Through the Mill

 

A couple of years ago, I was at my mothers house minding my own business and working on my almost fully restored 1973 MGB when I was accosted by one of my old friends who was visiting his parents.  There wasn’t even barely a hello when he started in  about my union membership.  Now, I’ve known this guy for almost thirty-five years and it is safe to say that this was the first time he ever ambushed me outside of our playing Ghosts in the Graveyard together when we were much younger.  He was self-employed as a construction and remodeling contractor and had the truck to match.

He started in with all the usual lines about how he didn’t want to be told how to vote… unions protect the bad workers (the ones who should get fired and leave the rest to fend for themselves)… they spend more time involved in politics than they should… they spend all their money on keep their jobs and not protecting their members….

You know the rest.

I knew that he was a former high school teacher and if fate would have dealt him a different card, he would have been teaching at Columbine High School in 1999 when the two students went on a rampage.  I also knew that he had become gradually disenchanted with the classroom and dealing with apathy in all its forms and iterations.  I sat there working on my car and very patiently listening while he blew himself out like a hurricane after making landfall.

“So… what do you think?”  Finally, my turn to talk.

“Well,” I conceded “you did not have a good experience with your union.  Not everyone does have a good experience.  My first personal experience was one summer when I was working at a warehouse as summer help.  We were all on probation, as is normal, and I, for whatever reason, did not measure up.  I was single, with a baby on the way, going to college and about to get married when the whole idea of banking some money went right out the window.  I called the business agent, plead my case and he basically told me ‘sorry kid.  That’s just the way it is.’”

“Needless to say, I was bitter.  And I had a bitter taste when I was required to join to work in this business.  After I joined, it took a few years for all the good the union does for me to sink in.

“First, it gives me a stable forty hours with benefits.”  When I told him how much I made the previous year and explained our benefit package his eyes got really big.

“Second, I have a pension that anyone else will kill to get.”  I then explained about the pension, 401K and annuity plans we have for the retirees.  His jaw went slack.

“Third, the training we get from our international is second to none.”  I explained about the apprenticeship program, what it entailed and what it took to pass the big journeyman’s test at the end.  I also explained about the continuing education available through the union.  His shoulders slumped.

“In return, I have a small job with the local and I do it because I love doing it, not for the pittance it pays.  The guys seem to like me doing it because they keep electing me to the job.”  His eyes fell to the ground.

“What about all those guys that the union protects, you know, the ones that everyone knows are worthless.”  He was suddenly animated, as though he had just put a pry bar into my argument.  “How can they protect them?”

“Well,” I started “our business agent spends ninety percent of his time dealing with the problems of five to ten guys out of about 240.  These are the guys that are habitual problems.  Every now and then a good guy has a problem. He cannot choose who he stands up for.  If he stands up for the good guy and not the bad or vice versa, is he doing his job?  No.  We hire him to represent all of us when there is an issue, not just the people he wants to represent.

“I’m very sorry you had a bad experience with your union.  My experience with mine has been very positive.  I have a great job I love, great pay, great benefits and a great job trying to communicate with the local and international.  It helped me put two kids through college and gives me the luxury of having a few toys.”  I turned and pointed to my car.

He left deflated that day and I even hired him to do some painting work at my mom’s place.  When the call for apprenticeship applications was in the local paper, he was the first in line.