Dawn is still an hour away. These mountains are drenched in darkness and the steady cadence of crickets. Fog lies in patches on narrow roads winding through the valleys, thickening to a dense soup at the crests of the ridges, and travel is slow.
From time to time large white tents appear along the road, lit up like ghosts by kerosene lanterns. Men dressed in camouflage outfits huddle in the doorways of makeshift shanties and around fires made in barrels, rubbing their hands and stamping their feet to keep warm. Hand-lettered signs at their feet read "UMWA on strike -- unfair labor practices" and "Gov. Baliles, this is South West Virginia not South Africa." Though these men hold no guns, the scene has the feel of a war zone, an eerie echo of another era.
A century ago the United Mine Workers of America (UMWA) came to birth in these hills, organizing miners who lived in constant danger and grinding poverty while coal barons lined their pockets with wealth robbed from these mountains. "King Coal" fueled the Industrial Revolution, stoking the steel furnaces and locomotive engines that ushered the nation into a new era. And mine workers demanding fair wages, eight-hour days, and safety in the mines were harassed, beaten, evicted from and burned out of their homes, and on some occasions massacred by gun thugs hired by the coal companies.
These hills still echo with their cries and with the labor songs that for a hundred years have rallied and strengthened the miners and their families. These mountain hollows still pay tribute to the determination of generations of everyday heroes, and to the courage of such UMWA legends as John L. Lewis and Mary Harris "Mother" Jones.
Mother Jones -- first arrested for her organizing activities at the age of 72 and once called "the most dangerous woman in America" -- offered immortal words on which to build this movement: "Pray for the dead, and fight like hell for the living!"
She was moved by the words of Clarence Darrow regarding the miners' struggle: "This contest is one of the important contests that have marked the progress of human liberty since the world began. Every advantage that the human race has won has been at fearful cost. Some men must die that others may live. It has come to these poor miners to bear this cross, not for themselves alone but that the human race may be lifted up to a higher and broader plane."
But Mother Jones knew that it was not only the men who were paying this sacrifice. She said of the many women who marched in her "mop and broom brigades," who kept watch at the mines to protect their husbands' jobs, brooms in one hand and babies in the other, "In the long years to come the nation will pay them high tribute, for they were fighting for the advancement of a great country." These hills have marked their words.
Controversy: 'A union-busting offer'
The sun arrives unannounced, the sky gradually turning light gray as the fog dissipates. A drizzling rain continues for most of the morning.
Every day for three weeks now, men and women have been up before dawn in a parade over the mountains to the picket lines, while some of the striking miners have stayed in shanties outside the mines and coal preparation plants around the clock. It is May Day, 1989. It is also the 159th birthday of Mother Jones. The women lead in singing "Happy Birthday" to the grand, old woman.
Yesterday's coal barons have become today's coal corporations, as Appalachian vast mineral resources continue to be siphoned away and corporate "absentee landlords" control the majority of the land. While the mines are putting out record coal tonnage, the area suffers record unemployment -- three times the state average -- as mechanization replaces more and more workers. All the usual indicators of poverty are here -- except one: the crime rate in these counties is less than one-third that of the state level.
The largest corporation in southwest Virginia -- and the nation's number-one exporter of bituminous coal -- is the Pittston Coal Group. For years, Pittston joined with other coal companies in the Bituminous Coal Operators Association (BCOA) in making contracts with the United Mine Workers. But in 1987 Pittston withdrew from the BCOA, stating that, as a primary exporter of coal, its needs were different.
A year before, according to the United Mine Workers, Pittston began secretly to transfer union-controlled coal fields to its non-union subsidiaries, thus subcontracting away union jobs. On Feb. 1, 1988, Pittston's contract with the UMWA expired. Some 1,500 widows, pensioners, and disabled miners in southwest Virginia received word that the medical benefits promised to them for life under a 1974 agreement were terminated with the expiration of the contract.
Miner Jerry Johnson says of the Pittston coal company and the other corporations that have come to Appalachia to extract its mineral wealth, "They've got their own little Third World right here." Johnson began picking up coal outside of abandoned mines when he was 7 years old to help keep his family warm. He went to work inside the mines at the age of 13, when his father became too old to fill his quota of coal.
"When I was growing up," he says, "we walked union, we talked union, we lived union -- it was a way of life. You didn't watch TV to get opinions -- you went down and sat around the pot-bellied stove." And now, Johnson says, "the union is all we got left."
Johnson has been trapped in mines by falling rocks several times through the years; he is one of the fortunate ones who came out alive every time. He is a "disabled pensioner." He shakes his head as he says, "I didn't ever know that you could work for 30-some years for a company and then lose your medical benefits." Says miner and pastor John Mullins, "There ain't much other way to look at it than it's been stole."
As shameful as it was to take away the health cards of the most vulnerable people in their families and communities, equally offensive to the miners was the suggestion by Pittston Coal Group President Mike Odom that the miners ought to be willing to work on Sundays, and that they only use religion at their convenience to avoid work. Says miner Gary Moore, "The coal company feels like they need to run coal more than we need to serve our God."
Although they were deeply offended by the coal company's actions, and historically mine workers have refused to work in the absence of a contract, in good faith the Pittston miners continued to work while negotiations between Pittston and the UMWA continued. But in December 1988, still with no acceptable offer from Pittston on the table, the UMWA decided that 12 months without a contract was long enough. The union announced a strike date of Feb. 1, 1989. In the meantime, UMWA President Richard Trumka publicly asked Pittston Chief Executive Officer Paul Douglas to meet with him to discuss the dispute. Douglas declined.
