay more.”
It’s the math teacher again, Rick, I think his name is. “They have to fix our healthcare. Having to wear a Fitbit and reach a certain number of steps or pay a penalty is ridiculous.”
Since I’m still wearing the ankle bootie, I have to agree. I’m sure I’m not the only teacher who would have trouble meeting the proposed requirements.
“That’s only one of the impossible changes they have proposed,” Mrs. Carstairs says. “Under the new schedule, my premiums would skyrocket.”
“So will everyone who has a family covered by our insurance if anyone else in the household works,” Rick says. “My fear is no one is paying attention to all these changes. We have to do something.”
Calls of “Strike!” come from every corner.
I try to restore calm. “The proposed raise isn’t enough, but the governor says he is trying to find more money. AFT wants to continue to negotiate with him.”
Mrs. Carstairs has not given up the floor. “Empty promises. Jim Justice is a billionaire coal baron—what does he know about living on a public employee’s paycheck? If Governor Justice signs that bill into law, we need to walk out.”
Dewey’s job loss, Bella’s hearing, Poppy’s dementia, Rebecca’s bladder problems—all these thoughts tumble through my brain. I have to take a stand. Judging by the temperature in this room, it probably doesn’t matter what I do anyway. The walkout is coming. Especially if Mrs. Carstairs favors it.
Time for a vote. “Let’s see a show of hands of those in favor of walking out if the governor and legislature don’t come up with better numbers?”
As hands shoot up, I raise my own. Four fence-sitters raise their hands, perhaps reluctantly, when they see I support a walkout.
Ron Wilson from the technical school suggests we wait until Rebecca Knight returns to vote. “I don’t think you represent the thinking of our union, no offense, Mrs. Fisher.”
“None taken,” I say, though I am offended, “but Mrs. Knight has every confidence in my assuming this role until she returns next fall. Our union leaders have tried negotiating and haven’t gotten results. A walkout is the next logical step.”
Wilson shouts, “What kind of role models are we for students if we break the law?”
“Role models who stand up for education,” says Mrs. Carstairs, “for our students.”
You tell him, Mrs. Carstairs. I feel myself leaping into the spirit of this protest.
Wilson won’t give up. “I saw on Facebook that we aren’t going to get paid if we strike. I can’t get along without my paycheck.”
“None of us could, but that’s not true,” I say. “All the school superintendents have decided to close schools if there’s a strike and not dock our pay. We’ll probably make up the missed days at the end of the year. That’s straight from the source, not a silly rumor on social media.”
Wilson isn’t buying it.
“Our country and our state have a long history of public protest and strikes,” says a young man I recognize as a Liberty High social studies teacher, “from the Boston Tea Party to the coal wars in Matewan.”
Mrs. Carstairs adds, “Civil disobedience as practiced by Thoreau.”
It’s the social studies teacher’s turn again. “This is a teachable moment, a chance for students to see history being made, my friends.”
“Well, let’s make some history then.” I bang the gavel and the meeting is over, but the hard work is just beginning. I talk briefly with the reporters present and then shoot off emails to other AFT and WVEA chapters to see where their members stand and to let them know what’s going on in Harrison County. Clusters of teachers hang around talking about the next steps: making posters and organizing carloads to drive to Charleston. I suggest a poster-making party at my home after dinner for
anyone interested. Mrs. Carstairs volunteers to bring supplies.
I call home to let the family know we’ll have guests.
Dewey answers. “That’s just great, Angie. Like it isn’t crowded enough here.”
“It’ll only be for a little while.”
“I’m going to remind you once again how much this family is counting on your income. I heard the state may not pay you for days missed.”
“That’s not true.”
He’s planted a seed of doubt in my mind again, so I call Mr. Esposito to scope him out on the strike. He has already discussed the possibility of a walkout with the county superintendent and reaffirms that we won’t be docked pay for our absence.
In 1990, our pay had been docked, but no one else depended on my salary for food. I picketed outside the school during the strike. We succeeded in boosting teacher pay from forty-ninth in the nation to thirty-first. We won better services for students and better training for teachers to impact the quality of education across the state. We want no less this time.
