The World Is Yours!
Issue #5
The Labor Issue
April 1997

On Sweat

Fade in. It's February 19th, and I'm standing at a rally in downtown Lost Angels, in support of the workers of the New Otani Hotel and the boycott effort that they and Local 11 of the Hotel Employees and Restaurant Employees (H.E.R.E.) Union have been pushing forward for some time now. Under the dim gray downtown skies, thousands (and I mean thousands!!!) of workers from around the country marched through the streets, claiming them, in a united proclamation that this city was theirs. The streets were overfilled with their colorful banners, and it was a hype event, considering that these were the people that made the city operate, fulfilling functions that most Angelenos either overlook or take for granted. These were the people that cleaned the tables, that served the food, that made the beds, and serviced the airports. They were the janitors, the busboys, the garment workers, and the farmworkers. As they marched through the streets, I could see above all else that these were not just the workers of L. A., but that they were L. A., and they were all united in their common hopes for a better living, a living wage, health care for their families, and a future for their kids. When they marched out there on those streets they were marching for whole families, and for the generations to come. Most of all, though, they were marching for us.

Fade in. My homie calls me up on the phone with the good news. The Living Wage ordinance has passed in the L. A. city council. It's a victory for all workers cause it raises the living wage for all city employees. I'm congratulatory of the efforts of the Living Wage Coalition, but am reserved. Tricky Dick Riordan, L. A.'s mayor could veto the initiative. My friend tells me that our allies have enough votes to overturn the Dick's veto. I'm reassured. Weeks later, the Dick vetoes the bill. The council overturns it. Score one for poor and working people everywhere! By the way, the Dick is leading in the polls in the mayoral election. Looks like we'll have to put up with his shit for a little while longer.

Fade in. I'm sitting at home looking at a graying picture from the Yokota family album. In it my great-grandfather, stands in overalls on a Watsonville hillside, his face browned by the sun. There are potatoes in the foreground. The back of the photograph carries the caption, "Waroku Yokota, picking potatoes in Watsonville, 1917." A call comes over my phone from my friend Carlos. "Hey, are you going to the United Farm Workers protest in Watsonville this weekend?" My mind blazes with history, thinking on the Latino and Filipino workers that helped form the UFW, and especially César Chávez and Philip Vera Cruz, who helped to put a face to the farmworkers movement in those days. And I thought about the Sugar Beet Farmworkers Union that the Japanese and Mexicans formed back in the day, which was the first interracial union in California history. And I thought about the historic new drive to organize the strawberry pickers in California under the UFW. I speak into the phone, words rolling off my tongue like a plow. "Hell yah, I'll be there. I wouldn't miss this for the world." I look at the photo again, and it almost looks like my great-grandfather's face is smiling.

Fade in. I'm dreaming that I'm at a department store. On the racks are hundreds and hundreds of shirts and pants, hats and shoes. The logos are familiar, and beam out at me with a blazing brilliance. Guess? labels, Nike labels, etc., all seem to stare at me, fighting for my attention. I look down at my hands and in my right hand is a pair of scissors, and in my left is a big Magnum marker pen, the kind that taggers use. With a deftness that defies logic, I begin snipping off labels, and marking up the clothes with tags like "Made with Sweatshop Labor," and "Stop Third World Exploitation." As each label falls to the floor, they magically turn into ghosts, some Asian, some Latino, and they all turn to me and gather around, watching as I cut. I look at them, and notice scars across their hands and a deep heaviness in their eyes. With an effort, they smile at me with a look that almost seems to say "So you've remembered, huh." And with that I wake from my dream.

These are tough times for us today, tough for kids growing up, tough for families trying to survive, and tough for workers as they try to eke out their existence, working for people who don't give a rats ass about them. This issue of TWIY! is dedicated to these people, with hopes for a better tomorrow when they won't have to answer to the man.

Issue 6
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