When I was nine, my dad left his
eminently cool job as an investigator of the Lake County, Indiana Prosecutor’s
Office. He liked his work which he felt was important. He liked the smart and
savvy people he worked with. He was a neatnik and enjoyed wearing a tie
everyday. He took pride in his role of justice. He was 34 years old and baby
number six was on the way.
So, off he went to Inland Steel. It
was a much longer commute but the pay was twice what he made at the
Prosecutor’s Office. He traded his tie for thermal long-underwear. He didn’t
complain because his new job was in the mill’s train roundhouse. He thought that
was a pretty awesome place to work. He became a union member. He eventually was
promoted to a diesel train engineer. He loved it.
The first ten years at the mill were
great. Things eventually became pretty tough, especially in the rail yard. The
underlying cause for most of it was due to the failing U.S. steel industry. My
dad died at the age of 54. My mom received a small pension and fantastic
medical insurance. It didn’t seem to be enough for her, in my opinion.
I didn’t think much of or about unions
for a while. My husband, one of the true original computer geeks, worked for a
big bank that gave him an excellent salary and a generous benefits package.
Unions didn’t seem relevant to our lives.
Enter a little bitty woman – and with
me being only 4’ 11”, that’s saying a lot. She had a terrible speech impediment
where she dropped all her beginning consonants. She walked with a cane due to a
failed spinal surgery when she was young and lived with chronic pain. Yet she
had more energy and drive than nearly anyone I’ve ever met. That dynamo was
Molly Piontowski.
Molly was born in Russia. She came to
the U.S. after fleeing the Russian programs as a little girl. She witnessed her
father and brother being killed by the Cossacks as her family hid in the
fields. She eventually ended up in California where she became a union
organizer.
I have a picture of Molly hanging on
my “rouges’ gallery” bulletin board. She is wearing a “We can do it!”
sweatshirt with a drawing of a WWII woman flexing her muscle. In the picture Molly
is talking intently to my then ten year old son. It is a priceless image for
me. She taught my church community and my family to think about the entitlements
given to us simply by birth, race, health, and the hard, driven work of those before
us who laid a foundation of safe, warm, and clean workplaces.
I have clear memory of Molly shaking
her cane at us when we let the kids use the disability ramp in the sanctuary as
a slide. If it was slippery enough for them to do that then we needed traction
strips so it could serve its real purpose! It was not intended to be a cute
plaything for privileged children! (Whom she loved very much.) I still smile
when I think of this. It was one of many rants by Molly but each one always
stopped me in my tracks and made me think about how I lived my life.
Molly became a dear friend and
decidedly one of the most influential people in my life. She died shortly after
my husband did, ten years ago. In my last conversation with her after Mark
died, she complained that the workers at the nursing home where she lived were
grossly underpaid and had terrible hours. She was encouraging them to
unionize. She was still focused on
fairness to the very end.
I try to channel a little bit of Molly
when I see injustice. I think of the benefits she and other organizers brought
to my life: from my dad’s union job, Mark’s work benefits, to last year’s
Chicago Teachers Union strike that took the mayor by such surprise. We need to
stand for poor working environments and fair pay. I’d happily pay an extra
dollar for a fast food meal if it went into larger paychecks for the employees.
Wouldn’t you?
I know by Molly’s high standards, I’m
not doing enough but her righteous memory keeps me speaking my mind. For that I
will forever be thankful.
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