In mid-January the governors of Virginia, West Virginia, and Kentucky proposed a 30- to 60-day "cooling-off period," calling on the UMWA to hold off the strike and Douglas to meet with Trumka. Douglas again declined, but still the UMWA held off its strike. Finally, feeling pushed to the limit, on April 5 the miners went out, demanding a fair contract, job security, and the restoration of the terminated medical benefits.
UMWA Vice President Cecil Roberts told Sojourners, "What they [Pittston officials] have now is basically a union-busting offer. They have no intention of reaching an agreement." Both sides agreed in early May to federal mediation of the dispute. John Banovic, UMWA secretary-treasurer, said of the outlook: "I don't see how mediation can help unless they get the principals at the table. They only have 'nickel-shooters' at the table now."
Commitment: 'As long as it takes'
This strike stands squarely in the mainstream of labor history -- but at the same time everyone talks of how different it is. "I've never seen anything like this in my life," says Gilmer Martin, who worked in the coal mines for 39-and-a-half years.
"I'm here for pride," says Buford Mullins. "I mean, we're making history. This is the best set-up and organized strike that's ever been. They [Pittston officials] mean to try and break us, but they can't do it. ... Pittston can't stand up to us as long as we stay together."
"We'll fight it 'til the last one of us is standing," says James Gibbs. "We have the best union in the world--because we are a family." Adds James Holbrook, "We're not fighting for just our job, but for a way of life-and for our children. "
Avis Sutherland lost a brother in the mines when he was pinned by fallen rock at the age of 19. Her father died when he was 58 of complications from the miners' disease known as "black lung." Says Sutherland, "I'm willing to die for this union."
"Our family is part of this family now," she continues. Her four teenage children told her, "You fight for Dad's job just like he's fighting for it, and we'll take care of the house. We had to sacrifice Dad for three weeks, and now we're sacrificing Mom, but we'll do what it takes 'til we see it through."
Avis Sutherland is concerned about her children. "My son is 18 years old now, and he just registered with the Selective Service. He always said, 'I'm gonna fight to defend our country.' But now he's saying, 'What kind of a country have I got to defend?' ... That's one of the worst things ... to think that our children are seeing our rights and our Constitution violated. It's put a doubt in his mind about a lot of things. It made me wonder, as a matter of fact, what our soldiers have died for, what Martin Luther King died for. ...
"The most important thing we do is go to church, go to Sunday school, and teach our children that way," says Sutherland. "Whenever I feel defeated, or feel this cause may have a slim chance of not winning ... I go back to the 34th psalm. ... He says he'll keep us in our time of need -- it's a promise."
For the past year, the miners have given 2 percent of their paychecks each month to build up a large strike fund. During the strike they are each supporting their families on $200 a week from the fund.
Wanda Yates, whose husband is a miner, says she is certain of victory -- "because we trust in the Lord. We got a lot of prayers behind us." When asked how long they will be on the picket lines, Yates and the group of women around her respond in unison, "As long as it takes."
Community Support: 'A spiritual stand'
Singing is a mainstay on the picket lines. Old union favorites such as "Which Side Are You On?" and "Solidarity Forever" mingle with traditional hymns, the civil rights anthem "We Shall Overcome," and songs specially adapted for this strike. One -- the children's song "This Old Man" -- is addressed to Paul Douglas and includes such verses as "This old man, he plays eight, he refused to negotiate. ..." And always, it seems, "Amazing Grace" is floating up from one corner or another.
"The women start the singing to keep down the tension on the picket line," says Cosby Totten, one of the founding members of a group who call themselves the Daughters of Mother Jones. "I mean, who can do anything while 'Amazing Grace' is being sung?"
Tension is indeed running high in southwest Virginia. Gov. Gerald Baliles has called in state troopers from all over Virginia to try to keep order in the state's coal fields. And their presence has only escalated the situation, according to the strikers. So, according to the miners, have the Vance security guards, hired by the coal company to protect its trucks and keep the coal running, and notorious in these parts for their provocation of violence.
More than a thousand arrests have been made in the first three weeks of the strike, as the striking miners and their families daily sit en masse at entrances to coal preparation plants to block trucks bringing coal from the mines. Eyewitnesses tell of instances of wrenched arms, dislocated thumbs, and twisted ears as the strikers were hauled off by state police. June Mullins, a woman known as "Granny" to everyone in the coal fields, suffered a broken nose when she was pushed on to a bus ready to carry away the arrested strikers.
Most of the strikers have been released at the jails on a signature bond. But in an effort to intimidate, bond was set at $10,000 each for one group. The move was a bit frightening to some of the strikers, but the union simply encouraged them all to refuse the bond and spend the night in jail -- "Let them feed us," said one of the organizers. The jail had to move people out quickly the next morning with no bonds posted; hundreds more arrestees were on the way. They filled jails in three counties.
Edna Sauls had her arm wrenched so badly by a state trooper when she was arrested that she had to spend time in the hospital. But she speaks proudly of that day. "It was me, and my sister, and my husband, and two brothers; and I had a sister-in-law, a brother-in-law and his wife, a first cousin and his wife -- so we had just about the whole family in jail." She adds that the strikers always "knew we had support; but when we started going to jail, we knew just how much support."
Sharon Smith was part of a group that was forced to spend seven hours on a bus. "I'm proud to be here," she says. "If I have to go back to jail, I'll go back to jail, 'cause I believe in the union; that's what I'm here for.
"They kept us on that bus for seven hours," she says of her ordeal after her arrest. "They stopped a couple of times, but they wouldn't let us off to use the bathroom or even have a drink of water. ... They had dogs with 'em, and ... they let the dogs get off -- but not us. We were treated like we was mass murderers or something.
"They took us all around on the back roads all over the county, roads I've never seen before -- and I've lived here all my life." She and others on the bus believe that their long bus trip was simply harassment -- it took seven hours to drive 20 miles to the jail.
