The King William's District is among the oldest and most renowned
areas in San Antonio. As a consequence, it is also inhabited by some of
the wealthier individuals in the city. Houses here go for more money
than many people will make in a few years, and no wonder. Some of these
buildings have histories so long they predate my own grandmother.
Picturesque homes stolen from the frames of portraits sit alongside the
lazy San Antonio River, its calm waters drifting away toward downtown
San Antonio, whose towers scrape like fingertips at the blue sky above.
The whirring of bicycles is not uncommon, as the healthy and active
whiz by on their daily routines. All through the air, a sweet fragrance
pricks at one's nostrils, a memorable aroma ignited by the endless
flower bushes that line the streets. This truly is one of the most
memorable sections of the city, a place created by a confluence of
history and modern efforts to restore the old place's glory. Mixtures of
guitars, saxophones and pianos can often be heard swimming by as
musicians gather at the local Blustar Art Complex, one of the centers of
modern San Antonio's artistic community.
And rising above it all, the lord of the land, the great tower of
Pioneer Flour Mill. For more than a century, this place has churned out
the flour that has enriched its owners and created a name for the
Guenther family. From its infancy as a small flour mill on the banks of
the nearby river to its modern standing as a flour producing powerhouse,
Pioneer Flour has outlasted many of its contemporaries. An old man of
the city, its two hundred year birthday just over a coming thirty year
horizon, it has seen employees come and go and its own business inflate.
Far from creating mere flour, the hands of Pioneer stretch to other
parts of the globe. From its bakeries in the UK, Belgium and the U.S. it
has served to produce dozens of food products people consume each day.
It's a strange thing. Week to week, people pass by the place. They
wander about, touring, enjoying the sights of the old houses. They
meander along, off to look at the art and listen to the music touted at
the Bluestar. Or, they head to Pioneer itself, to the Guenther House
that rests cozily in its shadow. There, they enjoy the fine dining
experience. If you're of the mind to, you can even enjoy the food and
company there while celebrating on New Year's Eve.
With so much success, and in such a beloved area of the city,
everything might seem perfect in the King William's District. Still,
there is an outcry. Small, almost feeble, it still shouts. It breaks the
serenity of the area, often unheard, but never ceasing. It is the voice
of Teamsters Local 657.
*
When I drive by, occupied by thoughts of what my students might be
like that day, wondering if they'll be able to snap from their high
school dramatics long enough to listen to a history lesson, I barely
catch a glimpse of them. To my mind, they may as well be a line for the
local bus stop, or a group of day laborers hoping for employment. The
uneven streets beneath my car rattle my cup of coffee, sending me into a
desperate attempt to still it before it stains the nearby passenger
seat.
I'm successful, my vehicle rolling on, but I have just enough time to
see that line from the corner of my eye. Innocuous enough, certainly
unremarkable, the group passes from my mind. After all, there's no time
to wonder about strangers on the sidewalk when a small platoon of high
school students, armed with rap lyrics, love interests and foul language
are readying themselves to attack.
If they had only been there a day, I might not have thought about it
again. However, another day rolls along, and on yet another day I fail
to take any real notice of them. Still new to this area, I'm too busy
simply trying to navigate my way through the streets of the old city to
really invest in the sights. Perhaps they're simply waiting to get into
the nearby factory, I muse, my eyes glancing just slightly upwards at
the looming Pioneer tower. This ritual repeats, day to day, and I almost
never really take the time to see them. In fact, it would not be my
eyes that finally snapped me into paying intention.
No, instead it was a honk. Two beeps, as a dilapidated pickup truck
bounces along the street, heading my way. I look over in annoyance,
wondering exactly what it is he's honking at. Is he warning me of a cop?
Perhaps one of my lights is out. Or, perhaps, he's simply one of the
many terrible drivers that inhabit this city. Maybe he's simply an
aggressive driver. However, as his vehicle passes out of sight, rolling
alongside me and off into parts unknown, my eyes stay glued to the gates
just beyond. Those people, those same people, are there again. They're
nudging each other, talking. Some are laughing. Some are waving at the
cars passing by. Then, finally, I see it.
