In
the 1940s, Ruth Young was a prominent trade union
activist in the United Electrical, Radio, and Machine
Workers of America (UE). In 1944 she became the first
woman on the UE Executive Board. Throughout that period
she was also very active within the Communist party
(CP) of the USA. Young had been a Party member for
quite some time, and a militant fighter for working
women's rights. In 1950, however, craving the stability
and normality of a middle class family life, a life
she hoped to build with Schenectady UE Local 301's
Business Agent, Leo Jandreau, she gave up her position
as Secretary of UE District 4. Earlier, she had withdrawn
from the CP. In 1954, she and her husband severed
all of their connections to both the UE and the CP
when Local 301, led by her husband, withdrew from
the UE and merged with the International Union of
Electrical, Radio and Machine Workers (IUE). The original
of the following document is in Ruth Young Jandreau's
handwriting.
by Gerald Zahavi, Professor of History, State University
of New York, Albany
MY STORY (Some Splinters of a Life)
by Ruth Jandreau, 1979
A
game which people often play is to ask one another—"if
you could live your life over, what would you change,
what would you do again"—or—one is
often asked "what age would you like to be again"?
I almost always have said my life was great when I
was in my mid-twenties. Everything seemed to come
together for me: I'd reached the pinnacle in my Union
career; I finally gave birth to my lovely daughter
Karen; I was healthy, attractive, travelling around
the country, and doing many exciting gratifying things.
This was in my "other life."
You see I feel I've had several distinct lives: my
first life was one of poverty and great unhappiness
when I was a small child. My second life was in the
factory, the union, with the masses. My third life
was begun when I married by second husband, my beloved
Leo and became a housewife in a small community; had
my second child; was stepmother to three including
a young man only ten years my junior; and became active
in community and church work. My fourth life began
when I went back to work in an entirely new milieu—academe.
And now—I do not know if my widowhood will lead
to a fifth life, or a revision of the fourth. This
is still in process, ever-changing and evolving.
I choose to write about the second life—or period
in my life. I have been remembering bits and pieces.
For years many of these memories lay buried. I felt
I made a break with this life when I chose to marry
Leo. But now that I am trying to remember, so many
scenes are in front of me, my head is full—I
cannot get away from the fragments when driving, thinking,
reading, or seeing a film like "Norma Rae."
It is my intention to write some of these, and, perhaps,
to create a semblance of "order." This is
one of my small stories. There are so many....
I was pregnant—and so very, very happy. I had
been married since I was not quite 18. I was going
to have a child and a career I loved. Our factories
were booming, the Union was growing. It was 1941.
The United States was not in the war but we were lending
all kinds of support to our Western European allies.
Our union was in the Electrical, Radio and Machine
industry. Many thousands of young women as well as
housewives were entering industry. It was the era
of "Rosie the Riveter." I was organizer
and director of the Membership Activities Department.
Besides organizing trade union training classes for
new shop stewards, we also made a special effort to
involve women at every level—organizing, negotiating,
and even knitting for our men in service. We also
had bus-loads of our girls go to Fort Dix for dances
on base, and to USO sponsored parties. It was A-Z—organizing
to mittens.
The first big conference we had, had several hundred
women, the Governor of New Jersey and the national
Vice-President of the General Electric Company. The
Governor was the son of the inventor, Thomas Edison.
I had to make a speech and was nauseous from my pregnancy.
With help of saltine soda crackers and will I managed
to speak.... I was a woman speaking to my sisters.
When my daughter Karen's birth was imminent I finally
decided to stay home and work by phone. One night
the bell rang and there were the two young women,
Jean and Mary who had taken over my job (they split
it between New York and New Jersey—I had covered
two states). Within the next hour about thirty more
young women arrived—it was a surprise shower
for my expected baby. She was literally showered with
so many beautiful hand-made garments. These women
who knit for the soldiers, knit for my baby. I still
have the album they gave me and the baby book, over
37 years ago. I loved these people and they were happy
for me....
