Dear America: Hear My Sorrow

by Deborah Hopkinson

  Clara greeted me warmly. “You’re getting so tall and pretty, Angela! On your first day of work last fall, I thought you looked like a shy, scared child. Now you’re becoming such a young woman.”

  I blushed and said good-bye as Sarah and Clara went off to the market on Hester Street.

  “They are nice girls, no?” asked Rosa. Luisa only scowled.

  Just then Rosa spotted Audenzio. His cloak shop is nearby, so he’d just finished work, too. Rosa’s face lit up and her eyes shone when she saw him stroll across the grass. That made me smile. After losing her mama, Rosa deserves a little happiness.

  I’m not sure what I think about Audenzio, though. He certainly talks a lot and seems to have an opinion about everything. I hope that after they’re married, Rosa has a chance to get a word in now and then. I’m not sure I like his ideas, either. I still remember that night I heard him dismiss our shirtwaist strike as a failure.

  Today all Audenzio could talk about was a possible strike of cloakmakers this summer. He says there are about sixty thousand workers, mostly men, who make cloaks, suits, and shirts. More than half are Jewish, but at least ten thousand are Italian.

  The conditions in these shops aren’t any better than in the shirtwaist factories. During the busy season, Audenzio has to work fourteen or even sixteen hours a day. He told us the workers plan on asking for a forty-eight-hour work week and double pay for overtime.

  “Our strike won’t be as unorganized as your shirtwaist workers’ effort,” Audenzio said, waving his hands in the air as usual. “And there’ll be more funds to help the workers’ families so people won’t have to cross the picket line. We are going to shut this part of the garment industry down.”

  I bristled. There he was again, criticizing our fight. Before I knew it, the words were out of my mouth. “Don’t forget, the girls in our strike didn’t have much support from the men who were the union leaders. At least the shirtwaist workers proved that women have the ability to fight.”

  Audenzio turned and looked at me with an amused expression. “That’s right, I forgot you were the radical in your family. Take after your padre, do you? I hear he was involved in some kind of workers’ union, fasci dei lavoratori, back in the old country.”

  Luisa looked surprised, but of course I’d already guessed that, although I didn’t know the details. Maybe someday Babbo will tell me. I do know this: If he and Mama hadn’t been involved in some kind of activism back in Sicily, they never would have let me take part in the strike as much as I did.

  Audenzio and I continued to argue. He admitted that what I said about the shirtwaist strike was true. But he thought many of the agreements we’d won with the small shops were weak, and that the big factories, like Triangle, had never really made any concessions.

  “Look at poor Rosa, here,” he said with a smile. “Worka worka all the long day on Saturday!”

  Beside me, Luisa was scowling. I knew she didn’t approve of all this strike talk, but I couldn’t help blurting out, “Well, what about the Italian workers? Will the Italians join in the cloakmakers’ strike?”

  Audenzio didn’t hesitate. “Sì, we will. Unlike Local 25, your union, ours has made an effort to involve Italians from the beginning.”

  In the end, all I could do was wish him luck. I remember how so many shirtwaist workers had to stand on the picket lines in the bitter wind and freezing rain. Maybe striking in the summer will be better. At least it won’t be so cold.

  Wednesday, June 15, 1910

  Sarah has been quiet lately, but now that there’s more talk about a cloakmakers’ strike, she’s beginning to sound like her old self, full of fire and determination. Today at lunch I told her about my conversation with Audenzio. She listened carefully and nodded.

  “It’s true. We didn’t achieve all our goals, like getting closed shops so only union members are hired,” she said with a sigh. “And many of the small shops come and go. Since new owners have no agreement with the union, conditions seem to be getting worse again.”

  “At least we did something to get people excited about labor unions,” I argued. I hate to think that all our hard work went for nothing. “And now maybe the cloakmakers can build on what we did.”

