It was 1978 at the swank Boston Park Plaza Hotel. The company was late. Our team sat in a fancy conference room with crystal chandeliers and a long dark wooden table with leather chairs around it. A gold-plated tray with ceramic coffee cups and a brass water pitcher sat in the middle of the table.

We were a motley crew of ten. Marlin and Davon kept their hats on and their below-the-knee length brown leather-like vinyl coats. They hung back, quiet, maybe a little uncomfortable in such a high-class hotel. Liza, the Local’s financial secretary, had a big pocket book on the chair next to her and her gypsy-like scarf draped over her shoulders. She looked busy and serious with lots of papers in front of her but that didn’t prevent her occasional raucous laugh from joining in the non-stop chatter in the room.

Lew sat quietly in his standard worn out plaid black sports jacket with a ruffled shirt and plain tie. Nothing on Lew ever seemed to look up to date but he always tried his best to look right in his old-fashioned way, maybe to hide his lifelong membership in the Communist Party.

Connie sat quietly with her beau, Cliff, somewhat out of place as a mom from Southie, but having earned her stripes when she went to jail after me during our December strike for a quick election.

Ray was the boss-man, in theory, representing the national USW and the only one in the room who had ever bargained a union contract. Ray was white-haired and old in everyone else’s book, and the only one in a coat and tie, except for Lew. We all agreed he was a nice guy. Poor Ray – god knows what he thought of us, but we certainly didn’t see him as our leader. He was just the official union rep although, after all, we were in his union now.

It was awkward for me to be in charge, Ray aside, but on the other hand perfectly natural. I was the local union president and had an Ivy League degree of fairly recent vintage, although I hadn’t told most of the drivers. But it would be up to me, I assumed, to articulate our demands – I mean I had done the survey and then written up the results and made them into proposals, with Ray’s help, and despite his skepticism that we were asking for too much in a first contract.

But we weren’t to be denied. I was sure of that – a gut feeling of invincibility. After all, we had taken on everybody in our December strike for a quick election – the two companies, the city, the governor, the mayor, and the courts. We were national news – “Boston school bus drivers’ strike closes schools at the height of desegregation busing.”

And they backed down after Connie and I were thrown in jail and the drivers started chanting “jail one you jail us all,” all the while knowing that half of them had previous or outstanding offenses that would prevent them from defying the injunction. And we kicked butt in the election two weeks later-250-11. So it was time for them to cough up some money and other stuff for our folks.

Of course I had zero bargaining experience and knew nothing about it that I hadn’t learned very recently, but I was a radical guy and didn’t want to get tied down by the way things had been done before or were supposed to be done now. That was against the whole spirit of the 60s and 70s. We were too busy making history to be reading it. I didn’t even ask Lew who had been a veteran of the Mine Mill and Smelters Workers struggles in the Southwest.

It was my job, with Ray, to explain to the team how it all worked. Ray talked about contract language and how we would make a proposal, and they probably would too, but the first session might just be to set the whole process working. I gave my speech about how, when at the bargaining table, we were all equals. They couldn’t tell us what to do or what to say and, although Ray was our designated spokesman, we could all chime in if we had something to add. We were all equals under the law. But the next day, when we clocked in back at the yard, they were the boss again and we were the workers – the power shifted back. So we didn’t have to take any shit at the table or let them insult us or lie to us. My speech went over well. Marlin really liked that idea and laughed and nodded knowingly to Davon. Others on the team made a note of it, too.

Finally the company arrived. Fitzsimmons led the company’s team – a white haired, well-dressed lawyer, with a warm professional smile. He shook hands all around the table obviously a pro at this kind of meeting. The three Anzoni brothers trailed awkwardly in his wake – Antonio, Michael and Mario. Mr. Wilson, the grizzled yard manager, stayed in the background looking out of place. They were all in their 40s or 50s, except maybe Wilson, much older than our bunch of mostly 30 somethings. There were some strained hellos. The Anzonis hadn’t ever talked to any of us in person throughout the whole fight to win the union, but they were the owners after all.

The company’s team sat down on their side of the table and lots of paper shuffling began and note pads came out. Ray led the introductions of our side and they went next – just the names. We already knew who was who. The battle to get to the table was ugly and public and there were no secrets about the antagonists and antagonisms that clogged the air under the delicate chandelier.

Fitzsimmons cleared his throat and said “So, let’s begin.” Anthony Anzoni, sitting by his side, put a large worn leather briefcase on the table. Ray seized on the moment, staring at the briefcase: “Mr. Anzoni, I realize you aren’t familiar with the bargaining process but you don’t bring the cash to the first meeting.” Our team burst into loud and unrestrained laughter. Anzoni, taken aback, pulled his briefcase off the table. Fitzsimmons pretended it hadn’t happened and passed some papers across the table for us to look at. Maybe Ray did know something, I thought. Strike one for our side.

