#OccupyWallStreet #OccupyCanada #Occupy...Winnipeg?

"The poor have no choice."  (James S. Woodsworth)

When one is on a long journey, sometimes it's a good idea to stop and look back.  You can take heart in how far you've come and what you've accomplished, or realise that it's time to change direction.

Working in a municipal archive, I have more opportunity than most to look back, and accidental discoveries have given me a better picture of where we've been, who we were and how we've changed.

One discovery was the record of a man who appeared before a rural municipal council, requesting assistance, as he could not work. A veteran, he had lost his leg in WWI and his wooden prosthesis had broken.  The council refused him, advising him to get an axe, go out to the woods and cut himself a new one.  Yes, really.

Another was a collection of old metal ballot boxes, obviously manufactured at the same time, but of curiously disparate sizes – from very large to oddly small - each marked with a different ward designation.  As today's electoral boundaries are generally placed according to population and our ballot boxes are fairly uniform, these gave me pause and I puzzled over them for a time before doing the obvious and asking about them.

The answer continues to give me pause.

Apparently, when laws expanded to give all Canadian men, titleholder or not, the right to vote, the ruling class was concerned about giving so much control to the newer citizens who may have been less inclined to maintain the status quo.  So, the boundaries were drawn according to size, regardless of population.

Thus, the largest ballot box was for a ward where the immigrants lived packed and stacked in close quarters on small lots, and the smallest was for a wealthy area, where the lots were huge and the number of eligible voters was not.  So, one alderman represented hundreds while another represented a handful.  Crazy, but true.

Some things do not change.  Those with power and control are not inclined to share it.

I've also heard many stories about the 1919 General Strike.  Coming from immigrant stock myself, they touch me deeply.  I've tried to imagine what it would be like to leave everything and everyone familiar for a dream of freedom and opportunity in a country where I don't know the laws, customs or language.  It's frightening to think how vulnerable I'd be.

Of course, one would adjust as best as one could, accepting whatever work was offered at whatever pay because one must live; and many were obligated to send money back to "the old country", often with letters filled with false tales of hope and optimism as the sender couldn't bear to burden those left behind with the harsh reality of immigrant life.

These tales spread and encouraged others to risk everything to take the one-way trip to Canada.  In such a huge, young country, there would be plenty for everyone – land to farm and space to build and endless possibilities that simply did not exist for common people in their birthlands.

The more that came, the less there was for them.  Supply and demand kept wages low.  Dreams of prosperity rarely materialised.  Securing citizenship did not improve your lot and you and yours were still treated as "foreigners."

It's been said that addicts have to hit bottom before they will admit to having a problem.  Perhaps it's just human nature to be blind to a problem until you are trapped and there is nowhere left to go and nothing left to lose.  Desperation is powerful motivation for change and fear is what you have when hope is gone.

During Winnipeg's General Strike, there were many marches, rallies and protests.  Participants faced the very real threat of arrest and deportation.  The upper class particularly feared that the Eastern Europeans wanted to lead a Bolshevik revolution here on the Prairies.  The marches were peaceful, and silent, so as not to provoke law enforcement.

Imagine how eerie that would be:  hundreds or thousands of men, women and children walking without shouting or singing or chanting, only their footsteps, their shifting garments, sporadic whispers and shushing of children to mark their passing.

Typically, the protests focused on the places of power - city hall or the business centre.  Then, one march brought their concerns nearly to the doorsteps of the powerful, right along the street fronting their estates.

The protesters gathered at the foot of the Maryland Bridge and set out across it to Wellington Crescent, where most of them had never been before.  As they walked without speaking past the mansions on huge, park-like lots, many of the strikers wept.

In "the old country", only royalty lived so ostentatiously, in rare, palatial homes.  Here, in Winnipeg – this small city! – there was a whole, long street of palaces!  And there, that is where the man who owns my company lives!  How can it be that they have so much – so much more than they can ever use! – and they will not spare us enough to be safely fed, clothed, sheltered and warm?  Can it be that this place is no better than the one I left behind?  That people like us will always toil to serve and will never know a life without want?

