in grimy shops
in the slums.
My English is not ready
for a hearty debate
but the truth is simple.
I can speak in simple sentences.
I wait until a crowd gathers
at lunch
around the food carts
I step onto a stack of slippery dailies
and shout,
Do you know
how your clothing
is made?
You there—
I point to a woman
wearing a white shirtwaist
tucked into an elegant skirt,
holding the hand
of a little girl
with ribbons in her hair.
Do you know that waist was made
by teenage girls,
some who make
no more than three dollars a week?
Do you know that those shops
hire girls
your daughter’s age
to trim the threads
when they should be in school?
The crowd looks from me
to the woman
to the child
to their own clothes
white
and pressed
and clean.
This corner of the street has fallen silent
I no longer have to shout.
What will you do,
I ask,
to set things right?
honest
Louis Leiserson was one of us
who moved up the ranks
until he got a shop of his own.
I hope
if I work for an honest employer
a man who respects the workers
I can bring home a wage to Mama
and
do my work for the union.
On my morning walk to Leiserson’s
I spot a cracked cobble
in front of the bakery.
Out of the sliver of exposed dirt
a little tree
is trying to grow
no bigger than a weed
sprouting three
tear-shaped leaves
and reaching
with impossible optimism
toward the sky.
a lot to learn
I should have spent more time before,
learning English
but I could not help myself—
I was so hungry for
ideas
I had little time for
primers
and the domestic phrases
they teach in the classes for girls.
I may not be studying for exams
anymore
but if I want my voice to be heard
by those who wield the power
I have a lot to learn, still,
of English.
If I have union meetings
two nights a week
lectures to attend
three nights a week
Shabbos
Friday nights
still, there is one night left
for an English class.
I practice
under my breath
as I pin and snip,
try to make my tongue
shake this thick accent
as I tuck and twist and stitch.
overtime
After work,
outside the grimy doors
of an underwear shop,
Pauline and I
press circulars
into the sweaty hands
of workers held at their stations
without compensation
long after the workday
is done.
We say,
There is power in organizing.
We say,
You do not have to suffer
alone.
They take the papers,
but sometimes
it seems
as if only the birds
are listening.
a gift
I have given up trying to sit
across the room
from Joe.
His particular smell
of soap
presswash
and paper
is familiar to me now.
Comforting, even.
In between the lecture
on the importance of educating
the lower class
and the one on the eradication
of child labor
he hands me
a steno pad.
For your words,
he says.
I nod
run my fingers over the crisp
lined white pages,
tuck the book
into the breast pocket
of my coat.
My voice is strong
on the soapbox
in the union halls
but if I speak now
I fear
it will
betray me.
lies
Mr. Leiserson says,
I respect the union
I respect the workers’ rights
I only have to lay off workers
because the fashion in sleeves
has changed.
He tells us this
while he sends work to a second shop
filled with Italian girls
working in squalor
for half the pay.
Mr. Leiserson’s lies
burn
so hot
I think
my skin will steam
with the heat of it.
uninvited
When lunch is called
and the delivery boys
fill the doorway
with their baskets of cake and pretzels
and sliced cheese sandwiches
whispers work their way
through the crowd of women
at the door
The men vote tonight
yea or nay
to go on strike.
We are not invited.
That night
I march into their meeting.
The conversation stops
as they swivel to stare
at the girl who dares
interrupt their business.
I think,
how nice of them
to offer a space
for my words.
You will lose,
I say,
if you try to strike
on your own
without us.
They will break you.
It is only by standing together
—men and women—
that we can ever hope
to outlast them.
I do not wait for their answers
I have a lecture to attend tonight.
If my words make them see reason
they can invite me
to the next meeting.
soapbox
When I step onto a milk crate
my head is still no higher
than the crowd
but my voice
soars
like the kestrel
circling above
punctuating my
proselytizing
with her
killy killy killy killy.
The throngs of people
pause
tilt their heads
add their voices
to mine.
If I rise onto my tiptoes
I can see Pauline
nodding
the company thugs
frowning
Joe
listening.
planning (iii)
shuffle
deal
bluff
bet
fold
plot
plan
The men
will not find us
so easy
to dismiss
if we prove ourselves
on the picket line
beside them
day
after
day
after
day.
vote
The next night
in a hotel room hazy
with cigarette smoke
we lay out our demands
cast our votes
call for a joint strike
the whole shop
—men and women—
will walk out together
tomorrow.
We raise our right hands
invoke King David’s psalm:
If I turn traitor
to the cause I now pledge
may this hand wither
from the arm I now raise.
