Hard Times (66 page)

We found him. About thirty people came in, and all thirty identified him at the show-up. We put that fellow in the penitentiary for five years. That gives you an idea how desperate fellows were to secure work. They’d go for almost anything.

 

 

There was nothing wrong with those fellows organizing the CIO. Left wing is a term that was used, where you don’t go around with the rank-and-file. They organized the fellows that worked hard for a living up at the stockyards. The American Federation of Labor did nothing for the laborer, nothing.

I can remember when my father worked at the stockyards when I was a little boy. That’s fifty years ago. His salary was ten cents an hour. My
brother worked up there for the same. He worked ten hours for a dollar a day. If they mentioned unions up there, they’d get fired. American Federation of Labor did nothing for these men. It was during the Depression, the CIO came along.

That’s when they started calling ’em left wings and bolsheviks and so forth and so on. Personally I don’t think they were any more bolshevik or Communist than I was. They just wanted an honest living, that’s all.

If all this happened today, I think the people would take it in their own hands, the way things are going. They’re a different breed now. More educated today, more educated.

There was no basic race trouble at that time. The colored stayed by themselves, they never marched into any neighborhoods. People were more or less indifferent to them.

THE SOUTH SIDE was very much as it is now in the ghettos. People standing around on corners. The streets were crowded whether it was Saturday or Monday. People who didn’t have carfare to even seek jobs. Hopelessness on their faces, as they sat on stoops…. Almost all the Negro companies went out of business. The banks in the community were closed. Though they catered to black depositors, they were operated by whites.

At almost every meeting of the City Council, delegations came down from the South Side, asking for better relief treatment. Many times on the floor of the Council, I argued for more consideration of their needs. The Council was grudging and niggardly in its response. An alderman from a West Side ward
¹⁶⁹
accused them of being lazy: “That’s why so many of them are on relief,” he said.

I replied, “It’s like tying a man’s hands behind his back, beating him on the head and accusing him of being a coward because he doesn’t fight back.” During my investigations, I found very few Negroes employed by the city and none by most of the large State Street stores.

The Council was run by Mayor Kelly just as it’s now run by Daley. He was a ruthless, domineering figure. It was a one-man show. There were only three aldermen who really challenged him. Paul Douglas was one. John Boyle was another. I was the third.

At first, Kelly was friendly. But when I introduced resolutions challenging the way things were, he changed. I challenged the winking at restrictive covenants that had so much to do with the development of today’s ghettos. The School Committee hadn’t had a meeting in six years, I discovered. I asked why it was that white students could transfer to other areas at will, but Negro children couldn’t. None of my resolutions passed. Kelly didn’t approve.

Oh yes, once I succeeded. I urged that the traction ordinance include a non-discriminatory provision. At the time, there were no Negro motormen or conductors working the Surface Lines. The pressure was so strong—manpower shortage because of the war—Kelly acceded. Not that he was personally in favor of it. He was never a friend of the Negro people. He rode on Roosevelt’s coat tails.

 

He recounts Mayor Kelly’s choosing a relative newcomer to the ranks of the Democratic Party, William A. Dawson, who had been a Republican, as Congressional candidate, over himself in 1942, “because I couldn’t take orders
.”

 

I have never been to the Council chambers since the day I left. Sometimes I regret those four years. I was denied my full development as a political person. Every door I sought to open for the Negro people was closed. In matters of housing, no success. In employment, no success. In education, no success. All I was able to do was raise the questions and bring them out in the open….

 

POSTSCRIPT:
“I was appointed by Roosevelt to the first Fair Employment Practices Commission. I served from 1941 to 1943. I remember the hearings in Los Angeles. A big aircraft company, employing twenty thousand, had hired no Negroes. Not until the morning of the hearings did they employ fifteen. I asked the personnel manager in what departments they worked. He replied, ‘Custodial.’ That means they were sweeping floors.

THERE WERE MORE than forty thousand unemployed men in town back in 1925. Lumbermen, railroad men, miners … they followed the railroads into Chicago.

 

 

I saw the Depression coming, as more of these handicapped came into my office. By early 1930, businessmen and social leaders in Chicago had developed the Cook County Relief Administration. They had no thought other than handing out a dole. I knew more was needed for preserving manhood. I developed a plan of work and talked it over with Ed Ryerson, who was chairman of the committee. I was called before them.

I told them about Paris in 1848, how the revolution was forestalled by men being put to work. I told them a revolution was in prospect right here if they didn’t give the men a chance to participate in our economy. They accepted my plan.

It was simple. The man was not to earn more than would be required for his family to live. No more than he would be getting on relief, though the pay was union scale. He’d work so many days until the equivalent sum was reached.

 

 

The men wanted to work. This was the dominant theme through all the years of the Depression. I very seldom found a man who was willing to accept relief as a process of life. He knew it was debilitating. I’ll never forget the morning we opened the office. It was a cold November day, 1930. Thousands of men were lined up for blocks. Many were skilled men and carried their tools with them. In the course of that winter, we put almost ten thousand men to work.