  Sarah knitted her brows, lost in thought. “Yes, but I want to do more….”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  Ever since the strike, Sarah told me, she’d been thinking about becoming a full-time labor organizer. The problem was that her brother, who’d just turned fourteen, wanted to stay in school.

  Sarah sighed and picked at a loose thread on her shirtwaist blouse. “Joseph’s a smart boy. He might even be able to get a scholarship for college. So I’ve promised my family to keep working steadily so he can finish high school.”

  Sarah’s brother might be bright, but it’s hard to see how anyone could be as smart and determined as Sarah herself. Sometimes I wonder what Sarah could do if only she’d had the chance to stay in school.

  Sunday, July 3, 1910

  Tonight it was hot, so I dragged out a blanket to use as a bed and slept on the fire escape. My sparrow appeared at dusk, cocking his little head at me. I fed him some bread crumbs. Whenever I see my sparrow, I can’t help thinking about Teresa. She was the little bird in our family.

  And I wonder how such a tiny creature can survive in this city, when it is so hard for everyone else.

  Thursday, July 7, 1910

  At lunch today someone in our shop passed a flyer around. It was printed on bloodred paper. It said:

  GENERAL STRIKE DECLARED TODAY 2 P.M.

  Today, at 2 p.m. — not earlier, not later — every cloak and skirt worker — operator, tailor, finisher, cutter, presser, buttonhole maker — must put aside his work and together with all other workers go out on strike. Not one of you must remain in the shops! All out!

  In the afternoon we heard loud noises from the streets. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of dark hair. Before Mr. Klein could do anything, Sarah jumped up and turned off the power.

  “Outside!” she shouted. “We must show support for our fellow workers!”

  We piled out, leaving Mr. Klein fuming and grumbling behind us. The street was packed with men and women laughing and shouting. It felt as if every worker in New York City were out on the streets.

  Of course, our shop will be back to work as usual in the morning. The shirtwaist workers aren’t ready for another strike. But at least on this day, we showed our support for the cloakmakers and their struggle for better conditions.

  I hope they can stick together and win. From what Audenzio says, the Italian cloakmakers are standing firm with the Jewish workers. And more Italians have been involved in the planning. That’s good, I think. I wish it had happened more in our strike. Maybe then things wouldn’t have been so hard on our family.

  Saturday, July 16, 1910

  The cloakmakers’ strike is still on. This morning, as we were sitting down at our machines, Sarah leaned over and told me that Rose Schneiderman, that young, red-haired woman I heard give a speech during our strike, is helping negotiate for the women workers.

  “That could be you someday, Sarah,” I told her. “Why, I think you’d be every bit as good as Rose Schneiderman or Clara Lemlich!”

  To my surprise, Sarah flushed with pleasure. “Do you think so, Angela? Do you really think I could do it?”

  I assured her that she could. As I sewed, I couldn’t help stealing a glance now and then at her sturdy shoulders and dark hair. Sarah always seems so confident about everything. I never guessed she would have doubts about herself. But maybe even strong girls like Sarah need encouragement sometimes.

  As for me, well, translating those speeches into Italian and walking on the picket line a few times was enough.

  Sunday, August 7, 1910

  With all this talk about the cloakmakers’ strike, I’ve been thinking more and more about last fall. Mostly I wonder what would have happened if the union had waited until the workers were mor
e organized, or if they had made more of an effort to include Italian girls like Luisa, Rosa, and me.

  I think about this on Saturday afternoons, waiting for Luisa and Rosa in front of the tall Asch Building on Washington Place. Workers from the Triangle factory were among the first to begin the fight last fall. But how much good did it do them?

  Luisa says she likes it fine on the ninth floor, but I wouldn’t want to work so high off the ground. And as for Rosa, well, these days it’s pretty clear what she likes best — and his name is Audenzio!