With high spirits she tells about the community support. "We had traffic behind us when we came off the mountain, and the state police had to stand across the road to stop the traffic from following us. ... They took us into Clintwood that morning and said they intended to unload us there. But there was a large crowd, and they told us they were afraid to let us off--they were afraid those people would harm us. Our son was there saying, 'Let my Mom and Dad go!' I don't think they was gonna harm us.
"They pulled up to a gas station -- and the boys standing there just shook their heads. The police was mad -- you could tell it on their faces. ... And every man on that bus said they was going to make a point to go for a drive some day to buy gas at that station. ... They showed us support."
It isn't just the gas station owners in southwest Virginia who have rallied to support the strikers. It is the businesses in Clintwood that shut down for a day as a sign of solidarity. It is tow truck operators -- called out by state troopers to remove strikers' pickup trucks blocking coal trucks -- refusing as soon as they saw the situation. It is Ma and Pa's Diner in Castlewood sending hot dogs and homemade cream pies to the jail and -- like other businesses in town -- hanging out a sign that reads "This establishment supports the UMWA."
It is high school students staging a spontaneous boycott of school -- a tactic that spread to three counties and affected hundreds of students. It is school principals -- supportive of the strike but concerned about the children's education -- "punishing" them by making them write five-page term papers on the history of the United Mine Workers. Jails and sheriffs have refused to accept prisoners, and court clerks mysteriously run out of forms for processing them, while motel owners close their doors to the state troopers.
Perhaps most surprising of all, it is the churches. From born-again believers in the pews to Catholic and Episcopal bishops, church support for the strike has spread deep and wide. And many small, conservative, family chapels nestled in these hills, some sitting by baptizing creeks, most of Pentecostal and Freewill Baptist stripe, suddenly have found themselves in the midst of the battle -- on the union side.
John Mullins, a Freewill Baptist pastor, wears a camouflage T-shirt under his black pastor's shirt. He is one among many pastors in the UMWA. Among his opening scriptures at the Monday night prayer meeting at Yates Chapel is Proverbs 25: 22 -- about caring for your enemy and thus heaping "coals of fire" on his head.
Mullins is concerned about spiritual unity, as he witnesses the pain of churches and families split apart when coal company bosses and union members and non-union miners try to share the same table. He had a dream one night, "and the Lord set upon me that he can change hearts if we just trust," he says. That gave him the idea to set up a prayer tent at the McClure mine. It has been torn down twice, by either replacement workers or Vance security guards. But he and others are persistent about the work of "making a spiritual stand."
Camouflage: 'Unified in nonviolent resistance'
The spontaneous and widespread church and community support are unprecedented enough, but others point to the discipline and nonviolence of the strike as the factor that most sets it apart from others. Throughout history, these hills have frequently rung from the shotgun blasts of retaliatory violence against the coal companies. This time is different.
There have been some isolated rock-throwing incidents, aimed at the "replacement workers" driving the coal trucks. And even this strike hasn't shed itself of the age-old striking tradition of setting "jack rocks" -- twisted nails welded together -- at the entrances to coal plants. From time to time a state trooper or coal truck driver has had to stop to fix a flat tire -- though the troopers have gotten wise to the trick and brought in specially designed trucks with huge magnets to precede them.
But, according to Cosby Totten, "The most violence that we've seen is when Pittston took the health care." And Avis Sutherland adds, "On the picket lines, I've never seen any violence -- other than what the police do toward the strikers."
According to Linda Johnson, who grew up in these mountains and has written on Appalachia, "This is the first time in labor history that I know of that there has ever been such widespread civil disobedience." The situation has the feel of a nonviolent guerrilla war, emphasized by the camouflage dress of the strikers. Concern has been raised in some quarters about the mixed message of the camouflage outfits in a situation of nonviolent resistance, but the symbol of solidarity has remained.
For some, the fatigues came out of trunks and closets. Thirty-one men from this county lost their lives in the Vietnam War. Patriotism runs high here, and many of these strikers saw going to Vietnam as a patriotic duty, just as they now see this battle for their rights as a patriotic duty. The camouflage outfits have practical uses as well. They make it more difficult for the authorities to single out leaders for harassment, and easier for strikers to hide in the woods when they are slipping around police barricades.
The strong commitment to nonviolence comes from a blend of UMWA history, the inspiration of the civil rights movement, and a deeply embedded Christian faith. It was the United Mine Workers who first spearheaded sit-down strikes in the 1930s. And the recent publication of Parting the Waters, Taylor Branch's history of the civil rights movement, created an inspiring stir among UMWA leaders.
The message of nonviolence was strongly preached the day before, at what was described as the largest event ever to hit Wise County, Virginia. An estimated 10,000 people, most dressed in camouflage, crowded into the Wise fairgrounds for a rally. Balloons in the camouflage colors of green, black, and brown floated above the grandstand. Strike organizer Marty Hudson announced that traffic was backed up for three miles trying to get to the rally, and the crowd erupted in a cheer.
The gathering was entertained with singing and flat-foot dancing while it waited for the keynote speaker to arrive. "Precious Lord" was the prelude to his entrance. Rev. Jesse Jackson strode to the podium, to an eruption of deafening applause. But the cheers weren't as wild the first time as they were when Jackson went backstage and then reappeared -- dressed in camouflage gear from head to toe.
The rally opened with a prayer. Children, many wearing T-shirts proclaiming "My Dad needs a contract," then led the crowd in the Pledge of Allegiance. A young woman speaking for the UMWA Student Auxiliary spoke of "standing up for our grandfathers, whose blood, sweat, and tears made these mountains better," and Hudson responded, "It's been a long time since I've seen high school children with the movement in their hearts."
UMWA President Richard Trumka recalled UMWA history: "If these mountains could speak, what a story they would tell -- a story of muscles strained and blood shed by thousands of our ancestors. ... It is our turn to make history now."