When I get home, Dewey isn’t there. Mom says he left in a huff after seeing me on the evening news. That sick feeling in my stomach returns and I wonder if our marriage will survive the strike. Am I doing the right thing?
Trish, though, is beaming as if I’d been selected for a mission to the moon. “You’re famous, Mom.”
Have to admit, I am sort of proud. I made it through the meeting and reporters’ questions without my knees knocking at all.
Trish plants a kiss on my cheek. “You did good.”
“You bet she did,” Mom says. “She comes from a long line of strong women.”
“True.” I turn to my daughter. “Did you know a famous suffragist is in our family tree? She helped California women get the right to vote—ten years before the nineteenth amendment gave all women that right.”
Trish pops a chocolate chip cookie in her mouth, chewing and talking simultaneously. “Change starts with one person willing to stand up—that’s you, Mom.”
“Change may start with one person, but strength comes from numbers. From what I’m hearing, all fifty-five counties will walk out if the governor signs that bill tomorrow as he’s expected to.”
“55 Strong would make a great hashtag,” Trish says.
“Tell me again what a hashtag is,” Mom asks.
I don’t get hashtags either. Facebook I understand. Twitter, not so much, but I guess I’m going to learn if I want us to succeed. There have been a lot of protest movements in the last decade. Occupy Wall Street. Black Lives Matter. Me Too. They have had mixed success, but I think we are different. Those movements had broad, rather vague goals and their members were scattered all over the country. We West Virginia teachers know exactly what we want and we are all centered in one place. We are going to succeed in ways the others have not. I can feel it. I call a local shop that prints tee-shirts and order four dozen with an outline of West Virginia on the front, the word UNITED in all caps and the hashtag #55Strong. I think I can sell at least that many at cost to local teachers. The shop owner’s wife is a cafeteria worker, who will also benefit if our walkout is successful. He agrees to rush the order through immediately and promises they will be ready in the morning even if he has to work all night. “I’ll meet you in the school parking lot in the morning,” he says.
That evening, five teachers from my school, armed with magic markers and poster board, arrive at our house. We commandeer the kitchen table while Mom and Poppy watch sit-coms in the living room. Dewey comes home, sullen-faced with an open beer in hand. He slouches beside Poppy, pretending to watch a sitcom, but his disapproval seeps across the room. After a while, he pops the top on another beer and disappears into the bedroom to stream an episode of Th e Rookie on his laptop.
While the TV blares in rooms to every side of us, we teachers create signs: “The Power of the People is Stronger Than the People in Power,” “Students, Because You’re Mine, I Walk the Line” with a photo of Johnny Cash, “Fix PEIA and 5% Raise.”
On commercial break, Mom comes over to inspect our work. “What’s PEIA?” she asks.
“PEIA is the Public Employees Insurance Agency,” Mrs. Carstairs says. “They administer our health plan.”
I am proud of my sign, block letters filled in with green magic marker: “They tried to bury us. They didn’t know we are seeds.” Th e slogan isn’t entirely original. Other protest groups have used it, but the metaphor speaks to me and I can’t resist co-opting it. I staple an empty packet of lettuce seeds to the poster board.
We finalize plans to meet in the morning in the school parking lot to make the two-hour drive to Charleston. Our local teachers will go down in rotating shifts, some one day and others the next for however long the strike lasts. Around ten, my little gang of sign-making protesters breaks up, driving off into the dark night—though it’s dark any time after six this time of year.
Mom and Poppy have dozed off in their favorite reclining chairs, so I tune into a news channel and catch my brother-in-law, Senator Ted McNeil, making a pitch for charter schools. “Public schools are broken,” he intones. “It’s time to give parents and students another choice.”
“And drain what little funding public schools have!” I shout at the jerk, even though he can’t hear me.
“He’s an ass, always has been,” Trish says. “No wonder Auntie Mac is looking elsewhere.”
I glance at Mom and Poppy. Luckily, they are still snoozing. “Careful, there, Trish. Besides, that picture must have been Photoshopped.”
