Remembering Sonia

  3/26                                                                              

Remembering Sonia

I am walking out the door of 303 East 8th street. Where we gather to share our songs. In the name, spirit and we hope, ethos ("shut up and sing the song") of its founder, Jack Hardy.  Never a megastar himself, but mentor to a generation of singer-songwriters. That's where I was.

I notice colored chalk marks on the sidewalk outside the door. My first thought is neighborhood children in this newly family friendly East Village. But I look closer. It is a name. "Sonia Wisotsky. Age 17. Russia. Died in the Triangle Shirt Waist fire March 25, 1911." (Two doors down is the name of Golda Shput, age 19. Also from Russia.)

She worked 52 hours a week. Nine hours on weekdays, seven on Saturday. For 7-12 dollars a week.  The fire broke out at the end of the Saturday work day. The exit doors were locked, by the sweatshop owners, to prevent any unwarranted 'breaks" by the workers. Or "theft", they said. By the time it was over, 146 people were dead. All but 23 women. Most of them teen agers. The youngest 14, the oldest 45. The owners escaped to the roof. And the man with the key just went home.

On the way up Avenue B, I'm thinking about Sonia, this Russian immigrant teenage Jewish girl. What floor did she live on? Was she thin, or zaftig? Was there a brightness to her or did she seem tired and worn? Did she speak English? Did she have a boyfriend? Did they dance? Did she sing? To herself on the way to work or at her sewing machine? Did she ever write a song?

And was she one of the ones who feeling trapped, jumped to her death from the windows? Bodies tearing through the firemen's nets?  Did she fall through the open elevator door down the shaft to where the weight of bodies prevented the elevator from rising one more time? Or simply died in the smoke and fire?

In various ways those flames still burn.

The East Village once teemed with working class immigrants. Having passed through various stages of urban evolution, it's fast gentrifying. A high rise "luxury" condo just a few blocks north of 8th street. But immigrants still come. Sweatshops still oppress. And owners still find ways to lock doors, even if metaphorically.

Sonia will be buried  in Mount Richmond Cemetery on Staten Island. Along with 21 of her coworkers, courtesy of the Hebrew Free Burial Association.

Walking up Avenue B, I see Sonia exit the door. Go down the three steps. Wait for her friend Golda. Together on this gray, cold and raw day, they will make the twenty minute walk down St. Mark's to the factory. Maybe sharing gossip. Or sharing plans for their day off tomorrow. Or maybe just in silence.

The Sunday before

9/8

The Sunday before, before 9-11, was September 9th, 2001. A beautiful sunny day. It was the weekend the city had its labor celebrations. (Never on Labor Day weekend, even workers deserve the holiday named for them.) West-Park was participating in Labor to the Pulpit Sunday where union representatives woild come and speak as part of regular Sunday worship.

Our music director at the time, Bill Schimmel, accordionist extraordinaire, who Andre once described as beyond brilliant, had brought his friend Paul Stein, a long time cultural worker who plays for unions and homeless people. Paul brought a collection of old union/worker songs even including some yiddishkeit. Our guests were restaurant and service workers. Our religion/labor coalition had joined in their struggle against the Metroplitan Opera, it’s restaurant and cafes. We had plannned a picket line for the Met’s opening night. 

Opening night was to be Thursday. Tuesday, of course, was 9-11. Thursday I called a clergy friend. Look, I said, I’m assuming the protest is off...just wantng to be sure.  Oh, he said, you don’t know. The union lost over 150 workers at the Towers....

Later, we would have a memorial service at St. Mary’s in Harlem to remember them. We also leaerned that among the dead were many undocumented workers. People without papers. People who technically didn’t exist. Their families, fearing deportation, never reported them missing. They were never counted. How many might there have been? Their names will not  appear on the memorial.  A few weeks later, the Franciscans at Holy Name Church, spiritual home of many immigrants,  organized a service in memory of those unreported persons who had died.

Behind my desk, in my old office, was a photo taken on September 5th at our last organizing meeting before the scheduled action. Clergy and workers,  mostly Latino, standing together, smiling. I would look at the photo, wonder how many made it, how many did not.

Sixteenth day of Lent: Never cross a picket line

3/25

Day trip to DC to lead workshop. Sign on wall in men’s room at New York Avenue Presbyterian Church: Bathing and shaving are not allowed in the restroom...

3/26

Uli and Bob

I leave a Presbytery meeting in Brooklyn Heights and hop on the 2 train to get to the Saigon Grill workers’ rally. My friend Uli meets me there. And Pastor Heidi Neumark of Trinity Lutheran as well.  It’s actually turning  into a movement to create a sweatshop free zone on the Upper Westside. The restaurant owners decided to close for the day. Although they do have counter pickets. 

Of course, the politicians are here. Assemblywoman Linda Rosenthal. State Senator Tom Duane.  Latino elected officials. Representatives of various Democratic  neighborhood organizations. Local business people. Including my favorite, Juan Campos, of Mama Mexico.  Sr. Campos is not only a business person but a man of faith. He’s part of the Mexican Puebla community that has made the Upper Westside a Poblano diaspora.  He has quietly flown bodies of poblanos who have died in New York back to Puebla, back to their tierra. He speaks with quiet dignity and clarity, “No restaurant has to make a profit on the backs of its workers,” he says, “there is no excuse to oppress workers, especially immigrants. I am an immigrant myself.” He has supported everything we have ever done regarding the homeless. 

Every speaker references the 100th anniversary of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. My friend, Pastor Heidi, wove a passionate metaphor around the image of fire. And ended  with the chant, un pueblo unido jamás será vencido.

And then it was my turn. This is what I said:

I am the pastor of West-Park Church. Just down Amsterdam. For months , I’ve been watching the strikers on my way to and from work. Every day, regardless of the weather.Sleet, snow, rain, freezing cold, they are there. I walk by. Express my support.  But one of my members said, isn’t it time to join them? So she’s been out here on the picket line, marching with the strikers. And now, I am here.

I grew up in Pittsburgh. There, the first golden rule was do unto others as you would have them do unto  you and love your neighbor as yourself. But the second golden rule was, never cross a picket line. 

That Triangle Shirtwaist Fire, the victims were women. Immigrants. They spoke   Italian, Yiddish. Nothing changes. Today it’s Chinese and Spanish. There’s no such thing as an illegal alien, people sin papeles, without papers. There’s just workers. Human beings. All deserving of dignity. Of decent wages. And working conditions. 

A few weeks ago, we marched in solidarity with Wisconsin. I saw a great picture from Tahrir Square in Cairo. “Wisconsin we are with you,” it said, “one world, one pain.” Yes the issue we deal with is global. But actions start here, right here, with the Saigon Grill, with our neighborhood. What can you do? We all have businesses that are part of our  daily lives. The grocery store, the bodega. The dry cleaner. Go to them. Tell them you appreciate them. And want to keep shopping there. And ask them to sign the pledge. To simply agree to follow fair labor practices. That’s all. 

WE  SHALL BE     SWEAT SHOP FREE......

I’ve heard myself in translated into Spanish before. And the translator does a good job. But it’s my first time to hear myself translated into angry chinese. Sounds good. 

Re. Brashear, Pastor Heidi and Council Member Brewer