Phil Cohen War Stories: The Strike Vote
Editor’s Note: This is the third installment of Phil’s three-part story chronicling “the most action-packed six weeks” of his union organizing career. Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here. Enjoy!
The art of defeating hostile employers involves attacking on multiple fronts simultaneously, in ways they least expect, until executives come to feel like medieval lords trapped in a castle, surrounded by Vikings at every gate.
I’d quit wearing a tie on my daily rounds at the factory and always inquired about workplace issues. A number of women complained about being made the subject of lewd jokes and hands-on advances by supervisors. Unfortunately, this is not uncommon when a primarily female workforce is managed by men. Workers on the union’s negotiating committee described ongoing management harassment, including constant surveillance.
I met with union lawyer Lynn Fox, John’s daughter, and we filed charges with the EEOC and National Labor Relations Board. Under more routine circumstances, I could have resolved all of this by simply talking to the plant manager. But we were at war and had received new ammunition. I held a press conference in the plant parking lot, surrounded by seventy-five workers on lunch break, to announce the charges. A woman named Debbie was quoted as saying, “I’ve been harassed on the job to the point I’ve been physically sick.”
I also made a legally enforceable information request to Tommy Lacocca for all OSHA 200 (accident and injury) logs for the past three years and began investigating worker complaints about a company nurse who denied authorization to seek outside medical help and discouraged the filing of workers comp claims. Health and safety is the number one bipartisan issue in the realm of collective bargaining, because even the most conservative Republican is unlikely to endorse an unsafe work environment.
There is no greater camaraderie than that which is forged in the trenches. When the shift ended, I often gathered with local union officers and activists at the time clock, or on the plant steps to tell jokes and share stories. “We’ve met a lot of union reps over the years,” said Maggie one afternoon, “but never one like you.” I explained ACTWU’s divided leadership and how conservatives referred to my squad as The Textile Cowboys. I also shared a private fantasy. For years, I’d imagined entering a conference room to represent workers in arbitration, impeccably dressed in a pinstripe suit and neatly groomed, wearing a beanie-copter hat. I’d relish the reaction of dignitaries, biting their lips to avoid laughing while trying to maintain the courteous façade of litigation. Folks enjoyed both stories and quickly circulated them throughout the plant.
Negotiations resumed in Baltimore on September 10. I was asked to sit at the bargaining table to underscore the national union’s support for my actions. Sixty workers from the three plants attended. Union negotiators presented a written alternative to cutting costs via concessions. We offered to form labor-management committees that would explore means to increase efficiency, with the union paying for two outside experts to analyze production. Many of the workers verbally offered cost-cutting suggestions as the meeting began. The company was unresponsive.
Boxes of food arrived, the parties broke for lunch and I joined workers sitting in the center of the room on folding chairs. I was astonished when Genesco executive Byron Norfleet took a seat beside me. He no doubt wanted to meet his arch adversary with whom he’d been dueling in the press for weeks. But he was also genuinely fascinated to meet a street guy who’d fought his way up through the ranks of organized labor. As we weren’t discussing bargaining, I remained polite and friendly, filling his head with stories from a world he couldn’t imagine.
The Morning Call asked me to comment on the union’s proposal. “People who run a job, day and night, year in and year out, often have the best suggestions to heighten efficiency. The cutting edge of the contemporary marketplace is employee involvement.”
I continued holding weekly union meetings at the Italian Club, dressed in jeans and boots but retaining the business shirt. It was an eye-opener to run a campaign in a closed-shop state where a family’s union membership often went back several generations. A minimum of 300 workers showed up at every meeting. In the South, it was considered impressive to turn out ten percent of the workforce at monthly meetings.
The union’s tactics to undermine the employer’s customer base continued gaining momentum. Until now this had been limited to boycotting Genesco, but with contract expiration looming, the decision was reluctantly made to directly target Greif’s clientele. The boycott was researched and organized by Mike Zucker, director of the union’s Corporate Affairs Department, with whom I’d worked closely on numerous campaigns. Ernest was fond of saying he and Mike ran the air war while I ran the ground war.
On September 11, union workers demonstrated in five states at twenty Today’s Man stores that sold Perry Ellis and Ralph Lauren suits manufactured by Greif. I accompanied several busloads of protestors to a local shopping mall. These hard core union members weren’t without a silly streak. Maggie led the women in a chant of their local president’s unusual last name, “NUSH! NUSH! NUSH!” as the strapping leader sat with a shy but bemused smile on his face. It wasn’t the first time I’d witnessed this strange ritual.
I’d started coming down with a cold the previous evening on the drive back from Baltimore. By morning I was coughing profusely and boarded the bus armed with a large bottle of Robitussin, wondering how I’d get through two hours of screaming through a bullhorn followed by a press conference. We carried picket signs and distributed leaflets informing customers of the boycott.
Back home, the store manager would have called the police while patrons shopped as planned. But this was the heart of union country, and we had an impact. I swilled cough medicine like a drug addict but managed to give coherent sound bites when the time came. The store manager told the press, “They have a right to picket if they want to.”
On September 18, twelve days before contract expiration, Byron Norfleet publicly rejected the union’s proposal to form labor-management committees and work together resolving cost concerns. His concessionary demands remained intact. Wage freezes amount to a reduction in buying power as inflation increases cost of living.
“This guy doesn’t realize he’s messing with the wrong union and the wrong people,” I told reporters. “He should have thought ahead and talked to the union before buying Greif.”