Trumka ended his speech with an extended appeal: "We will only win our fair share of justice by maintaining unity and discipline and strength, and by acting as an entire community. We will overcome Pittston only by recognizing that might does not make right, and that resistance does not have to be violent to be effective." To cheers, he continued, "I appeal to each and every one of you to stand up for your rights in the most powerful manner that is available to us -- through peaceful, nonviolent protest. ... Handguns, shotguns, billy clubs, helicopters, state police cruisers -- all are powerless in the face of a community unified in nonviolent resistance."
Jesse Jackson followed Trumka. With echoes of Clarence Darrow, he offered to the miners, "This is not just your strike -- it's the people's strike." He announced that "the spirit of John L. Lewis and Martin Luther King Jr. have come together ... and they cannot be defeated!" His speech was a moving tribute to the workers, who found great encouragement in his willingness to stand with them. The rally ended with the singing of "Amazing Grace."
Company Violence: 'May we hold our peace'
A sort of disarming gentleness prevails on the picket line. Some men take out their whittling knives and go to work on slender pieces of cedar when it becomes clear that Pittston is not going to try to move any coal today. A helicopter circles overhead.
A miner they call "Splashdam" picks up the bullhorn and turns to the state troopers across the road, calling, "Hello, darlings." The troopers try not to smile. Splashdam sings "I Wanna Go Home" and "You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me, Lucille" to them. After a while, he asks, "Any of you boys in blue know any songs? Come on down here and sing one for us." Several of the troopers are smiling now.
Despite the rough treatment some have received, the strikers seem determined to see the troopers -- as well as coal company representatives and replacement workers -- as human beings rather than enemies, and to persuade them of their humanity as well. That determination had to be prevailed upon the following day when the worst violence to date struck the picketers, powerfully testing their commitment to nonviolence.
On the morning of May 2, on the picket line outside the Moss Number 3 preparation plant, labor songs were rocking the air when word was received that several strikers about three miles up the road had been run over by a company truck. Unconfirmed pieces of news circulated among the strikers, and emotions were running high.
Near the site of the incident, Brian Jenco, who had been struck in the leg by the truck but was not seriously injured, told Sojourners the sequence of events. Jenco and others had been talking with a replacement coal truck driver known as "Round Man" and had convinced him to turn around with his load of coal instead of driving on to the preparation plant. A man identified as Jesse Meadows, who was driving a pickup truck escorting the coal trucks, then turned his truck around and drove it off the road into a crowd of strikers, hitting eight. Four were injured, two critically. According to Jenco, Meadows then brandished a gun, and while uninjured strikers carried those who were injured over an embankment for protection, two others approached Meadows and took away his gun. Word came later that the state police did not press charges against Meadows.
Bits of news got back to the picket line, but people remained calm. Finally Marty Hudson returned from the scene of the incident and took the bullhorn. As ambulances with sirens blaring flew by on their way to the hospital, people gathered around Hudson to hear the details, including the fact that some of the strikers had torn up Meadows' truck and beaten him until the state troopers intervened. When people shouted out their anger at the assault on the strikers, Hudson responded calmly, "I understand."
And then Marty Hudson put out a plea: "We don't have to fight violence with violence. ...We've got a good thing going. They aren't running enough coal here to heat someone's house. We can win it without violence. ...We can win our way. We're gonna win it right."
As he finished, strikers with scanners tuned to the state police frequency picked up word that Pittston was moving coal; the trucks were on their way. Immediately a crowd moved into the road to block the entrance to the plant and began to sing "This Little Light of Mine."
Rev. Harry Whitaker, a Freewill Baptist pastor and a miner for many years, was invited to offer a prayer. Heads were bowed, and camouflage caps came off as Rev. Whitaker began: "Our heart aches. The Bible tells us when the wicked rule, we hurt." As tears filled several eyes, he prayed for the injured miners and their families, and then continued, "Father, in your Word we read where you said you call the weak to confound the mighty -- that one day the mighty will stand before you and give account for their deeds that they do down here to their fellow man."
He prayed for the union leaders and asked that the miners might get a contract. And he finished, "Father, we ask you to help us. Lead us and guide us by your Holy Spirit. May we hold our peace, dear Lord, and do things that's right and pleasing in your sight. Father, one day we're all gonna stand before you to give account for our lives."
As he prayed, the coal trucks lined up on the road and the state troopers moved into position behind the sitting strikers. Splashdam began singing "You're Walkin' on the Fightin' Side o' Me." While the crowd kept the trucks out, a group of miners sealed off the plant's other entrance and prevented trucks that had already dumped their coal from leaving the plant. Down the road, strikers' pickup trucks were parked in a roadblock to further tie things up.
The state police moved in and began loading the arrested strikers on buses, while the crowd cheered; several people commented on how gentle the troopers had become. One bus moved out as another was brought in -- four buses crawled out into the road, only to be stopped by the roadblock. Spirits were running high, and somebody began "This Little Light of Mine" again.
In the face of the assault, the discipline of the strikers was remarkable that day. Said striking miner Ronnie Mann, "The men had to reach down and get hold of something most of them didn't even know they had." But always, just under the surface, runs a fear that southwest Virginia might blow.
Conditions: 'It was criminal what they did'
The state troopers are there to keep the situation from getting "dangerous." But, said Jerry Johnson, "what they don't know is that people are already in a dangerous situation. For people working in the mines, there is already a war."
Ronnie Mann works in the McClure #1 mine. "I've seen roofs fall; I've seen mine fires," he says. A friend had a leg severed in a mine accident. "I wrapped it up and carried his leg out," says Mann. "I thought sure he would be all right. I remember when they came to tell me, 'Ron, he didn't make it.'" Mann's voice chokes as he says, "He was just like a family member. I was put on his job after that. You feel a little bit of an honor, but there's such a hurt there. It takes a long time to get over it."