Soon after I opened that office, among the first to see me were the ward committeemen and aldermen. Hinky Dink came and old Bauler, too.
¹⁷⁰
I
talked to them courteously and asked them what they wanted. They drew out a list. I told them: if these people are on my list—or that of any accredited relief agency—they will go to work. Otherwise, they would not. These politicians went out with their tongues in their cheeks. They thought they could get around me. But when they found out, everybody else got the same medicine, they stood up in the City Council and defended my program.

In 1935, when some forces were strenuously attacking the WPA, I developed a reply adopted by Roosevelt and Hopkins: the conservation of human resources. Here is democracy at work, conserving the capacity of breadwinners, conserving family life and the children of the nation. This is a fundamental responsibility of government.

The
Tribune
and some of those birds rode me unmercifully, made fun of me, tried to cry it down. But it captured the imagination of people everywhere….

As I traveled through the state, I’d find crowds of men in the county seats, standing around the hall, idle, gambling or something of the kind. Hungry looking, some of them drinking a little. As the WPA developed, these men disappeared. They would be out on a work project. They began to get wages. We were now away from the relief limit. WPA gave men full wages for full work. If a man worked as a carpenter, he got a carpenter’s wage.

There was very little shirking on these jobs. I surveyed them month after month, all over the state. Some of the projects, thought up by committees, may not have been too wise. These were the ones newsmen took digs at—leafraking, as they called it.

In my own neighborhood—I live in a suburb—some of my neighbors would be waiting for me on the porch. Men who had been in business and industry. I found them a number of WPA jobs.

By ’31, thousands of Negroes had been laid off. They were the first to go. Scores of them were evicted from their homes in the winter of that year. Their property was sitting out on the walk. That’s when the Commies came in, sharp operators from New York. They had parades and organized a riot. The police shot down six or eight Negroes on the street. This flared up the whole community. I spent the next forty-eight hours in the streets down there, trying to quiet things down.

I went down to see Ryerson and the committee of leading businessmen. They were much disturbed. They expected a riot there on Sunday. I said the only way to stop this business is to put these evicted men to work at once. This was on a Saturday. They said, “We don’t have the money.” I said, “You better get some.” By Monday morning, they had the money, and we put three hundred of those men to work in the parks that day. This quieted them. We met the issue….

In the adjoining room, on a neatly made bed, a very small boy is curled in sound sleep. He is a neighbor’s child
.

 

Now WE had what was known as the Workers Alliance. Local 45, for which I was secretary and treasurer. And we were going into relief stations, sometimes gettin’ arrested two, three times a day.

We were fighting for an old lady that had died. And the relief wouldn’t give ’em that hundred dollars towards the burial. They didn’t want to give you nothing anyway. We got a crowd of about fifty people and went to the station. We gonna stay until we get this hundred dollars for this old lady. We finally succeeded in getting it. But we were two, three days before we could catch up with this man. This man was the head of everything. You see, the police would arrest us then. But when they learned we were fighting for a good cause, then they would let us alone.

 

 

Oh, that guy they used to call Two-Gun Pete.

 

That’s right. He was one of them. But here at this relief station that day, they had those big patrol vans. You turned that thing bottoms up. Didn’t nobody go in. We turned it over. There were a lot of Polish women in this organization, too. They had cayenne pepper, and they threw it in those policemen’s eyes, and nobody knew who done it, but they went blind. That cayenne pepper, that red pepper. A lot of the time, the men were knocked down, but they get right up and fight again. The women, they played the biggest roles.

We had, oh a gentleman to die. We went over to the headquarters, and the workers were all working on the first floor then. We had a white lady, weighed about two, three hundred. We called her Ma Kuntz. She looked out. We were marching up and down, you know, picketing the place, because they wouldn’t bury this old man. So we just took the corpse over there—not the man, but something resembling the corpse—and just set it in there. Where the workers was. And they all went upstairs. We run them out, just marching around there. We shall not, we shall not be moved. Singing—meaning we shall not be disturbed. When it was lunch time, those workers made up $5 and sent it downstairs and told us to get something to eat.

The police patrol came. Ma Kuntz, she spied them out there well nigh before they got there. She had that old stick, and she’s just marching, keeping time with that stick, see? Well, she say, if the patrol should come, now don’t nobody get panicky. Just keep on doing what they’re doing. So they just come in and they just stood in the door, crossed their legs, kinda stood in the door like that and looked at us. Got back in that patrol and went about their businesses.

But we did get that old man put away. We stayed over two weeks on that first floor. We had blankets, we moved a piano in and we had a big time. We had plenty to eat, ’cause those that weren’t picketing saw that we had food every day.

 

An old time sit-in
…

 

Sure, that’s what it was. It was a fight, too. But I enjoyed it, I really enjoyed it. I didn’t let them think I was powerless, either.