Greif’s other large customers were targeted nationally as well, anchored in local demonstrations of strength and support from the workers whose future was at stake. On September 22, I led sixty union activists into a mall, up an escalator and into Macy’s, demanding the store manager remove all suits manufactured by Greif. We then made our way to the men’s department, the protestors wearing union t-shirts with orange stickers that read Hey Grief, We Will Rock You. We distributed leaflets to customers shopping for suits and thwarted the efforts of a Macy’s supervisor and plainclothes security to make us leave.
The following day, as we prepared to enter Judd’s clothing store, the manager shouted from across the floor, “I don’t have any Greif suits!” He told us orders had been cancelled. We applauded and handed him a union t-shirt. “These people are worried about their jobs and I have sympathy for them,” store manager Sandy Strauss told reporters. “My wife is union so I know what it’s about.”
Following repeated excuses and delays, I finally received the OSHA 200 logs, which documented the company’s failure to abide by the law and report all injuries. The number of documented injuries had declined from an annual average of 100 to 55 in 1992, and only 7 in the current year. I met with Lynn Fox on September 26 to file an OSHA complaint.
“The decrease did not result because there was suddenly a miraculous transformation of the company’s health and safety situation,” I told The Morning Call. “It’s because they made a corporate decision to reduce their workers comp exposure.” As the union’s legal cases gained traction, our relentless incursions into local clothing retailers continued.
On September 29, with a strike vote scheduled that evening in advance of the midnight contract expiration, Genesco withdrew its concessionary proposals and agreed to the establishment of labor-management committees to improve productivity and reduce costs. However, the three-year wage freeze and subcontracting language remained on the table.
“What we expect from profitable companies are improvements in wages and benefits,” I told the press. Ernest added, “we want our jobs absolutely protected.”
In response to the first movement after a two month bargaining deadlock, 400 Greif workers voted to reject the latest proposal but extend the contract until noon the following day, and strike if a deal wasn’t reached. The next morning a tentative settlement was achieved, pending ratification. The nineteen month contract would include a 30 cent raise, improvements in health insurance and pension plans, along with a new 401(k). Subcontracting would be permitted only if it didn’t come at the expense of union jobs. The bottom line is that Genesco had accepted terms equivalent to the new national clothing agreement.
I visited the plant on Friday to announce the vote scheduled for Monday evening and explain what was now on the table as workers cheered and shook my hand.
I entered the Italian Club at 6:30 pm on October 4 feeling confident and psyched for the grand finale. I shook hands with John Fox who would be formally presenting the package. By 7 p.m. over 450 workers were seated. John Nush called the meeting to order and handed the microphone to the Joint Board director.
Following what I considered a dry and uninspired recitation of the proposal, the floor was opened for questions and discussion. An angry young man who hadn’t attended any of the demonstrations stood and exclaimed, “With the way we kicked the company’s ass, we deserve a hell of a lot more than this. You’re not offering us shit. I say we vote this down and go on strike!” I was surprised by the round of applause he received, followed by others echoing the same message.
Instead of taking this in stride and offering more detailed explanations, John raised his voice and chided dissenting workers like an indignant father. The room became filled with dozens of separate conversations and several people walked out. It was clear the membership didn’t respect the impeccably dressed man from Philadelphia. “Let me talk to them,” I whispered in John’s ear. “They’re all yours,” he said audibly as he handed me the microphone.
“Listen, please give me your attention,” I said loudly. The auditorium grew silent. “I’m the person who’s fought side-by-side with you for the past six weeks. I risked going to jail for you and believe I’ve earned your trust. So, in the name of that trust please hear me out. I wouldn’t be recommending this proposal if I didn’t believe it was the best we could get. Our mission was to see we didn’t get less than everyone else under the master contract and Genesco finally caved in. But we have to recognize when we’ve won and take our chips off the table, or everything falls apart and we come away with nothing.”
I scanned the now quiet room and saw over 100 Lebanese workers trying to make sense of the meeting. “Do any of you understand what we’ve all been saying?” I asked them. Only several hands went up. “We need a translator!” I said. “Does anyone speak both English and Arabic?”
Just as a woman raised her hand, John took back the microphone.
“Everyone here understands English. It’s time for a vote.” He turned off the sound system as he began talking with John and Clara about the protocol for ratification.
I had a really bad feeling and felt everything we’d fought for slipping away. The Lebanese were certain to vote no and small clusters of other workers were again engaged in angry discussions.
I turned the sound system back on and grabbed the microphone, realizing my level of insubordination to an international vice president. I revisited each item in the proposal as the woman who’d previously volunteered translated.
“Now, do we have a motion to vote?” I asked.
“I make the motion,” said John Nush from behind me.
The contract ratified by over eighty percent. Some of those previously leaning the other way could no longer doubt my sincerity after seeing me risk my career for them. Before I could pull out of the parking lot, my car phone began ringing with questions from reporters about how the ratification went. “It was a short, sweet meeting,” I lied.
The next day, I made my farewell visit to the plant. Tommy Lacocca shook my hand like a gentleman as if nothing unpleasant had transpired. Several women from the negotiating committee invited me into the breakroom during their lunch period. Maggie smiled and handed me a gift-wrapped box. Upon opening it, I lifted out a purple beanie-copter embroidered with gold letters that read “Cowboy Phil.”
Phil Cohen spent 30 years in the field as Special Projects Coordinator for Workers United/SEIU, and specialized in defeating professional union busters. He’s the author of Fighting Union Busters in a Carolina Carpet Mill and The Jackson Project: War in the American Workplace.