The kind of danger that brings other people together in times of crisis is something miners share day in and day out. "It's an everyday thing," says Mann. "You grab your buddy and say, 'Wait a minute; check that out.' We're constantly watching out for each other. We become a lot closer than people in other work places; we become a family. ...
"If someone's gone too long, you go look for him. It might be somebody you had a difference of opinion with at the union meeting -- but when you get underground, that disappears. There's a respect I've not found anywhere else. I can paint a picture for you, but I don't think the English language has a way of reaching that."
In 1983 McClure #1 exploded. Seven people lost their lives. Because of high concentrations of methane gas released from coal, enormous amounts of air must be kept circulating through the mines at all times. But Pittston had changed its ventilation procedures, and there was no air flowing through the hallway that exploded.
"It was criminal what they did," says Mann. "They thought it was a shortcut that would save 'em some money. When methane accumulates like that, you can tap your heels and start a fire. They should have been charged with criminal negligence."
One of the miners who died was Cat Counts, the first woman miner in Virginia. She was a local legend of sorts, a colorful and feisty woman in her mid-50s. The story goes that on her first day a coal boss took her into the male bathhouse while the men were showering to try to intimidate her. She told him, "It don't bother me -- they don't have anything I can see from here anyway."
Another miner who lost his life was F.C. Reiner, a foreman in the mine. He had retired the previous Friday, but he came back on Tuesday to check on his miners and let them know he was going to bring fried chicken for lunch on Thursday. "Everybody thought the world of him," says Mann. As he was heading out of the hallway in a mine vehicle, the mine blew; many people think its movement may have caused the explosion.
A popular decal pays tribute to these seven and three other miners who have lost their lives in McClure #1. It reads, "McClure #1 -- In memory of our 10 -- Christ went first."
One survivor of the explosion has undergone some 60 skin grafts and plastic surgery operations, and he will have 10 to 12 more years of medical treatment. Pittston "promised if he didn't sue, they would take care of him the rest of his life," says Mann. "He was cut off last year."
Gilmer Martini: I couldn't walk a step'
There are two pictures of Jesus praying in the garden of Gethsemane on these living room walls, otherwise devoted to family photographs. A pair of reading glasses rests on an open Bible on the coffee table. The classic portrait of a man offering thanks over a loaf of bread presides over the kitchen, the largest room in the house.
This is the home of Gay and Gilmer Martin. Their mailing address is Dante, Virginia. By the railroad tracks near the entrance to the town is a sign hand-lettered by a child: "Thanks for driving slow. Ducks with babies crossing." Dante is one of the many towns renamed by coal company operators years ago. They said it looked like "Dante's inferno." The townspeople said the coal company made it look that way. As a sign of their rebellion, they pronounce their town "Daint."
Gilmer Martin began loading coal with a pick and shovel on April 2, 1945. For 39-and-a-half years he hauled coal, drove a shuttle car, and most recently worked as a dispatcher in the mine. "The good thing about being a dispatcher, there wasn't nobody could move unless the dispatcher told 'em they could move. Mike Odom or Paul Douglas could have come in the mines, and they could not have moved without I told them they could move."
In 1962 Gilmer, whom Gay affectionately calls "Grandpa," had two of his fingers cut off in a mine accident and missed seven weeks of work. The coal company gave him compensation for the injury, "but I didn't get a tenth of what I should have," says Gilmer. "I settled with the company rather than be labeled a troublemaker."
Some 15 years later, Gilmer discovered a fallen trolley wire that carried 300 volts of electricity through the mine. He carefully held the wire up to let a mine vehicle get by, and seriously hurt his back in the process. "I barely made it to the dispatcher's shack," says Gilmer. "They hauled me up slow."
After back surgery and another six weeks off the job, Gilmer went back to work, despite his doctor's orders. "My insurance was running out, and I didn't have a lot of money," he explains. "I worked six days a week -- until the 4th of January, 1984. I got up to go to work, and I couldn't walk a step." Three months later Gilmer had surgery again: "They took a bone out of my hip and fused my back with it, and my hip still ain't well. It hurts like the dickens."
Gilmer also suffers from pneumoconiosis, or black lung. Coal dust coats the lungs of a black lung victim, making breathing extremely labored and the body's system weak; the heart enlarges to compensate for lack of oxygen, eventually giving out from the stress. Almost every worker who has been in the mines for more than 10 years has black lung. Victims in the final stage of the disease are easy to spot -- bent over, with enlarged chests and ashen faces. They are a constant reminder to every young miner of his future.
For a while Gilmer drew federal benefits for first-stage black lung. But in June 1986, after responsibility for the benefits was transferred to the coal company, Gilmer had to attend a hearing on his benefit status. He spent $900 for a lawyer and X-rays. He went into his hearing with a dozen X-rays; the coal company had 60 -- all negative. It took the judge 15 months to decide to reject Gilmer's claim to benefits. He lost an appeal a month ago.
According to Uncas McThenia, an attorney who represents miners with black lung, only 2.5 percent to 5 percent of people with black lung claims ever get benefits. "The coal industry spends untold sums to get opinions from doctors," he says. "Their X-ray machines don't pick up black lung; they don't believe black lung exists."
In the spring of 1987, Gilmer had a stroke. He lost his medical benefits in February 1988 along with the other disabled miners. His hospital bills have reached thousands of dollars, and he is still paying them off "10 dollars there and five dollars here" each month.
Gay Martin: 'I'm not gonna fall'
On April 25, 1989, Gay Martin sat down in the middle of a road and blocked a coal truck. Gay and several other arrested women were loaded in a van. "It was 82 degrees outside," says Gay, "and the van had been closed up all day. They put us in there -- stuck us in like sardines -- shut the doors, and turned the heat on us. ... It was cruel -- very cruel."
