The mascot for West Virginia University, my alma mater, is the Mountaineer. The Mountaineer is recognizable by his or her buckskin clothing, coonskin cap, and ever-present rifle. Yes, a rifle. A rifle that is periodically fired, outdoors or in. But this is a percussion rifle, which requires a measured dose of powder for each report, and no bullets are involved. Otherwise, the Coliseum roof would be very leaky.
I recognize the cultural and historical significance, of the entire costume. Nonetheless, I ask myself if the rifle continues to be a good idea. I ask myself that question. Really.
I believe in common sense gun regulation that includes removing guns from places they do not belong and from people who should not have them. And I believe that symbols matter. I believe, for example, that statues of Confederate “heroes” should be taken down because they honor white supremacy. I believe the Germans got it right after World War II when Nazi symbols were banned. Frankly, I believe the Confederate flag should be banned ... but our Constitution says no, and I believe in the Constitution more. (Perhaps I’ll write another day about how I think the Confederate flag qualifies as hate speech.)
Is the gun-toting Mountaineer any different? Should the 21st Century Mountaineer be disarmed?
My conclusion (so far) is that the Mountaineer is different. Each time that rifle goes off, I am reminded how essentially different it is from modern weapons. Shoot-once-then-reload rifles were used during the American Revolution. Thus, the Mountaineer’s rifle is more akin to the type of weapon the Founders had in mind when they wrote the 2nd Amendment to the Constitution. Perhaps that is a good reminder. Perhaps that is the better symbol.
Is that just a rationalization? I'll keep asking those pesky questions.
Don’t get me started on the Oregon State chainsaw and its symbolism.
23 March 2018
09 March 2018
Growing Up Union
For some of us, it is hard to fathom that the recent strike of public school teachers from all 55 counties of West Virginia was officially a "wildcat" strike. Wildcat means a strike of workers without a union, without collective bargaining rights, without the right to strike. All of them could have been fired for walking off the job; they all put their livelihoods on the line.
This is an old story in West Virginia, going back to the coal fields. And it is a story that has stimulated a particular set of memories from my childhood.
My dad was born in 1909 (or 1910; he had no birth certificate). He left school after eighth grade (or sixth grade, says the 1940 Census). Whether he went directly to work in the coal mines is hidden in undocumented history. I do know that, following some period of working in the mines, he travelled the country as a hobo, riding the rails (hopping freight trains for transport), living in homeless camps, taking on jobs that presented themselves, surviving as best he could. He travelled the entire country, every state but Arizona, he said. Based on his stories, he was still a kid, not legally an adult. One means of survival, he said, was to try to enlist in the army, which would provide room and board while officials sought his parents’ permission (because he was underage). For whatever reason, his parents never consented. Decades later, when telling this story, he always seemed wistful, as though considering how different his life might have been had he been granted that modicum of parental support.
Eventually, he made his way back home to West Virginia. A marriage followed in 1930, and shortly thereafter his occupation is listed as "coal loader" in the 1930 Census. I take that to mean working underground, in a deep mine, breathing in coal dust with every exertion. But then, the 1940 Census and his World War II draft registration card say "unemployed," an unexceptional fact during the Great Depression. That may have saved his life; my dad didn't work in the mines long enough to get black lung or to be crushed in a mine explosion.
I didn't grow up in a part of West Virginia that had coal mines. But I'm sure I learned about company towns and company stores and being paid in scrip that was only accepted in company stores from my father's stories. The "company" here is the coal company, the employer who controlled everything and wanted to keep it that way. Union organizing was a serious and often deadly business in West Virginia during the early 20th century, my dad's time. But then so was coal mining, then and thereafter.
Another of Daddy's stories was his chance meeting with John L. Lewis, the powerful President of the United Mine Workers union. During WWII, Daddy was working at a service station (the Army had turned him down again, this time because of a heart murmur) where, one day, John L. Lewis stopped for gas. It was the story of an ordinary person who had met a celebrity.
When I was a little girl (1950s, early 1960s), my dad was a truck driver, a member of the Teamsters Union. Yes, this coincides with the time when the Teamsters were starting to engage in criminal activity. But in our house, being a Teamster was a big deal. Actually, unions were a big deal.