I was watching a movie at the Brooklyn Paramount Theatre
when my serious "labor" began. I entered
the hospital that Sunday evening but my tiny Karen,
not much over 5 pounds, was not born until very early
Tuesday. Her father, my first husband Charles was
at work. I phoned and left word at the Shipyard where
he was employed, saying our child had arrived. (Today
husbands and fathers are with their wives, sharing
the birth.) She was so pretty, so pink, so tiny. I
was surrounded by flowers from the many organizations
I worked in—but a small bunch of sweet peas were
my favorite.
It is curious that the first thing I write about is
Karen—yet not so curious—because she remains
so precious and dear. Work—kudos—applause—even
acquaintances come and go. I learned during those
years, sometimes the hard way, a lesson I still remember.
It is your children, your beloved, those close to
you, that are central to life. The other things are
important but not as enduring. Exciting—but not
fulfilling.
I mentioned the movie "Norma Rae." It took
me back in time when I also stood at factory gates
giving out leaflets—ran the mimeograph machine
in the Union Hall, and in the late thirties worked
for a dollar a day for the Union. No organizer could
go into a factory then, as he does in the movie. Joining
a union meant putting a lot "on the line."
After World War II ended all the CIO unions decided
it was time to "catch up"—wages had
been frozen for so long. Throughout the country, in
the large organized plants, people struck. I was assigned
to the Westinghouse Plant in Bloomfield, New Jersey.
There were 10,000 people—mostly young women.
We manufactured lamps and radio tubes. The night before
the strike I slept in the small home of Dick Lynch,
the President of the union. We were to begin the strike
at 6 a.m., with the first shift. I was scared and
awed by the responsibility thrust upon me. These people
believed in me. I was at that time the only woman
on the National Board of our union of 600,000, and
the second officer in our District. I had wanted the
position and now I had to deliver! We struck the plant.
For thirteen weeks I was with these people, going
home to Brooklyn to sleep a few hours each night.
On week-ends, when my housekeeper who lived with me
had time off, I would sometimes bring little Karen
with me. We had an Easter party and other parties
for the children of the strikers. We set up soup kitchens,
got welfare, had banks declare a moratorium on loans
and mortgages, sent committees out to raise funds.
I went to speak to large meetings in New York City—to
maritime workers, transport workers, garment workers,
pleading for money.
Some days I was discouraged. Sometimes frightened.
But I couldn't tell anyone. Couldn't show weakness
to the workers. They were counting on me. My husband
was in the Pacific. It's funny—peculiar—I
cannot remember if he was back from his navy stint
at that time!! I'm sitting here trying to remember,
and cannot! But I do remember when the Courts issued
an injunction against our strike and we answered by
calling for a mass picket line of thousands. The sheriff
came with bull horns and read the riot act (literally—the
act dated back many years), calling on us to disperse.
But we marched. I was frightened but was in front.
I was angry at the men in the union office who left
me alone. But—I'd asked for it—wanted to
be a leader!
Five of our men were arrested. They stood trial, facing
serious sentencing. I worked with the lawyer, Sam
Rothbard, for days, preparing their defense. (How
strange I can remember his name after 33 years, but
cannot remember when Charles was discharged from the
Navy!)
I lived in Brooklyn all those years. Before Karen
was born we lived in Brooklyn Heights and then in
Park Slope. When she was on her way, we got a two-bedroom
apartment in Flatbush. We were near the Dodgers' Ball
Park—Ebbetts Field. When they played a night
game, the lights shone in our house. I loved to go
to the ballgames with Charles and later with Karen.
It is the only sport event that ever interested me.
During the War, there were many alliances, committees,
organizations formed. Actually there was a spirit
abroad in our land that I have never felt since. We
were a people with one purpose. In the Union our slogan
was "a good union man is a good citizen."
(Liberated as I believe I was, I never minded using
the word man to denote man/woman.) Trade union leaders
were welcomed everywhere. I met people I would not
otherwise have met.
Once I went to Washington to a government meeting
in the Women's Bureau of the Department of Labor—we
talked about working conditions for women in our big
plants, about day care centers, about shift differentials,
minimum wage, equal pay for equal work, etc. Actually
we addressed and moved toward resolving many of the
questions current today, all over again, among women.