  Sunday, August 21, 1910

  It’s hot! Hot, hot, hot! We can’t stand to be inside our apartment, day or night. There’s not a breath of air. I feel like my skin is sticky all the time with sweat, grime, and dust. And poor Babbo suffers even more than we do. I think I would faint if I had to be a hod carrier in the summer.

  This afternoon we sat outside — along with everyone else on Elizabeth Street. The pushcart vendors were selling Italian beans and chickpeas, urging us to buy some to eat while we pass the time.

  Zi’ Vincenzo, Rosa, Alfio, and Pietro came to sit with us, but soon the little boys were gone, junking with Vito. Vito is quite good at it. He wanders for hours, up and down alleys, looking for things to sell or anything we can use. Rags, old pipes, bottles, wood. Although lately he also seems to have a knack for finding a broken fire hydrant, and cooling off in the water!

  Today Zi’ Maria leaned out of her window and yelled, “Vito! Bring me back the largest block of ice you can find. I want to sleep on it!”

  Even Mama, who hasn’t smiled much for months, had to laugh at that.

  Still, I’m proud of my brother these days. He’s doing well as a shoeshine boy. He has a little cloth bag for his brush, polishes, and cloth. People like him because he has a quick smile and laughing eyes. Who knows? Maybe Vito will become a rich businessman someday like he’s always dreamed.

  He hasn’t said much about missing Teresa, but I know he does, because once I came home to find a piece of torrone, almond candy, carefully left on the kitchen table at the place where Teresa always sat.

  Later

  After our evening meal, we all went back outside. Audenzio came by the apartment just as the sun was setting, sending red streaks into the sky. He settled down to talk about the strike.

  “We have hope for a good settlement that will change things from now on,” he told Zi’ Vincenzo and Babbo. Audenzio sat on one side of Zi’ Vincenzo, while Rosa sat on the other.

  I caught her eye and smiled. Things are sailing right for her in love these days. I know her papa likes Audenzio, but since Rosa helps so much with Pietro and Alfio, there’s no rush for them to marry.

  Wednesday, August 24, 1910

  Still hot. Sometimes I buy a small piece of ice from the ice wagon for a penny and put it on my face. Then I am cool, even if it only lasts for a few minutes.

  Friday, September 2, 1910

  Good news: The cloakmakers’ strike is over! The agreement was made with all the manufacturers and the union, and was accepted by the workers today. The cloakmakers have won. Everyone is calling the agreement the “Protocol of Peace.”

  After work, Sarah and I walked to the square near the Jewish Daily Forward building on East Broadway to watch the celebration. By seven o’clock the streets were filled. Everyone was hugging and talking. People were so happy.

  Audenzio rushed up to us. The Italian workers were streaming in from another union hall, carrying strike leaders on their shoulders. Audenzio was so excited, words tumbled out of him. “We’ll get a fifty-hour work week, and double pay for overtime. And ten holidays with pay!”

  Audenzio says there is to be a special board to help clean up the dirtiest shops. Most important, they won what we shirtwaist workers did not: union recognition and a closed shop. From now on, employers are to hire only union workers. Only if union workers aren’t available can non-union workers be hired. Now the unions are sure to get stronger.

  I left early to get home. But the shouts and sounds of workers celebrating filled my ears for blocks. Maybe life will get better — at least for some of us.

  Saturday, September 3, 1910

  Sarah and I watched the cloakmakers’ parade this afternoon. It was so exciting, with music and flags, and people singing and celebrating. It’s a good feeling to think that our strike helped make this one successful. This is important, because this time the large manufacturers have signed, too. But, of course, it doesn’t change anything for shirtwaist workers, or in big factories like the Triangle shop.

  Still, I had to smile when I heard someone on the street singing:

  Here’s how a tailor sews

  He sews like this!

  A tailor sews and sews and sews

  And he owns nothing, not even his bread!

  Once upon a time I could not believe

  That we should work from eight to eight!

  But now with the strikes

  We have no more to work from eight to eight.