Gay suffers from heart problems. When she asked the Virginia state troopers on the van, "Would you be kind enough to give us some air?" they ignored her. She then asked them if they would stop at a custard stand. According to Gay, they were not amused. "So I told the women, 'Let's sing some songs and maybe that will sort of soften their hearts.' And I started 'Amazing Grace.'"
Gay's grandson has a hard time believing that his grandmother is a jailbird. She says, "I've always been a law-abiding citizen, and I don't feel like this is breaking the law. ... I haven't even received a ticket for driving. This was a new experience for me, being hauled off to jail, but I was proud to go."
Gay says of the state trooper who arrested her, "I asked him did he mind telling me what I was charged with, and he said, 'Misdemeanor.' I said, 'That's right. I am a miss, and tomorrow I'll be de meaner '" When he asked for her name, Gay told him, "the 36th daughter of Mother Jones."
Probably the most daring of the actions of these Daughters of Mother Jones was their sit-in at the Pittston offices in Lebanon, Virginia. Pittston "claimed that they had all this security ... and that nobody could get in," Gay says. "Them security guards were pure thugs. They wear these bulletproof vests and these big leather gloves up to their elbows."
Thirty-nine women broke through Pittston's tight security one morning at 10 o'clock. "We was there in the lobby," says Gay, "and we were all sitting down. We wore camouflage scarves, a white carnation, and a little miniature flag in our hand. ... And here comes this little prissy lady out of one of the offices. She says, 'May I help you?' So we all started waving our flags and singing."
The Daughters of Mother Jones spent the night singing in the Pittston office. The next morning at 7 o'clock, Gay had to leave. One of the reporters outside asked her, "Are you giving up?" She replied, "No way! I'll be back. ...There's a need for me on the other side of the mountain." Gay, who founded and runs the "We Care Food Bank," had promised to distribute garden seeds to low-income families that day. When the reporter told her, "They won't let you back in," Gay explained, "I'm gonna put me on a dark wig and all kinds of change in makeup and a pair of sunglasses, and go back in and ask for a job."
But when Gay got home her "crisis phone" was ringing -- a line she has for whenever anyone in the community has an emergency food need or a problem to talk over. A woman who was seven-and-a-half months pregnant, who had spent the night with the other women, had become ill. Gay went back, and she and a couple of other women looked up the hill at a Vance security guard. "And I told 'em," says Gay, "'Now when we get there, we'll eyeball him.' ... And we joined hands and went back up the hill and got our sisters out of the 'Pittston Hotel.'"
Gay is fourth-generation United Mine Workers. Her father was injured in the mines and died at the age of 48. She had a brother who survived the invasion of southern France during World War II, came home, and within a year had died in the mines. Eleven days later Gilmer lost a brother in the mines. Their families had been going to the Freewill Baptist church together. "We became supportive of each other in our sorrows, and that is how Grandpa and I met," says Gay.
As a young girl, Gay peddled milk and butter. Later she cleaned houses and worked as a janitor at a high school. She frequently nursed people who were ill, applying mustard plasters and onion poultices in the Appalachian tradition. "There's not much I haven't done," she says.
"We're poor people, but we're proud people," Gay continues. "We mountain people--if one has bread and the other don't, we share it. We're caring people. ... And I'll tell you one thing -- you'll never find hospitality like you do in the coal field.
"The good Lord gives us the knowledge to stand up for what is right. ... If you don't stand up for your true convictions, you'll fall for anything. And I'm not gonna fall. ... I'm standing for my husband, 'cause he can't stand long."
The Company: 'For high benefits, we need high production'
On slick hotel brochures, Greenwich, Connecticut, is described as the "corporate capital of America." It is a town full of executive offices, a town that loves order--described by one observer as "the kind of place that has three cops directing traffic on a one-way street." Greenwich does not appear to relish the event that is about to overtake it; the story circulates that the Greenwich Chamber of Commerce has been out taking photographs of the town's flowers -- so it can check later to see if any coal miners from Virginia disturbed them.
A bus has been rolling from southwest Virginia toward Greenwich for 15 hours. The idea for this outing was hatched in a Bible study of St. Mark's Episcopal Church in St. Paul, Virginia. And it represents another aspect of the fight that makes this struggle unique: The coal miners are taking their concern directly to corporate America.
The long trip has been punctuated with hymn singing and the music of guitar, mandolin, and harmonica. As the bus pulls up to the church upon whose floor the coal miners and their families will spend the night, John Mullins offers a prayer of thanksgiving, ending, "And, Lord, if it's not too presumptuous, we ask that you'd soften the hearts of those who will make the decisions tomorrow." It is May 9, 1989, the eve of the Pittston company's annual share-holders' meeting.
The next morning, police in long orange raincoats stand in a line stretching along Greenwich's main street. Inside the Pittston corporate headquarters, security personnel block every hallway and door. Forty-two people from southwest Virginia arrive with proxies in hand; St. Mark's owns 206 shares of Pittston's 38 million snares of stock, and proxies entitling these representatives to vote the shares were distributed on the bus the night before.
A Pittston official told the southwest Virginians that their proxies were "inconsistent" and that only a few representatives could enter the shareholders' meeting. Bob Claytor, who had ridden the bus from southwest Virginia, responded, "If the stockholders -- the owners of the corporation--are abused this way, God help the workers." Uncas McThenia summed up Pittston's response this way: "Due process is not sufficient for them; they won't even play by Caesar's rules -- let alone Jesus'."
Meanwhile, an undercover police sergeant ushered several of the Virginians to a corner and pleaded with them not to make a disturbance. "If you do, I'll have to put you in jail," he was recounted as saying, "and, believe me, you don't want to go to jail in Greenwich, Connecticut."