Eyes opened, the working people, and their children, fought on and on, slowly earning the rights and freedoms that most of my generation takes for granted:  safe working conditions, minimum wages, pensions, benefits, overtime pay, parental leave, sick leave, workers compensation, health care, limited hours of work, vacation time . . .  It's a long list and it's surprising to consider that we haven't had these improvements for very long. 

Even more surprising that there are those who believe we shouldn't have them at all; that any part of a social safety net meant to catch you when you fall and help you up again is ridiculous, unreasonable and expensive.

Many years after the General Strike, my grandmother learned to cut slices of bread so thin you could read a newspaper through them.  It was a skill she needed when my grandfather and his co-workers at Canada Packers were on strike.  To feed everyone on the picket line, the sandwiches were as thin as the soup.

Years later, when my mother was 15, they moved into their first house with running water and an indoor toilet.

My grandparents were proud to own their small house and even more proud of the city they helped build.  Their municipal taxes were invested by the City, for its citizens:  in asphalt plants and quarries to supply materials to build and maintain roads, sidewalks and bridges; in trucks and landfills to collect waste; in pipes and facilities to expand clean water delivery and wastewater treatment; to build and maintain parks, pools, community centres, arenas, sports fields, golf courses, playgrounds, parkades, hospitals, schools, museums and libraries. 

As citizens of Winnipeg, my grandparents owned everything the city owned and had a right to enjoy and share it.  Ownership is insurance against market forces.  If anyone had told them they paid too much in taxes, they would have laughed – "Look at what our taxes do!  It's worth it!"

As much as I miss my grandparents, I am glad they are gone.  They wouldn't like what we've done with the place. 

We've sold every asphalt plant, quarry and garbage truck and are barely hanging on to our last landfill.  We sold off or centralised most municipal services, often sacrificing good, secure jobs, convenience, accountability and quality delivery.  Most street repairs and snow clearing are done by lowest-bid contractors.  Our infrastructure is crumbling, our arenas are moldering, our golf courses are for sale, our community centres are disappearing and, cheap, miserly lot that we are, we continue to look for things to sell and cut.  We cut through the fat and the meat, hit bone and keep industriously chipping away at it.

They would have wondered what happened to our conscience and would have been appalled that we begrudge every tax dollar, that we demand government be run as a profit-making business, rather than a public service.

On this day, on what I hope will be a long journey of my life, I've stopped, looked back and, having seen where I and my city have been and where we appear to be going, I realise it is time to change direction.

In 1919, people acknowledged that trying to change their world within the confines of the established system wasn't working and wasn't going to work.  Less than 100 years later, here we are again.  Most of us have not yet lost our homes and our hope, but we can feel the ground beneath us is not as solid as we'd thought.  Not only are we losing ground, but our eyes are also open to the reality that many of our neighbours have no ground at all:  we are exploiting temporary foreign workers with few rights at all and we STILL have indigenous people fighting to get out of the hole we tossed them into - and we keep adding traps and obstacles to keep them there.

In the 21^st century, humanity's biggest failure isn't the lack of flying cars and moon colonies, it's that we had such a tenuous grasp on fairness and decency that we didn't even notice when they'd slipped away.

We've played by the rules, followed the system, and let greed decide our direction.  We've allowed unsustainable development, exploitation of the commons, commodification of our resources and, well, it's not working for most of Earth's inhabitants – or Earth, for that matter.

In 1919, millions of working people stood up and changed direction by refusing to work.

In 2011, people are standing up and changing direction by seizing, holding and filling a space.  From Tahrir Square to Wall Street and beyond, they Occupy.

On October 15, on the Winnipeg streets once proudly walked by my grandparents, I will join them.

What is a Trade Unionist? By M. A. (Tex) Hughes

Years ago, attended the retirement event for a long-time CUPE activist.  Paul Moist, CUPE's National President, spoke and included excerpts from the following.  He'd cited the author and I Googled ferociously trying to find a copy. No luck.  After a few emails were exchanged, Brother Moist provided me with a scan of the original document.  It was a single page, no idea what the publication was or when it was printed by CUPE Local 1326 (though it appears to have been some time ago) and the gender was primarily masculine.