I was young, articulate, filled with confidence in
my people, a zealous woman with a "cause"
and captured the attention of Catherine Filene Shouse.
She invited me home for a week-end at her estate—Wolf
Trap Farm. Today that estate is seen on TV as Wolf
Trap Music Center—the Channel 17 carries concerts
from there. It is similar to SPAC. Kay Shouse's father
was Lincoln Filene, a Boston philanthropist and department
store owner. I was introduced to how "the other
half lived." A chauffeured limousine drove us
to the estate in Virginia. A maid in uniform brought
me coffee on a tray in the morning. To Kay Shouse
I was an "oddity." She offered me a job
in Washington. I had a husband, a child, a commitment
to workers—people to be organized. We kept in
touch for a while. When she came to New York City
once I invited her to a large shop stewards meeting.
Then it was her turn to see "the other half"
and how we lived! I was at her home the day FDR died—that
was the last place I wanted to be at that time! Her
husband, Jonett Shouse, was the founder of the Liberty
League—the reactionary Democrats who were undermining
FDR. I longed to be with my people—the workers—at
this time of sorrow.
I remember the hard work and the hard times. But I
also remember some of the fun. Cafe Society had opened—with
many newly discovered jazz artists—Hazel Scott,
Mary Lou Williams, Teddy Wilson, Helena (later Lena)
Horne. After a meeting we'd go there—sit in the
back—listen, talk, drink. We were free women,
taking over for the men who'd gone into service—and
we opened many doors. I worked among men on the outside
I was rather tough, firm, aggressive, holding my own.
Inside I was quite vulnerable, wanting so very much
to be held, to be loved.... I was an aggressive leader,
a good mass speaker, but I wanted to be cuddled and
held. I seemed so self-assured, and in many ways I
was—but I wanted someone to hold me. I'd been
on my own for so long.... But that's another story.
This was the period when the musical "Oklahoma"
hit Broadway. I remember Ado Annie singing the song
"Everything you can do I can to better."
That seems to have been my theme song. I went from
a factory job, to shop steward, to organizer, to Membership
Activities Director, to Executive Secretary, to National
Officer. I spoke at mass rallies at Madison Square
Garden—a young woman in a hurry. Once my first
husband told me—as our marriage was coming apart—that
I would "never be happy." Life has proven
him to be wrong. But there was, and is, this urgency
for perfection, to do more and more. Why?
During the big strike I met many people—approached
many for help. Hollywood stars, writers, television
personalities. Labor was glamorous—everyone was
drawn to it—until the going got rough again.
If I make everything sound so "pat," so
ordered—it wasn't. There was the long hours of
work—ringing doorbells and visiting people in
their homes and trying to persuade them to join the
Union. There were leaflets to be written, news releases,
committees.
I remember the first union contract I negotiated.
The plant made zippers—Conmar zippers. Most of
the workers were unskilled. Their conditions were
lousy. Low pay, no benefits or security. I would approach
them in the cafeterias and diners where they congregated.
When we have enough cards we had an election. Then
we had meetings to draw up our demands and entered
negotiations. On one side of the table the chief foreman
and one of the company partners. On the other side—me
and my workers. I felt so at home with the people,
so at ease.
In my life I judged people by rather stringent standards.
They were for the workers or against them—good
or bad—right or wrong. That was in that life.
I've since learned one can be "for workers"
and not very ethical, nice, or principled, and one
can be "against workers," or anti-union
and still be a decent human being. But this I learned
in one of my other "lives" or "stories."
A high moment I remember was my meeting with Eleanor
Roosevelt. Actually, as I begin to remember this piece
of "splintered glass" (from Loren Eiseley)
I recall I met her personally on four separate occasions.