I still have to pack, and head for our bedroom. Propped up on the bed with his laptop, Dewey ignores me, earbuds tuned into some show. Fine, if that’s the way he wants to play it. From the coffin-sized closet Dewey and I share, I lay out jeans to wear on the ride down, with a blue polo shirt sporting the school logo. Later, I can change into a hashtag tee-shirt if they are really ready first thing in the morning, as promised.
He takes the earbuds out long enough to issue another warning: “It’s either the FBI job or I leave, Angie. With or without you.”
My throat constricts until I think I’ll choke. He’s never said he’d go without me before. It’s the television interview. I knew he wouldn’t like it.
“Dew, what I’m doing isn’t wrong. I can’t think the FBI would withhold a job just because your wife is involved in the strike. Every teacher in the state is involved.”
“It’s illegal for public employees to strike. You are going to break a law and—”
“An unjust law,” I interject.
“The FBI is law enforcement. They frown on breaking the law.”
I can feel my face turn red. “They can’t be that stupid.”
I close the bedroom door behind me and lean against it with my eyes closed. The damn FBI better give him that job because I sure don’t want to live in D. C. Would he really go without me?
I return to the living room, ready to kiss Mom and Poppy good-night when to everyone’s surprise, my sister flings open the front door—dramatically, because that’s how she does everything.
“It’s over,” Mac announces in a voice so loud pictures rattle against the walls. She slams the door behind her and wheels in an over-sized suitcase, a medium-sized suitcase, a garment hanging bag, and overnight bag. “I’ve left Ted.”
Mom blinks until she is fully awake, motors the recliner down, and hitches herself up. Her bones crackle and pop like wood snapping and resettling in a campfire. “Oh, honey, it can’t be that bad.”
That’s Mom, the eternal optimist, the original Miss Sunshine. Me? I’m thinking, What took so long?
MacKenzie starts crying. In Trish’s bedroom the baby starts crying.
If I don’t get some sleep before I have to drive to Charleston, I’m going to cry too. If I think for one minute about living in D.C., I’m going to cry. If I think about Dewey’s threat, I’m going to cry. So I’m not going to think. I’m not going to cry.
Mom folds MacKenzie into her arms
and makes little hushy noises. In the bedroom Trish is making the same sounds to quiet Bella.
“Have you tried counseling?” Mom wants to know.
MacKenzie boohoos even louder. “It’s beyond that.”
“Why don’t you tell us what happened,” I suggest, leading them to the couch while I take a chair.
It takes a long time to tell the story, but the crux is an old, old tale we’ve all heard many times before: he’s been having an affair with a younger woman named Natalie for some time—years, it seems, maybe since she was jailbait—and now she’s pregnant. He plans to marry her—has even ripped the wedding and engagement rings off MacKenzie’s hand. Says he is giving them to the Child Bride since MacKenzie won’t need them anymore.
Mom’s mouth falls open. “I never heard tell of any man being so . . . so disrespectful, so insensitive.”
“So cheap, so despicable.” I wonder if Ted found out about the tennis partner. Ripping the rings off her finger sounds extreme, even for Ted.
“How can I possibly tell the kids?” MacKenzie asks. “Natalie’s two years younger than our daughter, for Pete’s sake.”
For Pete’s sake—whoever the hell Pete was—MacKenzie’s so-called “kids” are somewhere around thirty. They will handle the bad news. Unless they happen upon The Photo. That would freak them out, for sure.
“You’ve raised James and Allison right,” Mom says, “and they have full lives of their own now. They’ll be fine. Let’s focus on helping you through this.”
Mom’s and my eyes travel to MacKenzie’s suitcases and we are thinking the same thing: Where is she going to sleep? Trish and the baby are in MacKenzie’s old room. Dewey and I are in my old bedroom. This farm house, whose empty rooms echoed for decades, is suddenly busier than the freaking Holiday Inn.
Finally Mom offers the best she can for the night. The sofa that makes into a bed.
MacKenzie’s eyes flick to the door of her room and it dawns on her that it is occupied. She would have known this if she had bothered to stay in touch. Irritation creases her face and she shakes her head as if to say, What else could go wrong?
Buried Seeds Page 19