To update it, I made it gender neutral, but the rest remains intact, as written, including the odd (to me) mixture of American and Canadian spellings.  Now, when someone asks you what a trade unionist is, you can send them here.  Be warned:  He sets the bar very, very high.  It is something for activists to strive for.

On the occasion of his retirement, after some thirty-eight years as a union member, union officer, representative of the National Union of Public Employees, and later the Canadian Union of Public Employees and a regional director, Brother M. A. (Tex) Hughes gave this reply when asked the simple question,

WHAT IS A TRADE UNIONIST?

In my opinion, a Trade Unionist is a person who has dedicated his or her life to the task of fighting for the betterment of all workers.  To such a person, an injury to one is an injury to all.  A gain for one is a gain for all and justice for one leads to a better chance for all to receive justice.

Trade Unionists are prepared to fight for themselves, but to fight longer and harder for others.  They are willing to contribute time, effort and money to advance the cause of the labour movement, and to do so without counting the cost.

There are no 9 to 5 Trade Unionists.  Days off, weekends and evenings away from family is a price they are prepared to pay.

The question posed by President Kennedy could have been, "Ask not what your union can do for you.  Ask, rather, what you can do for your union."  A real Unionist does not have to be persuaded to stand for union office or to accept committee work or become a Shop Steward.  And they do not ask to be paid for performing such work.  They do not use their union position to advance their career.  They will refuse to accept a promotion or an appointment if it means selling out to management or compromising their trade union principles.

The Unionist knows that sacrifices must be made if they are to live up to those union principles.  They are ready to pay that price, even if it costs their job, their chances for promotion, their popularity, the goodwill of their bosses or the support of less dedicated fellow workers.

No Trade Unionist will ever cross a picket line under any circumstances.  A picket line is sacred, whether it is legal or illegal, whether it is set up by their union, another union, a non-union organization or even a rival organization.

No unionist will ever go back to work while anyone in their union is still on strike, even if half of the other members crawl back; they will stay out until the strike is called off by a majority vote of the members.  Not even if they voted against the strike in the first place, will they sell out their fellow members.  They may lose their car, their home, their livelihood, but they will not scab.

The real Unionist will not allow personalities to dictate their actions.  They may dislike certain members or officers but will not allow this to prevent their working with them for the good of the union or from fighting for them if they need help.  They will not criticize or condemn their union or its officers in public, but rather work from within to correct the situation.  They will never disclose information that should remain within the membership.

The Unionist knows that any union is only as strong as its members and that each member must work to keep the union strong.  They cannot sit back and let others do it for them.  The member who refuses to act, who expects the executive, the representative, the National, or other members to carry the load is no trade unionist.  Real Trade Unionists do all that is required of them, then look around to see what more they can do.

The Trade Unionist knows that the labour movement was born out of desperation and frustration, in times when workers had no rights whatsoever; when it was a punishable crime to even meet with another worker to discuss wages or working conditions.  They know that earlier Unionists gave their lives -- even here in Canada -- to gain some rights for the workers.

They know that every right they now enjoy, every protective article in their collective agreement, every piece of labour legislation was obtained for them by dedicated Unionists, through untold effort and great sacrifice.  They know that others before them made those sacrifices, were fired from their jobs, black-listed for life, beaten up by company goons, ridden down by armed troops, imprisoned, deported and even killed.  Everything they now take for granted was paid for by others.  Because they know, they can never forget the debt which can never be repaid.

Real Trade Unionists will never be satisfied that everything possible has been accomplished, but if, on their deathbed, they can say, "I leave this world a somewhat better place for my fellow workers and part of that improvement was due to my small contribution," they can die in contentment.  There are many more union members than there are Trade Unionists.

 

Sometimes when you're Left, you're left - Honourary Life 2010 Speech

I love to write and deliver speeches.