I began to tell you of this high moment. It was in
the New York City apartment which she maintained at
Washington Square. I had come to enlist her support
for our working women and their organizing campaigns;
for better conditions in the war plants and day care
centers for children. I met her another time and sat
on the floor very close by her at the first American
Youth Congress which was held on the campus of Vassar
College (the only time in my life I slept in a college
dorm and was on a campus! It was in one of my later
lives, many years in the future, that I finally began
to go to college at night, as a part time student).
Joseph Lash, later the award-winning biographer of
"Eleanor and Franklin" was one of the prime
organizers of this Congress. Young delegates came
from all over the world—in the early forties—when
we were allies against fascism. Mrs. Roosevelt was
the idol of all of us.
The third occasion was at a tea at the White House,
with a group of women who had been convened by Miss
Mary Anderson, then the Director of the Women's Bureau
of the Department of Labor. Again, our common interest
was working women on the "home front" supplying
our men on the "war front."
My final personal meeting was when she spoke at a
city-wide conference of women which I chaired—again,
in support of the war. I can see her now with her
kind face, concern for people, her humanity, her inspiring
words. I even remember what I wore that day and could
describe it in minute detail (but cannot remember
if Charles was home from the Pacific when I led the
Westinghouse strike).
My beautiful, precious Karen was there, to come home
to, to love, to cherish. She used to love to crawl
into my bed and play with my colored handkerchiefs.
Now her children crawl into my bed when I visit. This
is an unbroken chain of love.
While I worked I had two different wonderful women,
both black, live in my house (my four room apartment)
and take care of Karen. The first woman was Phala.
She came from Alabama. I had originally hired Genevieve,
white, Brooklyn born, to live with me and be with
Karen. I had returned to work when Karen was four
weeks young. But Genevieve did not seem right for
my precious little girl. A woman in the union, newly
arrived from the South, the wife of our newspaper
editor, suggested she knew someone anxious to come
North, if someone paid her fare. So I sent for Phala.
She was a tall, loving, warm person—she took
fine care of Karen, played with her, told her stories,
and walked her to and from nursery school. Weekends
I was there. When Karen was older, four, five, if
I had to work on a weekend I took her with me. She'd
write me notes and draw pictures while I conducted
meetings. She sat on platforms when I spoke. She still
remembers this.
When Phala had been with me a few years she met a
man at church and wanted to move out. This was fine.
We sent for her sister-in-law, Minnie, Phala's brother's
widow. Minnie was with us until I quit this life,
married my Leo, and moved to Schenectady. One at a
time I helped Minnie bring her grandchildren to New
York City and got them jobs in union factories.
I loved Minnie. She was for me the mother I'd never
had. We were a family. To this day Karen and I have
no patience for or understanding of racial prejudice.
No superbly educated woman could have given to us
more than Minnie gave.
As I sit and write, disorganized, remembering, incidents,
I am reminded of Eiseley saying: "the brain has
become a kind of unseen artist's loft. There are pictures
that hang askew, pictures with outlines barely chalked
in, pictures tor—pictures the artist has striven
unsuccessfully to erase...."
This is difficult—I think of many things, and
of nothing. I wonder why small incidents can bother
me on my present job, when big ones were a challenge
to be met and overcome when I was half my present
age? As we get older, and mellow, and learn to compromise
and live among people do we also get weaker and less
confident? If we are the sum total (and I believe
we are) of all our experiences, should we not be stronger?
Or was the strength of my youth really a brashness
and boldness born of ignorance? Was the idealism by
which I lived—(my father's substitute for his
religion)—the devotion to helping the poor—my
source of strength?
Why do I remember, as I try to stop writing, how at
the tender age of twelve or thirteen I went through
the subway trains in New York City, collecting money
for poor miners and textile workers? I carried the
cans that the Salvation Army and the Veterans of Foreign
Wars shake at holiday time when they ask for our donations.
Writing this is like opening a floodgate. It is like
taking a finger out of a hole in a dyke. Or it is
picking up splinters and pieces. It hurts. With the
good memories there are painful ones, too. Enough
for now. I must think and still my heart. Some of
my memories are not pretty ones. I would like to think
of myself in favorable terms—but it's not black
and white. Life isn't black and white. People, including
me, aren't all good or all bad....
