Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Unions! Stop Hiding the Working Class

I love me my union (National Writers Union / UAW) and I love me my union talk (Sisters & Brothers; continue the struggle; Solidarity), but the mainstream unions have become infected with language I find unbearable. And rude. And inaccurate. Let me confine myself to two glaring examples:

The Middle Class
I spent my youth dissecting class using Mao’s models. How many evenings did my revolutionary collective sit around deciding whether school teachers were part of the new working class despite their college education; whether mom & pop stores (i.e. petit bourgeois) were more aligned with the working class than the middle class; how to distinguish between the experience of a working class person going to college (loans and scholarships) and privileged people going to college (parental checkbook).

Now my unions are trying to call everyone “middle class.” Like if you have a union card you belong to the middle class. Factory workers? Truck drivers? Nurses? All middle class, say the union leaders. So who is working class, in their eyes, I wonder. Does it leap from lumpen (poor) to middle class to the ruling class?

Although now that I think about it, when was the last time the union people talked about the ruling class? You hear about the “wealthy” but you hear nothing about the owning classes. The term “ruling class” contains a political observation – that the “wealthy” have power and use that power to control our lives. A lottery winner could be wealthy – but that doesn’t make them ruling class. Let’s use language that is more precisely descriptive and helps us pinpoint who is on which team.

Why debase a term and therefore an identity – working class – that we should instead be infusing with pride and energy? Why debase a concept of the fighting workers in favor of the language of the capitalists? I cannot imagine getting all hopped up at a demo yelling, “Middle Classers of the World Unite.” In fact, perhaps this is American exceptionalism. This is distinguishing “our” working class from those of other countries. I refuse to buy into the myth that if your union gets you decent wages and conditions, you are thereafter part of the middle class. To the contrary, it just means that the working class is scoring victories. But of course, those days seem very long past.

Working Families

This is a nonsensical notion. It takes me back to pre-union days when whole families would toil as near-slaves in the fields, in the dankness of feudal workshops or in poor countries’ industries where unions have yet to win child labor laws or 8 hour workdays. Why would we talk about working families instead of workers? What about workers who are single?

The politicians have adopted this phrase too. I’ve written many times about the shock I experienced when the then-acting-Governor of Massachusetts went on TV immediately following the 9/11 attacks to promise that she would protect “Massachusetts families.” Ah, excuse me? I’m a resident, a citizen, a tax-payer and I am most emphatically not a member of a Massachusetts family. So do I have to sit outside the bomb shelter?

Obama too is always going on about fighting for middle class families. This is offensive to non-family folks. Besides, a huge chunk of his constituency is working class and another chunk is poor. What about us? Does he mean to include us in that rhetoric as if it were a compliment? “Middle class” is never a term I have seen shouted to the roof-tops. It is not a unifying concept bringing together people in a movement. It was once, perhaps, a state for working class folks to aspire to – with all its promises of education for the kids and a mortgage in the suburbs and a few bucks invested in mutual funds. But now impossible tuition fees, incomprehensible education loan systems, the evaporation of many scholarships, foreclosures of homes, investment rip-offs on a world-wide level and massive unemployment have surely by now erased those dreams.

Workers of the world unite. What more could you lose?

Stepping Up with Charles Coe

After eight years of Bush meeting all my (low) expectations and too many months of Obama meeting few of them, I am happy to report on a moment in which life did not disappoint. Let me tell you the story of the recent Coe Family Fundraiser.

My friend Charles Coe is a monster talent. I’m not talking about his heart-squeezing poetry, his witty prose, his killer cooking, his melodious singing, his exaggerated capacity as a volunteer, his smooth MCing or his gawd-damned good looks. I’m not even talking about his role in the community as peripatetic fundraiser and all around I’ll-back-you-upper. I’m talking about his ability to pull people together.