Few will admit to that, but I'm a fan of truth, so there it is. How can one not love the opportunity to engage and educate a captive audience?


This speech was delivered to the 2010 Honourary Life Membership of CUPE Local 500 at the annual dinner held on Friday, October 29.  I struggled to write it, to acknowledge that sometimes, despite our best efforts, the end result of years of hard work is more of the same.

Our local had worked very hard for 4 years with affiliated groups and the community in order to change the balance of power of our civic government in the October 27 election.  When the dust settled, the numbers remained essentially unchanged. It was a daunting task to address this setback to a roomful of labour activists, but I couldn't let it be the elephant in the room.

After the dinner, people asked for copies.  That never happened to me before and it's a lovely feeling to be validated.


I hope you enjoy this as much as they did.

Truthfully, I didn't want to be here tonight.  Wednesday night's results hurt -- deeply and personally.  It was a rejection of our most cherished beliefs and principles and it's hard to celebrate years of service and dedication when it feels like that hard work has had little or no impact on the fabric of our city today.

Throughout my life, I've often been accused of being a starry-eyed optimist for believing there are better angels in all of us who see the value of investing in a city for its citizens, rather than selling it off to benefit a select few.

Wednesday night was a solid punch to the stomach and it hurt.

Essentially, it seemed that fear of a left-wing invasion secured a right-wing majority.

It's frustrating.  It's heartbreaking.  It's enough to make you want to kick the dirt from your shoes and walk away.

It's a rejection of the sacrifices of the people who shut this city down 91 years ago in a general strike because they knew what so many have forgotten:  That policies and practices which seek to serve the many will create a stronger city than those which serve the few.

Unfounded, unreasonable fear has always been our enemy.

In Saskatchewan, in 1962, the province's doctors went on a 3-week strike to protest Canada's first government health insurance plan, fearing government control of their livelihood.

Most citizens supported the doctors, fearing loss of access to medical care and believing in the concerns of the 'experts' -- those doctors.

Brother Tommy Douglas, who had faithfully served the people of Saskatchewan for 18 years, had stepped down as Premier to run federally as the first NDP leader.

Two weeks before the start date of the provincial health care plan, he was defeated.  Two years later, the CCF-NDP, which Brother Tommy had lead through 4 consecutive governments, was utterly rejected by the voters.

That had to hurt.  Must have been frustrating, especially since within 10 years, every province had a publicly funded health insurance plan.

How did he find the strength to endure?

In the face of relentless opposition that is gaining strength and credibility and threatens the social fabric of our lives, how do WE find the strength to endure?

Because every labour activist wants to leave this world a better place than we found it.

We endure because the labour movement was born out of the desperation and frustration of people with no rights at all -- when seeking the most basic rights could lead to imprisonment, black-listing, beatings, deportation and even death.

We endure because the rights we enjoy today were not given to us -- we had to fight for each and every one of them; and since they were not freely and easily given, we fight to maintain them.

It's what we do.

At last year's Honourary Life dinner, I spoke of our city being at a crossroads.  On Wednesday, we were placed firmly on a path chosen largely out of fear and ignorance, by no one in this room.

Our fight continues.

Next year is our provincial election, and we now have a pretty good idea of what that could look like if we don't keep fighting.

We are also fighting on-going battles for our pensions and our water -- and attacks to our health care take on a new dimension when you realise that the existing federal-provincial health care agreement - which was negotiated under the Liberals during a time of federal surpluses - will expire in 2014.

Our dream of a better life for all, our fidelity to our values and our faith in better angels must endure.

We must meet their fear with our strength.

Tonight, we honour those who began the fight and sacrificed so much for us.  We honour you, who continued their struggle and we honour the continuing efforts of those who join your ranks this night.

We honour the fighters and gather together in celebration and remembrance, drawing strength from one another before setting out to battle once more, knowing that if we rise each time we fall, we cannot be defeated.

On a side note, I had the singular honour of being the Chair of the Honourary Life Committee for two years.  It was in that capacity that I took the opportunity to speechify.  As of last Fall, I became persona non grata in my Local, so any official speechifying is on indefinite hold.  This blog is now my podium.  I address the masses.  Less captive, but more democratic.