The up and back preliminary talking happened between Ray and Fitzsimmons. Checking on dates to meet in the future, talking about times and the formalities of how the negotiations would proceed. One of the proposals from the company said that the bargaining group for each side would be no more than 5. Davon looked at it and burst out “Hey, what is this about only five of us being able to come to a meeting. We don’t go for that shit.”

The room tensed. Michael Anzoni shot back authoritatively—“We won’t have that kind of language in this room.” Devon was defiant: “you got your language and we got ours. If I want to say shit I will say shit. Shit, shit, shit.” It sounded like a battle cry. Fitzsimons wisely suggested that his team caucus and they left quickly. As the door closed Devon turned to me: “Right Gene – you said they aren’t the boss of us here, so that means they can’t tell us how to talk. We don’t agree to no five people“ Lots of “amens” in the room. Ray was wisely silent. “You got it Devon” I said, not sure what I thought but not about to disagree with the moment.

Within a short time the company returned and we all acted as if nothing happened, with Fitzsimmons picking up where we left off. He stated that the company was just suggesting a number for each team but didn’t really think it was that important if we wanted to leave that issue open. Strike two!

We moved on, asking for clarification about some of the items in the company’s initial proposal. I was following Ray’s lead and inserting comments occasionally where I thought they were needed. Most everyone else on our team just listened, taking in the process and the vibes.

Tension hung in the air but things seemed to have calmed down slightly, with quiet conversations among the teams on either side of the table. Suddenly Marlin, sitting at the end of the table closest to the Anzouni brothers jumped up and pulled his long coat back. “I heard that,” he shouted angrily looking directly down at Michael Anzoni, seated about 3 feet away. “I heard you say nigger. I heard it. We aren’t going to take that shit.”

I froze, thinking “holy shit – what the hell is he going to do.” Anzoni recoiled and Marlin began to take his long coat off, sneering at Anzoni and repeating that nobody talks to him like that. The Anzoni brothers, with their backs to the door, began to gather their papers up and slide their chairs back. Marlin stepped forward. Ray leaped to his feet but said nothing. I was paralyzed, trying in a quick second to decide how to intervene but coming up with nothing.

Suddenly Devon was behind Marlin, holding him back by wrapping his arms around him and telling him to calm down – the two biggest guys in the room pushing and pulling. The company’s side by now had grabbed their papers and headed out the conference room door into the hallway and down the hall to their caucus room. Our whole team looked stunned.

The minute the door slammed Devon let go of Marlin who turned and they both let out huge grins and slapped each other five. “We taught those motherfuckers didn’t we” said Marlin. I was aghast. They staged the whole thing. They had picked up on the tone that the company had set and decided to assert themselves with their street smarts. The rest of us didn’t have a clue what was happening. I had gone through so many emotions in the last couple minutes that my head was spinning. But how could I do anything but smile and shake my head. After all, I had framed this whole power relationship as legal equality and they weren’t going to miss this moment to establish actual equality. Soon we were all laughing, except Ray, and joking about the looks on the company’s faces and how quickly they had grabbed their papers and run.

Finally, after a long pause, Fitzsimmons poked his head in the door and then entered. In his gentlemanly legal tone he suggested: “What if we reconvene as scheduled on Tuesday.” Ray replied to the affirmative and Fitzsimmons bid our team good night and closed the door. Strike three – they were out!

Another round of slapping-fives broke out all around – even Ray seemed pleased if a little off balance. We reverted to meeting mode and talked briefly about bargaining schedules and next steps. I was reviewing in my mind again and again what just happened, wondering if I did anything wrong by not knowing what Marlin and Devon were up to and missing their obviously successful strategic intervention.

As we walked out through the fashionably old and luxurious hallway of the hotel I noticed Liza had her shawl draped over something. “What’s that?” I asked. She pulled up a corner and I saw it was the gold plated tray that was the centerpiece on the bargaining table. “Are you shitting me?” I asked, nervously looking around. “Hey” she answered. “I am the financial secretary. I am saving us money. We need this for our executive board meetings.” Home run!

I had a lot to learn.

A bit of background to this article:
Gene Bruskin is a labor organizer and campaigner who dates his first experience in the labor movement to the 1977 strike by Boston school bus drivers for a union election. The drivers organized a union during the tense and violent atmosphere in the city that resulted from the implementation of school desegregation in Boston created by mandatory busing. The union organizing had gone on unsuccessfully since busing began in 1974 and created a new and diverse workforce of hundreds of drivers coming from every neighborhood in Boston. The final spur to organizing was an 88 cents an hour cut in wages which brought drivers pay to under $6 an hour with no benefits or guaranteed hours. After months of delay the drivers defied court subpoenas and struck in zero degree temperatures in December 1977 for a quick election. Two weeks later they voted overwhelmingly to join the Steelworkers Union (USW). This article is a personal reflection by Gene on the first bargaining session with one of the private companies contracted by the School Dept. to handle the busing.  Boston school bus drivers now are paid well over $20 and hour with benefits and job protections.

For additional background, read The Stansbury Forum’s co-editor Peter Olney piece OO #9 Odyssey Interrupted – Boston Busing 40th Anniversary.

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