by Jenny Schmid
Free Press Midwest Special Correspondent
I don't know what possessed me to wake up at 4:30 a.m. for a seven-hour van ride to Decatur, Illinois. I had vowed to get out of town somehow, but this would hardly qualify as a vacation.-and epic journey to strikesville (the home of the Caterpillar and Staley strikes), U.S.A. with a van full of union hacks. Tamara talked me into it, both she and Jon Curtiss had promised (with varying degrees of sincerity) that it would "change my life." I was skeptical, but in need of a little adventure.
On the journey to Decatur I learned more than anyone needs to know about TDU, SEIU, the British Labor Party, GEO(our union of Grad students), Tamara's Guinea Pigs, NAFTA, Billy Bragg and Red Wedge, and Labor Notes. Five bagels and three freeway coffees later we motored into lovely Decatur. Our entrance into town told most of the story: three gigantic factory compounds, 10 churches, and 20 bars. That's about it.
By the time we found our meeting place (bad directions from some locals, no less) we were ready for the revolution. In front of the union hall, the crowd ranged from dread-locked communists to fatigue-wearing "scab-hunters."
It seemed like everyone was wearing red solidarity T-shirts, and Tamara decided she just had to have one (did I mention she had about 40 union buttons on already), although she confessed to feeling like a tourist shortly after her purchase.
The usual speeches were given, dramatically staged in front of a gleaming blue and yellow Teamsters' semi. After every labor leader in Decatur had their say, everyone had a few signs draped around them and with a Communist Militant Revolutionary Worker on the Front Lines newsletter under our arms, and we headed off to the action.
The group grew dramatically as we marched down the center of the highway. Our comrades from University of Wisconsin-Madison and Indiana U were very vocal, screaming "SOLIDARITY" as if the revolution were right around the next corner. Looking over the hills of Illinois, I could see that we were thousands and thousands strong. (It was estimated that there were between 6,000 and 7,000 people).
Thus began the game of cat and mouse with the police. We headed towards Staley; they blocked us off. We headed over to a heavily guarded Firestone plant. (One scene sticks out in my mind: Along the way a local middle-aged woman stood next to her mini-van, fist in the air, with her other hand bearing down on the horn through the open window of her car).
The cops then prevented us from continuing on to the Caterpillar plant, and the rally entered that confused frenzied phase where the organizers haven't decided what to do, the marchers are ready for some action and everyone is arguing about the next move.
It didn't help at all to have a noisy cop chopper buzzing around like a blood thirsty mosquito. Tamara and I were not really feeling radical enough to get arrested (she would be deported, which is a better excuse than I had) so we followed instructions and sat down in the middle of the intersection and gave our weary selves a little break. (We must have marched at least 3 miles. It's a rough life, the life of a GEO revolutionary).
Another round of closing speeches began, and we chatted with some extremely nice on-strike pork-packers from Kentucky. Some woman who was the living combination of Jane Fonda and Sally Field led us in endless soothing verses of "We Shall Overcome." Tamara revealed her hidden musical talent (the Kentucky Posse complimented her on it) and I started thinking about my visit to Decatur.
It was as life-changing as GEO leadership had guaranteed, but not entirely empowering (that old liberal word). It was thrilling to see people from all over the U.S.A. unified to help workers in Decatur. It was also hard to see a town so squashed by greed, so isolated on some level-a symbol of a bygone American life that most of middle-class culture forgets about.
The crowd dispersed and we headed back to the van. Our trip culminated in a barbecue at a Staley worker family home outside of town. It was great to see that people still find time to celebrate during such a long, hard fight, and they were so welcoming to so many strangers.
The van ride home was mostly a daze. When I got back to little old Ann Arbor, I felt like a post-Oz Dorothy. That Saturday in Decatur passed by so fast, and yet remains so clearly in my mind.
NW native Jenny Schmid is currently doing arty graduate student things at the University of Michigan, where she is also a rabble-rouser with the graduate students' union.
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Contents on this page were published in the February/March, 1995 edition of the Washington Free Press.
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