The last few years have been tough ones in the family of Charles Coe. His dad died several years ago and to Charles fell the responsibility of looking after his mother, his sister Carol and their home in Indianapolis, Indiana. Then his mom died. More recently, Carol got very ill with cancer and Charles realized that the additional expenses this involved had pushed him past the limit of his resources. “I’m all tapped out,” he told me.

He called together a couple of close friends to discuss putting on a fundraiser for himself. Several well-known poets stepped up to read and a plethora of unspeakably cool silent auction items began piling up, not the least a brunch for four prepared by a former corporate chef and a vacation weekend in a San Francisco apartment minutes from Golden Gate Park. We put out the following message with an Evite covering the event details, and we suggested that those who couldn’t make it just send along a check.

There are times when a family needs a hand. For the Coe family, this is that time. My sister, Carol, has been suffering from liver cancer for two years. Now she’s at the final stage and is about to be moved from the hospital to hospice care. Her son and I are unable to cover all the increasing medical and end-of-life expenses. I’m holding a poetry fundraiser in hopes that my friends and colleagues can help our family deal with this pressing financial burden.

Charles asked me to make arrangements for the venue and to be the MC, running the podium part of the evening. His friend Zoe took on the silent auction. Barry offered to 
photograph the evening. Others picked up refreshments, rented and managed a sound system and decorated the hall with poster portraits of Carol. A gaggle of friends offered (and did) to turn up early on the night to set up.

Then Charles got a call that he had to go to Carol in their hometown of Indianapolis. He picked up and went. Several days later, Carol passed away and Charles remained to make final arrangements.

Zoe and I scrambled to hold it all together. We put out a reminder for the event with this message from Charles:

I'm sad to say that my sister Carol passed away on Friday, October 9th, and was laid to rest this past Saturday. Now the focus of tonight's fundraiser is on helping my family deal with her final expenses, and other expenses too numerous to mention here.

But I don't want tonight to be a somber event; I want it to be a celebration of community--an acknowledgment of the tremendous love and support it's been my privilege to receive over these last weeks. So I look forward to seeing you all tonight. And I sincerely thank those who can't attend but have sent contributions.

Setting-up the event in an hour had the usual share of minor drama (would the hot water boil in time for tea?), but by the time friends started to pour in, the hall was ready to receive them and their donations. Pastries and hot drinks were scarfed up we recognized each other – friends and strangers alike - as vital to this palpable sense of community. People crowded around the auction tables laden with arts, crafts and coupons. A bidding war ensued on my silent auction offering: a 90-minute dance lesson in bossa-nova, cha-cha, meringue or swing.
 
We began. I welcomed everyone and introduced the remarkable poets, one after the other: Danielle Legros Georges, Barbara Helfgott Hyett and Fred Marchant. It was a poetry-loving crowd who knew and honored these well-known voices. And then I introduced Charles:

When I first met Charles through the National Writers Union, he introduced himself to me (and perhaps to some of you) as a “bald-headed Negro from Indianapolis, Indiana.” I soon discovered that Charles is one of the most social guys around. I don’t mean that he’s a party lad – although he is that – but he is a magnet for people whether it’s for a literary or a humanitarian event.

Who knew, during his misspent youth, when he was lead singer for an Indianapolis rock-& roll cover band, … who knew he’d become such a pillar of our community. He moved to New England in the mid-70s and started his career as an “ever-evolving earthling” – always growing, always flowing. He began with song writing and went on to create knock-out poetry and prose. His book Picnic on the Moon was published by Leapfrog Press and his essays, often humorous, have appeared in publications from Harvard Magazine to the Boston Weekly Dig

He serves as co-chair of our National Writers Union/Boston and as the head of the National Writers United Service Organization – national non-profit companion org to NWU. His emphasis is on building community among the writers organizations, so we often work in collaboration with the other groups.

I think of Charles as the guy who steps up. He steps up to organize fundraisers, especially around violence against women - whether it’s for the Casa Myrna Vasquez refuge for women or for the Women’s Network in Lawrence or Jane Doe in Boston. He organized fundraisers after Katrina and after the Tsunami, and he has appeared at a gazillion events that others put together.