SPREAD OUT ON a table in the law library of the Pittston building, for the benefit of the press, were enlarged photographs from the picket lines in Virginia -- a jack rock in a tire, broken truck windshields, and a man throwing a rock. A full-page Pittston ad ran in the morning's Greenwich Time, including some of the photographs and a call for a halt to the "vicious" activities on the picket lines. Copies of the same pictures were in each press packet distributed that day.
When William Byrne Jr., Pittston's director of financial public relations, was questioned as to whether the company hadn't initiated the violence by cutting off medical benefits to widows, pensioners, and disabled miners, he replied, "They're unrelated." He took exception to the phrasing of the question, responding that benefits "were not cut off; they ended."
Byrne would not comment specifically on Pittston's coal production since the strike began, but he acknowledged that it was "well below normal." As the company has done repeatedly, he justified Pittston's pullout from the BCOA by mentioning the "special circumstances" of being the nation's number-one exporter of metallurgical coal -- coal with "special burn qualities" vital for industry. God and the dinosaurs were given credit for Pittston's unique position. "The Lord, when he -- when the dinosaurs rolled over, and they did whatever they did, this is the kind of coal that they produced in southern Appalachia," Byrne said.
Although it seemed to be common knowledge to everyone else, Byrne said it was "absolutely false" that the National Labor Relations Board had charged Pittston with more than 20 counts of unfair labor practice; he did admit that some "questions had been raised." The meeting with the press ended when a reporter asked Byrne if he had any regrets about a comment he had made to a Los Angeles Times reporter, in which he had compared the miners' health cards to a credit card; Byrne responded, "It's true -- they have a card, and it's dated just like your American Express is dated."
Paul Douglas, chairman, president, and chief executive officer of the Pittston corporation, brought the shareholders' meeting to order. He mentioned that the proxy holders in the lobby who had been denied entry had not followed normal operating procedures. He requested that there be no applause or other forms of response to speakers during the meeting.
After some usual shareholders' business, Ken Zinn and Claude Collins, representing the United Mine Workers, offered three proposals for the shareholders to vote on. The UMWA owns 1,721 shares of Pittston stock, and in addition its Health and Retirement Fund owns 550,000, or $10.9 million worth of, Pittston shares.
In the ensuing discussion, Douglas denounced the "deplorable acts of violence" of the strikers and proclaimed that the "union has made clear that it will stop at nothing to achieve its goals." He was followed by several investors who praised Douglas for his management of the company, prompting him to express his regrets for making a rule that no one could applaud.
Ken Zinn pointed out that from 1984 to 1988, when Pittston stock paid no dividends to its holders, its top executive officers received a 69 percent increase in salaries. He also mentioned that, unlike these executives, "We have no 'golden parachutes'" -- referring to the lucrative job security agreement that guarantees these top executives their jobs, even in the event of a hostile takeover of the company.
Douglas countered that the "golden parachutes" were limited to only a few executives, which prompted Steve Hamilton, a miner from St. Paul, Virginia, to address Douglas and the other executives sitting with him. "I'm young and could get another job, but others can't. You said people need a 'golden parachute.' We expect retirement, but it's been taken away because our contract expired. ... I'm saying this in plain and simple English, and maybe some of the lawyers here can't understand it -- all we're asking for is a fair shake."
After Douglas, salaried at $625,000 annually, explained that he and the other officers are "hired hands -- we work for the share-holders just like you do," he encouraged subsequent speakers to refrain from "reckless rhetoric" that departs from "reality." Throughout the meeting, chants and songs from the picket line outside in the pouring rain drifted up to the third-floor room.
Hamilton brought up the issue of Sunday work -- which was raised with vigor again when Mike Odom came into the room later. "You want to deny us going to church," said Hamilton. "I'm a Christian, and I'm proud of it." Douglas responded quite a bit later, "Men in different regions of the country, once they got used to it, worked fine with the Sunday schedule."
Robert Gintel of Gintel Equity Management in Greenwich, representing 152,000 shares of Pittston stock, said that this meeting was showing him that "people from the South don't have horns -- and I think you should have learned that Paul Douglas doesn't have horns." He added, "In the Babylonian days mines were where people were sent for punishment -- I know it's dirty and dangerous. ... But for high benefits, we need high production."
Rev. Harry Whitaker could not keep still after Gintel's comment. Dressed in a suit and tie and his miners' hat, with a small American flag rolled up in his breast pocket, Whitaker, who a week before had prayed for the injured strikers, rose and began: "I loaded 100 tons of coal in 32 minutes, 1,500 tons in eight hours. ... I worked in dust, water, and mud. I've crawled around. ... I was promised I would get health benefits for life.
"My disability is pneumoconiosis. I've had a heart attack. ...I've been mashed up in my hips -- I can hardly walk. I don't know how long it's been since I've slept at night like you fellows do every night. I have nine pillows propping me up; I sleep in an easy chair. It's pitiful a man works that long -- I gave my life to you fellows. I'm just like the slag that comes out of the mines. You dump it over the hill. That's what you did to me."
Gene Matthis, chairman of the Pittston Coal Group, said to Rev. Whitaker, "We would be glad to help you ... file a lawsuit to get benefits from the union if it won't take care of you." A snicker went through the crowd at this tactic by Pittston to try to force its obligation on the union.
Linda Johnson spoke next about a 59-year-old widow who comes to her church to get money for medicine because she has no income and no health card. "I'm in the curious position," said Johnson, "of helping to subsidize the Pittston corporation." She concluded, "The only justice to speak of is biblical justice, where people are rightfully restored what's been taken away."