Welcome - The 5 Dubyas

Who:  Sallie Caufield
What:  Opinions and some junk
When:  Whenever I have to scratch an itch
Where:  Winnipeg
Why: 
1.  The Title:  I'm a member of CUPE.  So, why isn't the title "CUPE Doll"? There are enough CUPE blogs out there for affiliated locals; this ain't one of them.  I am a member, but my opinions do not necessarily toe the party line.  I believe in solidarity, but I am old school with an idealised notion of what that means.  My definition of unionism, solidarity and all those lovely labour movement buzz words tends to the old-fashioned,original grassroots trade unionism variety.

Somewhere out there, a "CUPE Doll" already exists.  She doesn't have a blog, but she may one day.  Unfortunately, when I searched for a blogger address, "qpdoll" was taken.  So, I defaulted.  Sorry, CUPE Doll, whoever you are.

Since I am a fan of Latin,QP has remarkable potential.  

For the "Q":  "Quid" (this); "Quasi" (as if, just as); "Quod" (but, now, because, whereas).

For "P": "Puto" (to clear, consider, think, believe, suppose, judge); "Presto" (perform, display, fulfill, offer, present); "Perdo" (ruin, waste); "Pendo" (value, consider, judge, esteem); "Proficio" (assist, help, aid).

So, at any point in time, the QP may stand for Quid Perdo or Quod Pendo or Quasi Puto or any other combination.  Labels are open to interpretation and change in nearly every context, including this one.

2.  The Blog:  Years ago, I attended a series of weekend workshops on Women in the Union.  Basically, where the heck were they all?  Women make up a huge percentage of CUPE, but are under-represented at higher levels.  CUPE National created a task force to investigate and make recommendations.

I didn't feel it applied to me.  I didn't feel marginalised or excluded and counted myself lucky to be surrounded by labour brothers who seemed immune to such nonsense.  They supported and encouraged my efforts and I shunned the notion that this could ever change.  "Old Boys Club"?  Pffft!

I was wrong, of course.  Interpersonal dynamics in a political environment can change on a dime; blocs form and close ranks without warning.  That is the nature of the beast. 

Men lead differently from women.  They process and react to threats differently, too.  There are exceptions, of course, but they are far more rare than I'd imagined.

In any political situation, women are often encouraged to "act like a man", but when we do, we may find ourselves suddenly outcast.  Men may say they like a strong woman or want you to act as they do, but a step too far into their world may constitute an unintended threat; or you may have given a strong, honest, differing opinion when it wasn't what tHEy wanted to hear; or perhaps you expected fair and equitable treatment across the board at precisely the wrong moment.

Whatever the case, suddenly the phrase "she brought it on herself" is applied to questions about your sudden disappearance from the Table and you may as well tie a bell around your neck to warn others to stay away, because they will do all they can to keep you and yours out of active participation despite your years of service to the cause.

Yes, it's wrong and it is counter to all the union movement stands for, but like any system of beliefs, those who pay lip service outnumber those who do not.  This is not unique to human experience, alas.

But I DO believe.

When abuses by priests started coming to light, I didn't stop being a Catholic -- my faith wasn't in the priests or even the Church itself, but in the Catholic interpretation of God. (Generally speaking, of course.  My mother and I have many lively discussions about my being too tolerant, but that's another post.  Perhaps.)


Just as my faith in God was not altered by the actions of representatives, my faith in the labour movement has not been altered.  The speed bumps may have slowed me down, but I'm still moving forward.


Before I was cast out, I did not blog.  When you are an active participant in a group, consensus is necessary.  I held my tongue more often than I am proud of in order to present a unified front for the good of the membership. I allowed the continuation of practices I did not agree with in the interests of maintaining a strong leadership to serve the greatest needs.


Unfettered now, I can state my beliefs and opinions openly.  When you are voted off the island, they no longer control you.

This is my island.  I have the talking stick, tho' I am willing to share.


Discover hope, all ye who enter here.