He steps up for friends in more or less need. He brought over his drill and ladder and other butch tools when no one else could penetrate my ceiling to hang a light. When he couldn’t either, he bought some special bits to try again.

He threw me the best book party a girl could wish for when my book on Sarah Palin came out.

Probably many people here could talk about how Charles steps up. But we’ve seen him mount the highest steps, through the illness and death in recent years of his father, his mother and now Carol his sister. Luckily, he’s got broad shoulders, our Charles does, and he’s been a rock for his family.

But this succession of family heartbreaks stretched his resources too far. When Charles needed a hand, he totally and completely believed that his community would step up for him. And he was profoundly  right. Look around the room and know that for every one of us here, there are at least one or two other people who couldn’t make the date but stepped up to make the gesture.

I think most of us feel lucky to be able to show Charles that we have learned his lesson of generosity and friendship. He’s stepped up so often for us and the things we believe in, and this time we have met his own high standards.

Not only do we get to come together to celebrate the love Charles has demonstrated for Carol and the community he has built, we even get to hear him read. I give you Charles Coe.

In the end, Charles reached his monetary goal and completely over-shot his hugs quotient. The truth is that from the start I was impressed – but concerned – with Charles’ belief that the community to which he had given so much would totally get his back. For him, it was a life-changing experience – a sense that there is somewhere to turn.

People with class privilege, with close family members who have resources, with inherited wealth or big jobs, they live with this assumption all the time. Many were born with – if not with a silver spoon in their mouths – at least a safety net under their asses. For those on whom others depend, those who have to fight for everything we get, those  who most feel the impact of the ravaging so many of us are taking at the hands of the bonus classes and their political plants, our only recourse is to be loved. Charles has given the love and just look – his peeps were there to return it when he asked for it. He believed it from the beginning. He knew that this was one investment – his willingness to step up when others needed him – that neither Wall Street nor Washington could diminish. We all want a bit of that generosity-magic that Charles has – so he gave us this opportunity.

Economic Crisis Brings Out the Witches

Three hundred women crowded into Somerset, England, to vie for a job. Most of them had wild hair, pointy big hats and a cackled laugh meant to bring on shivers. A tourist attraction was hiring a witch - at the unusually generous salary of 50,000 British Pounds. Unfortunately for the witches, that was actually going to be pro rata for holidays and events only.

According to one news source, "The job to teach visitors about witchcraft and magic attracted 2,319 applicants, including a London banker, after it was advertised in local newspapers and job centres earlier this month."

Carole Bohanan (see photo), 40, a small town real estate agent, won the position under her witch name Carla Calamity . She said that this wasn't much of a diversion from her day job, since she had to use a bit of witchery magic to move any property in the present market.

The BBC interviewer warned her that she'd have to live in a damp dark cold cave and she responded with a kind of desperate gaiety that, "You know I'm renting at the moment and I have puddles coming up through the flagstones, so I'm pretty used to living in a damp residence. This is probably going to be like living in a palace in comparison."

When a cave is a step up for a working woman, you know that times are rough.

Ryanair Charges Passengers for Barf Bags

Okay, so they haven’t taken that step yet. No one really pukes on planes anymore, so maybe taxing oxygen masks or life jackets will be better revenue spinners. But what’s with the recently discussed £1 ($1.43) fee for taking a leak? For one thing, it’s discriminatory. Many older women have to go more often than young ones. Men over 50 who are battling their prostate may have to try a couple times before they succeed. Why charge per visit? It might be fairer to charge by the liter.

I know Ryanair quite well. I’ve flown with them to many destinations including Dublin (where they were founded in 1985), to Belfast, to Edinburgh and most recently to Pisa. I know their schtick well: the tickets are super-cheap, but they nickel-and-dime you half to death. Want a reserved seat? Want to check a bag? Want to check in at the airport and not online? Then pay up, sucker. Now they’re even threatening to charge quite a hefty fee (€30) for any bag of duty-free goodies you bring on the plane.