When challenged about his refusal to meet in negotiations with Richard Trumka, Douglas called it a question of "management style." He said, "I don't want to downplay your contribution to the company, but you are only 1,700 employees out of 13,000" in Pittston's operations. He asked again that the "reckless rhetoric" and the "tone of violence and extremism" stop. And he added, "I hope that federal mediation will bring us to a better understanding, just as we hope church on Sunday would bring us to a better understanding."
John Olsen, president of the Connecticut AFL-CIO, rose. "I am appalled," he said, "that miners, some with black lung, had to travel 15 hours to Greenwich just to get your attention." He accused the company of an "all-out assault against the families that keep the company going." He ended by saying, "You have brought dishonor upon Connecticut, Mr. Chairman, and we plan to broadcast that at every opportunity."
With her voice quaking, Gay Martin, who had been trying to get the chairman's attention for almost an hour, spoke about Gilmer and his difficulty simply walking. Looking at Gintel, she said, "We in the coal fields don't have horns. We are humans, and we have human needs. I appeal to you all to be human and return our rights."
Then looking straight at Douglas, she said, "People in the mountains say 'Like father, like son.' But I haven't found that here." She read a quote from the late Senator Paul Douglas of Illinois, a champion of labor: "My chief goal in domestic affairs was to try to better the conditions of life for the common people of America. ..." And as she ended, she said, "I hope some of this will rub off on you, his son."
Paul Douglas responded by talking about the competitiveness of the coal market. Gay Martin interrupted and said, "Don't you think men who have given their lives should have medical benefits?" And Douglas replied, "This is the kind of rhetoric that doesn't represent the facts."
Douglas charged that the UMWA bears a "heavy responsibility for the lawlessness and violence of your men. It's not Pittston trying to bust the union, but the union trying to bust the laws of Virginia." And he made mention of the very heavy legal and security costs Pittston has had to bear. That fact had not escaped the miners, who had in recent days resurrected an old local saying: "They'd spend a hundred thousand to beat you out of a dollar."
Lucille Whitaker picked up where Gay Martin left off. Addressing Douglas, she said, "I even knew your father. He was for the working man. ...You are not that man. You're tearing our community up, you're destroying our children. Do you have a heart?"
Douglas responded by saying that he would quote Jesse Jackson on that: "An acorn never falls very far from the oak tree." He then added, "Let's look to the force of reason, not reasons for force." Paul Douglas ended the shareholders' meeting by pleading with everyone to "think of a spirit of reconciliation."
Standing Tall: 'The respect of the nation'
As the bus pulled out of the church parking lot on its long way back to southwest Virginia in driving rain, Uncas McThenia walked to the front and picked up the bus' microphone. "If I were running the world," he said, "I'd put Gay Martin in charge. And if Paul Douglas is making $625,000, I'd double that for her!" The crowd on the bus cheered.
Gay took over the microphone and said gently: "I think they have lost their ears -- and I wonder how they live without hearts."
The microphone was passed from hand to hand, as people gave reports on the meeting to those who were denied entry. Someone asked for a report from the picket line. "We thought it was going to rain there for a minute," somebody shouted, as the bus erupted in laughter.
More than 400 people -- many from other unions -- had come from Virginia, Kentucky, Pennsylvania, and around Connecticut to support the miners in their cause. Some Greenwich townspeople came pulling wagons filled with cups of hot coffee for the drenched picketers.
Members of several church denominations were present, and a representative of the local clergy said that this event had "brought the church together more than any event in many years." That morning a full-page ad in support of the miners ran in the Greenwich Time, which, according to UMWA organizer Pat Speer, was signed by "89 clergy in four of the wealthiest towns on God's earth calling on Pittston to mend its ways."
When Ronnie Mann saw the picture of the truck with the broken windshield in the Pittston press packet, he got out his videotapes from the previous Tuesday's picket line and showed them on a small screen as the bus rolled on toward New York City. He had footage of the incident of the eight injured miners, including a closeup of the truck that had driven into them. The resemblance was unmistakable -- the broken windshield belonged to the same truck. The "vicious violence" that Pittston was showcasing was the strikers' response to four of their members winding up in the hospital, two of them in critical condition.
At the invitation of local churches and unions, the bus riders spent that night in the steel-mining town of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Following a potluck supper in a church, several stood up one by one to share the stories of the day with their hosts. All the emotion that had been controlled through the shareholders' meeting took hold of people.
When Gay Martin got up, she had to hold back the tears. "I'm sorry for being so emotional," she said, "but this is my livelihood. ...We know the good Lord is with us. People in the coal fields are good people just like you are. May your God and ours unite us as brothers and sisters."
Gay Martin's brothers and sisters did what they had wanted to do at Pittston that morning. In one movement, they rose and gave her a standing ovation. Gilmer slowly and painfully struggled to his feet, tears in his eyes.
Gilmer Martin seemed a little more bent over after two days on a bus and a night on a church floor; even the most disabled miners had not wanted to break solidarity with their "family" the previous night, and to a one they refused comfortable beds in homes near the church. Gilmer hadn't said a word the whole trip about his pain.
But when Gay and several others went to a steelworkers' gathering two blocks away, where their union was celebrating a contract they had just that day successfully negotiated, Gilmer stayed behind. After the others had left, he admitted that the pain was pretty bad. He couldn't sit or stand comfortably.
Down the street, tears came to Gay Martin's eyes as she stood before a room full of steelworking men and told her story once again -- about how Gilmer had given 39-and-a-half years of his life to the coal company and how they were struggling along without medical benefits. As all eyes were riveted on her, words that a passerby had offered to the miners on the picket line that rainy morning in Greenwich came to mind: "You have earned the respect of the nation."
Gay Martin was standing tall that night -- as tall as she had ever stood. And two blocks away, sitting alone in the church, Gilmer Martin was standing tall, too.
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