  Monday, November 7, 1910

  I can’t believe how time has gone by. Since the excitement of the cloakmakers’ strike is over, everything is back to normal. Mostly I’ve been too tired to write in my book. Besides, I like sitting outside on my fire escape to write, and the weather is too cold for that now.

  Sarah is restless these days. Last week she told me she’s decided to go to night school. She squared her shoulders like she used to do and announced in a firm voice, “I don’t want to be a shirtwaist worker all my life, Angela.”

  Sarah is beginning to move on and change, and make something better of her life. But what about me? I’m fifteen now. I’ve been a shirtwaist worker for more than a year. Will I be one all my life?

  Even if Mama didn’t need me home at night, I don’t know if I could go to night school. When I come home from a long day bent over my sewing machine, my head feels numb and stupid. I just want to sleep.

  Instead, I cook and clean and help Mama and Zi’ Maria make flowers. Lately, whenever she has the chance, Luisa slips away upstairs to Rosa’s apartment. Oh, I know she helps with the boys a lot. But in my heart I know she’d much rather be with Rosa than have anything to do with me.

  Wednesday, November 16, 1910

  I saw Arturo at his papa’s bakery shop today. He asked me how our family was doing without Teresa. What could I tell him? I only shrugged.

  Whenever I see Arturo and feel the warmth of his smile, I feel like staring down at my shoes. I can’t think of anything to say to him.

  Sunday, November 20, 1910

  I wonder if Miss Kelly is still teaching school. These days, I just don’t know what good practicing my English will do, anyway. I’ll probably just keeping working in the factory.

  The last time I saw Clara, she looked pale and worn out. I have been getting more colds and coughs myself this fall. When I look ahead, all I can see are long, long days of work.

  Thursday, December 8, 1910

  Sarah told me that Clara’s mother has been talking to a matchmaker and that Clara may become engaged soon. The man is a grocer, and that is a good thing. Clara will be able to work beside her husband in their own business.

  I wonder if Sarah will get married. Somehow, I don’t think so. Sarah has other dreams. I’m sure she’ll reach her goal of becoming a labor organizer. I can just see her making speeches all across the country.

  Now that Sarah is back at evening school, she always reads during lunch and doesn’t have much time to talk.

  The other day, though, Sarah asked me what I dreamed of doing. I shrugged. I wish I knew what I want to do. Luisa and Rosa, I know, dream of getting married and having children of their own. I’d like that someday. It’s just that, ever since Teresa died, it’s hard to think of the future. Mostly I just get up and go to work, day after day. Most days, I’m too tired to dream.

  Monday, February 13, 1911

  It’s been weeks and weeks since I’ve written. Babbo has hurt his shoulder again, and hasn’t been worki
ng. So every night I rush home from work to help Mama, Zi’ Maria, and a few other neighbors make artificial flowers.

  Not only that, Alfio and Pietro depend on my help with their schoolwork. I’m surprised I still remember my numbers and my English. There’s really no one else to help them. Vito is usually working late — not that he would ever remember much about arithmetic. And of course Rosa and Luisa can’t help, because they never went to school in America.

  I like helping the boys. But sometimes I feel sad that I never even finished eighth grade.

  Thursday, February 16, 1911

  Everything seems so dark, grimy, and cold. It is almost a year since Teresa died. Mama doesn’t cry as much. But there’s still a wall between Luisa and me, a wall that will not come down. We sleep in the same bed and eat at the same table, but things aren’t the same.

  If only spring would come. Then I would have a place of my own to sit and write again. I can’t wait to sit on the fire escape and watch for my sparrow.

  Wednesday, February 22, 1911

  Well, at last I have something good to write about.

  Rosa is officially engaged to Audenzio at last! I am so glad for her. Although he seems hardheaded and talks so much, I think in his heart he’s devoted to her. It will be a relief to Zi’ Vincenzo to have such a bright son-in-law.

  It has been such a sad time, now at last there’s some happiness.