Wikipedia has some news about the new aircraft Raynair has ordered.

“In an example of the airline's relentless prioritizing of cost over all other factors, the aircraft will be delivered without window shades…, seat back recline and seat back pockets, which result in savings of several hundred thousand dollars per aircraft and give continued savings through reduced cleaning and repair costs.”

Oh yeah? Did you say no more seat back recline? Now you’re talking. I’m happy to see the end of some massive businessman laying on my lap, trapping me, preventing me from opening my laptop or balancing my (extra charge) drink. Now I’ll be able to slip out of my seat and get to the toilet in time to struggle – jiggling and squeezing my thighs – with my coin to get the loo door open. If Ryanair gives with one hand, you can be sure it takes with the other.

Economy Sucks? Try Endorphins

Need something to take your mind off the bills piling up? the phone calls from friends who have just been told to clear out their desks? your attempts to learn how to darn socks? Try endorphins. Here are three steps to (intermittent) ecstasy, plus an unbeatable role model:

ONE: Find something that stimulates your endorphins.
    (My top three: martial arts, partner dancing, sex)

TWO: Become an expert in it.
    (Barter for lessons, sign up at your local community ed, get a to-do DVD)

THREE: Practice daily and build up your speed and intensity.
    (Exhilaration, breathlessness, orgasmic sensations all lead to endorphins)

My brilliant artist friend Sandy Oppenheimer (Want a portrait? You’ll never find a more unique artist) sent me this clip. While I’ve never been crazy about tear-away clothes, check out what endorphins do for this 80-year-old salsa dancer – or perhaps what this woman does for endorphins.

Thanks (1) to the Insatiable Class: Gathering Cans

It is early February, 2009 when I turn my car into my driveway and see the older woman scaling our apartment building’s dumpster. Nearby is a rickety cart stuffed with lumpy bags. The woman is looking for cans and bottles that she can turn in for a five cent refund.

She turns as I approach, a dead kind of nervousness passing like a homemade mask across her face. Not sensing any danger, she goes back to her search. I park, pulling out the four or five plastic bags full of cans that have been collecting in my back seat, waiting for me to remember to deposit them in the supermarket recycling machine for credit.

As I move towards her, I ask, “Would you like these?” She pulls herself off the edge of the dumpster and turns to face me. Her gray hair wisps out of a cheap stocking cap. Her collarless wool jacket is in such tatters that the pockets are sticking out of the worn-out bottom hem. Some fingertips protrude from unraveling gloves, and some don’t. I think she is Chinese, perhaps my age – early 60s.

It is disturbing to be face-to-face with her numb pain.

“More?” she asks, shaking my bags of cans.

“No. Sorry.”

She turns back to her work. I have given her my garbage and she has nothing more to say and no time in which to say it.

Dismissed and distraught, I walk into my building, a thousand thoughts about hard times going through my mind. This is how it begins.

Should I have given her money? Should I have invited her upstairs to my apartment for a meal, a bath, some fresh clothes? Did she prefer her privacy? What boundaries am I going to set for the coming days? My own resources are quite limited, but others, so many others, are in the kind of trouble that we can’t ignore.

I’m a socialist - whatever that means now. I have always insisted that capitalism is not a viable system. I have been through other scary downturns, but nothing like this. The Insatiable Class has been unchecked for eight years and they are unrepentant about bringing down the world.

It was weeks ago that I saw the woman behind my building, but I cannot stop thinking about her and wondering what I should do the next time this happens. There will be many “next times.”

As an activist, I know that there aren’t individual solutions – there are only social solutions to social problems. But even though that is the absolute damndest truth on the macro level, on the daily, micro level we are either the poor ourselves or someone close to us is. We are either the unemployed or we are holding our breath. We are either in need or we are scared. Where oh where is the outrage?!