I’m baaaacccck! Like a bad habit. I’ve been here before, around a year ago, but it’s probably time to expand on my introductions, both my original one on my blog and my previous intro here, “The Act of Bearing Witness”.
Who is Lubu? I’m a Sicilian-American, blue-collar, “unwed” mother, journeylevel electrician (almost 20 years in the trade) who is deeply involved in the life of my Local (and still involved, but to a lesser extent, in other area labor organizations and efforts). Labor activism runs in my family—literally in my blood and bones. My father served as President of his Local several times, and was an organizer. My mother served on the Executive Board of her Local and was a steward. My grandparents and great-grandparents were union members (my mother’s mother was also a steward). Talk of unionism, labor issues, internal union politics, and strategy from within and without was a feature of my upbringing; I was immersed in it, and learned those lessons like language without an accent. Lessons that would serve me, and continue to serve me well as a tradeswoman in a venue where many doors still remain closed, and the ceiling isn’t glass but hard concrete—-and that’s a whole ‘nother game. Yet still, labor history, struggles and activism remain a passion. I’m an old-school, shop-floor, rank-n-file, pound-the-pavement, knockin’-on-doors, knockin’-down-walls, standin’-up-in-the-Hall kinda union sister. I’d like to see more women enter the trades.
I’m Somebody’s Mother (*gasp*!), and my daughter was born three months premature, at one pound, ten ounces (735 grams). The struggles her birth and early development brought made me keenly aware of the failures of our current system of health insurance, and is damn likely to be the subject of a post on this gig. She is now turning eight, is in the second grade, and so I also take a strong interest in education, and am a vocal supporter of the public schools (I started subscribing to “Rethinking Schools”, a magazine for radical teachers, when my girl entered Early Start). I am interested in multiple intelligences, and various modes of learning.
I’m a survivor of domestic violence (from an early marriage that feels like a lifetime ago—I was 19, and divorced at 25), and grew up in an alcoholic household with all the violent levels of dysfunction that implies. I feel obligated to speak about it, ‘cuz those dysfunctions thrive under silence. The people living in the midst of that hell don’t. So. I have very little patience for those who demonize single mothers; unlike me, my daughter is growing up in an emotionally healthy home. Also, I want to change the assumptions about who survived DV; survivors are Everywoman, Everywhere. Doesn’t make it any easier to talk about, tho’. I am still close to my family (I’m an only child), including my large extended family. In addition to the regular silence and denial surrounding emotionally unhealthy families, there’s an added layer of omerta—I just don’t know how else to put it. If any of this sounds familiar to you, I want you to know you are not alone.
I’m a perpetual outsider. Grew up in different cities and different neighborhoods, but the one constant was that I never Fit In. “She ain’t from around here, is she?” No, she ain’t. But although that can be a negative in the provincial midwest, my outsider status has given me a perspective from multiple vantage points—and I exercise that protocol to the best of my abilities.
I’ve been a Feministe reader since back when it was solely Lauren’s gig. I found this place from Prometheus 6 when she got a mention for her post on whiteness. As to how long I’ve been feministe…..all my life. And I’m forty years old.
A couple of weeks ago I went for a walk. Ended up passing by one of the landmark buildings in my city, a spectacle of modern architecture, all green glass and angles, taking up practically two city blocks. (in case you were wondering, it leaks like a sieve.) I worked electrical maintenance in this building while pregnant—with every woman in the joint coming up to me and saying, “Wow! a pregnant electrician! How cool!” while I said, “SHHHHH!! that’s a secret! The guys just think I’ve gained a little weight!” One of my best friends was the project manager during that building’s construction. He was from a neighboring local, and he was universally hated throughout the length of the project.
Anyway, I noticed that a couple of the sidewalk slabs I was walking over had names on them. And I stopped to read them. There, frozen in time, were the names of many of the electricians who worked on the project—a project that was completed years before I entered the apprenticeship. The name of my daughter’s godfather is there. The Business Manager. Former union officers. I knew almost everyone who signed their name. Worked with ’em. Apprenticed under ’em. And then I saw Brother Tim Daugherty’s name. From back when he was young, full of piss-and-vinegar. Long before he thought taking a dive off the fourteenth floor of the hospital was a ticket out of pain.
It’s a common act—scratching one’s name in somewhere on the jobsite. Those slabs were unusual in that they were left to be, be visible. But the act itself? Endemic. It’s our way of reminding you we exist. People laid those bricks, hung those light fixtures, poured that concrete, drove those nails, laid that pipe. But we are still so invisible. Who tells our stories? I’ve seen the insides of the covers of junction boxes signed, with a Local number. Always a Local number. I’ve left my name behind, too, on walls above drywall ceilings, on I-beams, and yes, inside the covers of junction boxes.
We scratch our names in concrete, on steel, so someone, somewhere in the future, will know we were there. It’s universal. You may not know our thoughts, but dammit you will know our names.
And now you know mine. Assabenedica!