Many kids play cards. I did too, but my deck of cards didn't have hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs. I didn’t have flash cards to learn my letters, numbers, or sight words. My flash cards displayed symbols of the trade unions -- Teamsters, boilermakers, electricians, carpenters, bricklayers, and on and on. The game I played with my dad was "name the trade union," based on the logo on the card. It was a challenge; I got pretty good at it.
And even though I didn't grow up near the coal fields, you can't grow up in West Virginia without feeling the impact of coal. I recall watching the news following deadly mine explosions that left no survivors except devastated families. I grew up listening to Tennessee Ernie Ford sing Sixteen Tons, the sad story of a coal miner who can't even afford to die because he is so far in debt to his employer. After all these years, I still remember the lyrics.
Sixteen Tons is a far cry from Country Roads, today's uplifting anthem of West Virginia. Teachers standing up for their rights at the West Virginia capitol sang County Roads with passion and ferocity. All standing together singing without union protections, 55 Strong. That's today's union story. Some things have changed; others have not.
This is an old story in West Virginia, going back to the coal fields. And it is a story that has stimulated a particular set of memories from my childhood.
My dad was born in 1909 (or 1910; he had no birth certificate). He left school after eighth grade (or sixth grade, says the 1940 Census). Whether he went directly to work in the coal mines is hidden in undocumented history. I do know that, following some period of working in the mines, he travelled the country as a hobo, riding the rails (hopping freight trains for transport), living in homeless camps, taking on jobs that presented themselves, surviving as best he could. He travelled the entire country, every state but Arizona, he said. Based on his stories, he was still a kid, not legally an adult. One means of survival, he said, was to try to enlist in the army, which would provide room and board while officials sought his parents’ permission (because he was underage). For whatever reason, his parents never consented. Decades later, when telling this story, he always seemed wistful, as though considering how different his life might have been had he been granted that modicum of parental support.
Eventually, he made his way back home to West Virginia. A marriage followed in 1930, and shortly thereafter his occupation is listed as "coal loader" in the 1930 Census. I take that to mean working underground, in a deep mine, breathing in coal dust with every exertion. But then, the 1940 Census and his World War II draft registration card say "unemployed," an unexceptional fact during the Great Depression. That may have saved his life; my dad didn't work in the mines long enough to get black lung or to be crushed in a mine explosion.
I didn't grow up in a part of West Virginia that had coal mines. But I'm sure I learned about company towns and company stores and being paid in scrip that was only accepted in company stores from my father's stories. The "company" here is the coal company, the employer who controlled everything and wanted to keep it that way. Union organizing was a serious and often deadly business in West Virginia during the early 20th century, my dad's time. But then so was coal mining, then and thereafter.
Another of Daddy's stories was his chance meeting with John L. Lewis, the powerful President of the United Mine Workers union. During WWII, Daddy was working at a service station (the Army had turned him down again, this time because of a heart murmur) where, one day, John L. Lewis stopped for gas. It was the story of an ordinary person who had met a celebrity.
When I was a little girl (1950s, early 1960s), my dad was a truck driver, a member of the Teamsters Union. Yes, this coincides with the time when the Teamsters were starting to engage in criminal activity. But in our house, being a Teamster was a big deal. Actually, unions were a big deal.
Many kids play cards. I did too, but my deck of cards didn't have hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs. I didn’t have flash cards to learn my letters, numbers, or sight words. My flash cards displayed symbols of the trade unions -- Teamsters, boilermakers, electricians, carpenters, bricklayers, and on and on. The game I played with my dad was "name the trade union," based on the logo on the card. It was a challenge; I got pretty good at it.
And even though I didn't grow up near the coal fields, you can't grow up in West Virginia without feeling the impact of coal. I recall watching the news following deadly mine explosions that left no survivors except devastated families. I grew up listening to Tennessee Ernie Ford sing Sixteen Tons, the sad story of a coal miner who can't even afford to die because he is so far in debt to his employer. After all these years, I still remember the lyrics.
Sixteen Tons is a far cry from Country Roads, today's uplifting anthem of West Virginia. Teachers standing up for their rights at the West Virginia capitol sang County Roads with passion and ferocity. All standing together singing without union protections, 55 Strong. That's today's union story. Some things have changed; others have not.
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