An America That No Longer Exists
Break the Unions, You Break America
Who are those guys?
A union welder, a deep-sea diver, my union plumber dad in the center; union carpenter—and the hatless guy on the end? Oh, that’s their reprobate, ne’er-do-well half-brother, who never met a pony or a greyhound he wouldn’t place a bet on.
All gathered to bury their Uncle Vic, a coal miner and member of the IWW, who died, as they say, “before his time.” From breathing decades of coal dust and brutalizing and risking one’s body in dangerous tunnels thousands of feet below the Earth in order to keep America’s homes heated and America’s industries fueled.
My grandfather stands in the front. Emigrated from Bulgaria, was given the surname “Louis” at Ellis Isand and years later lamented his naivete at believing America’s streets really were paved with gold.
Ended up farming forty acres along the South Platte because you could grow enough food, if it came to that, to keep your boys alive. Four of his sons grew up to be productive members of society. And the fifth? He enjoyed chasing easy money so much he died broke.
There you have it: my dad’s side of the family. Blue-collar men, who numbered among the smartest people I’ve ever known. Which gives the lie to the really, really annoying assumption of too many Americans—that blue-collar workers use their hands while white-collar workers use their brains.
And on my mom’s side, the Irish. Immigrants, who took any job they could find and were often greeted with signs, IRISH NEED NOT APPLY.
Micks and Bohunks, my ancestors were called, among other pejoratives. Neither side was willingly clasped to America’s bosom. My dad and my uncles would have been the first to credit organized labor with providing them a “A fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay.” Along with a comfortable, middle-class life where it was assumed their children would ascend at least one more rung on the ladder of the American Dream.
Tangent: You can directly trace the decline of the middle-class to the decline of labor unions. With special unkind thoughts to you, Ronald Reagan, for PATCO. And you, Bill Clinton, for triangulation and NAFTA. And a special place in hell for you, Chuck Shumer, who opined, “For every blue-collar Democrat we lose in western Pennsylvania, we will pick up two moderate Republicans in the suburbs in Philadelphia, and you can repeat that in Ohio and Illinois and Wisconsin.”
Thus, causing millions of blue-collar workers to give the middle finger to the party of FDR.
So, when deciding to write a historical novel beyond my usual medieval England time period, I knew I had to research Victor, Colorado. At the turn of the last century, Victor, located some 45 minutes from my home, was called “The City of Mines.” Out of everything locals said about Victor, one stuck with me: the bullet holes set in the brick facade of the Western Federation of Miners Union Hall.
Put there by the Colorado State Militia during the 1903-1904 Colorado Labor Wars.
I’ve walked Victor’s Fourth Street, placed my fingers in the bullet holes of that fabled building.
Researched one of the most violent strikes in labor history.
Wrote a book about it.
The Golden Promise of Cripple Creek: https://bwlnk.com/ 9781644577110
With an Irish union leader, Ronan Doyle, as my hero because Bohunks weren’t allowed in “the world’s greatest gold camp.”
To honor my dad and his uncles, who believed “there is power in a union.”
And to all the men, women and children who lived, worked, and were sacrificed on the altar of capitalism without limits.
Next week I’ll introduce you to Ronan Doyle and explain what was the deal with keeping my grandfather and all those other Bohunks out of Colorado’s High Country.