I clench my jaw
to keep
from coughing the smoky air
out of my lungs
to keep
the stern, determined set
of my face
from melting into a wide
jubilant
smile.
red light
Mr. Leiserson knows
very well
that this fight hinges
on public opinion.
He hires detectives
sets them like leeches
on the skin
to draw out the troublemakers,
the infected blood.
He pays prostitutes
to mingle in our ranks
stir up trouble
start fights with the men
add color
to the newspaper reports.
He tells the papers
we are ungrateful
ungodly girls,
the men who strike with us
our procurers
in the oldest trade.
[If a woman is disobedient
she must be a prostitute.
If a woman wants an education
she must be a prostitute.
If a woman walks out on strike
of course
she must be a prostitute.]
It is hard enough to get the girls
to walk out in the first place.
Their families depend
on the money they bring home.
Then, when the papers
call the strikers whores
their fathers
or husbands
call them home again;
forbid them
to walk out with us.
If I ever find the time
to fall in love
I will surely choose a man
who wants a thinking wife.
dent
The bosses have sugared the police
it does not matter
if I cry out in Yiddish
Russian
English
only that their clubs
dent
my flesh
break
my will
crack
double over
crack crack
drop to my knees
crack
slump back,
crack crack
blinking
blows fall like rain
out of a perfectly blue sky.
part of me
The strike goes on without me
for a day;
the union sent me home
to rest
to gather my strength
to summon my nerve.
I wanted to say
I am fine
those gorillas did not rattle me.
But today
I do not feel like a warrior
brave
armored
fierce.
I feel like a sparrow
harrying a hawk
to save her clutch,
a sparrow
who only just escaped
with her life.
I will be back in front of Leiserson’s tomorrow
but for now, I sit by the window
watching the songbirds
flutter and soar outside, try
to let my bruises heal
my head settle,
let my worries
flap away on their wings.
Mama begs,
No more fighting.
No more picket lines.
Please, Clara,
no more.
I sigh
and say,
It is part of me, Mama.
Their suffering
out there
is part of me.
ask
I did not plan to speak so freely
but he is a fighter
he knows the toll
a long, drawn-out battle
can take.
So when
Joe
asks how our strike is faring
how I
am holding up
my heart spills out of my lips
before I even decide
to respond
I never imagined
it would take so long
for the union men to work with us
for the girls to stand up
for themselves.
Some days
I am just so tired
of fighting.
Some days
I want only to sit
at the evening table
with my family
and feel no scorn
no disappointment
no heartbreak.
Some days
I wish some other girl
would fight this fight
instead.
He offers no easy answer
but what a difference
it makes
to be asked.
planning (iv)
shuffle
deal
bluff
bet
fold
plot
plan
The girls
will find strength
in numbers
strength in a strike
that stretches beyond
the doors
of a single shop
starting with our own:
Triangle and Leiserson’s
marching
to the same songs
at the same time
with the same voice.
Triangle
The leaves are turning
burgundy, mustard, vermilion.
When the wind blows,
they dance like flames.
Pauline says,
You must stop employing children.
The bosses say,
What children?
Pauline says,
You cannot lock the factory doors
from the outside.
The bosses say,
The workers are thieves—
how else can we protect our inventory?
Pauline says,
You must repair the fire escape.
The bosses say,
Let them burn.
They are all just a bunch of cattle
anyway.
And so, today,
while I march
in front of Leiserson’s,
150 workers
from the Triangle Waist Factory
march in front of the Asch Building.
The foremen sneer down
from nine stories up.
Chant and march,
march and chant
drowning out the clatter
stitch, gather
stitch, gather
stitch, gather
stitch, gather
of hundreds of machines
upstairs.
slander
When the workday ends
and the picket line closes
we hurry
heads down
shoulders hunched
against the wind,
against fallen leaves
hurled like spoiled tomatoes
against our skirts.
The door to the union office sweeps open
we are folded into blankets
ushered onto cushioned chairs.
The woman who hands me a teacup
filled and piping hot
as much to warm my hands
as anything
has the soft skin
unweathered cheeks
pitying eyes
of a fine lady
from uptown.
I take the teacup
and the pity, too.
She places a hand mirror
a delicate white kerchief
on the chair beside me.
This will never work,
I say
to the room
to anyone who will listen
when my mouth has thawed enough
to open and close
as it should,
a few hundred of us
on the picket lines
while so many thousands more
wait at their workstations
until their own suffering
spills over
onto the sidewalks.
What we need
is a general strike,
all the shops, together.
No one gives in
until we win.
The room erupts
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