The signs. Held high, on poles, or simply between firmly locked
hands, they wave them. White signs, emblazoned with the words "Teamsters
Local 657".
*
The majority of tourists don't come to the King William's District
during the week, or even during the day. No, they come mostly toward
sunset, or the evenings. Certainly they come more during the weekends.
At the beginning of each month, San Antonio celebrates an artistic
festival called First Friday. Artists, dancers, and musicians all
gather. They don't simply flock to the Blustar, even if most people
begin the night there. Instead, they stretch themselves out for blocks,
along streets, filling them up like water filling up newly carved
canals. Lights ignite the night, and revelers begin to stroll along. A
new smell fills the air, as cuts of meat are cooked on steel framed
grills, the scent of smoke and barbeque passing along.
Few people have reason to walk by the front gates of Pioneer even if
they drive by it daily. Regardless, it's the weekend. If there are
protestors standing at the front gates, nobody will see them on this
day, at this hour. They're hidden as much by virtue of their location as
much as the time of day and week Yet, there is one man, one figure,
that sears itself into my memory.
I'm fresh from the university, where I spend time as part of a
research team. It's only hours before the beginning of the festivities,
and I have a late assignment to gather a few photographs of the district
at sunset. In hopes of making the history of San Antonio more palatable
to the undiscerning tastes of college undergraduates, I've gone out to
gather the sort of photos that could add life to a lecture. Feet
pounding along now cooling concrete, the rapid shutters of my camera the
only sound filling the still empty streets, I catch sight of him.
In San Antonio, it's not an unusual sight to see vagrants, signs held
up in hopes of rustling a few dollars. At first, I take this to be what
I'm seeing. He's a man, thin, his thick mustache decorating a line worn
face. Not much meat on him, and a ballpark cap pulled tightly down over
his eyes, he is stationed at the rear of the facility. Not on the
street facing traffic, but instead facing the interior of the district
itself, toward the view of the many elegant houses that have stood for a
better part of the century.
Protestors never stand there. There are, simply put, not enough
vehicles passing by to make it worth the time. Vagrants avoid the street
for the same reason. It sits closer to the Guenther House Restaurant
than it does to the entry of Pioneer Flour Mill, even if the two are
intimately entwined. Still, he's there, not standing, but instead
sitting. The sun pours over him, reddened skin tucked behind a white
t-shirt, sign in hand.
It's the beginning of Friday evening. The sun is quickly
disappearing, and yet he still sits there. The sign reads "Teamsters
Local 657".
*
Flour, biscuit mixes, cereals, tortillas. Products people consume
daily. Pioneer's bakeries even produce the buns that are shipped to fast
food titans such as McDonald's and Burger King. The average citizen of
San Antonio might not be able to recognize it for what it is, but
Pioneer is a powerhouse in its own right, a producer and supplier of a
variety of goods. Its own website says that its current owners now zip
about on "jet planes to distant subsidiaries and talk of product
development, brand recognition and strategic plans". Pioneer is no small
player.
Which is why it was strange when, in the spring of 2011, the whispers
started to become shouts. Not all was right in the halls of Pioneer
Flour. Dissatisfaction, discontent and disharmony ruled the workers of
Pioneer. A wage raise was quickly coming, and so it was strange that
there should be dissatisfaction. At almost any time, in almost any
economy, a raise would be welcomed. Not here, not in the heart of the
King William's District.
A manager sits down the leaders of the local workers. The wage is
coming, he assures them. However, it's coming at a price. Health care
costs will also be going up. The culprit?
Obamacare.
Because of the heavy burdens being placed on them by the president,
Pioneer will have to raise the contributions of the workers from 11$ for
medical to 35$. A net pay loss of four dollars per week, when it's all
said and done.
Outrage. Anger. The teamsters claim almost seventy percent of their
people will not accept. Management claims otherwise. The practical
result either way, however, is a strike. It's why, if you're passing
through on a weekday morning, you might hear the word "Scabs" being
shouted by the local picketers. There are people who are ready to
criticize the protest, obviously. The pay decrease isn't much, and the
health care coverage is better. Picketers respond that, in reality, many
of them already have their own coverage. It's a net loss for them
regardless.
Here's the real crux of it, though. Tell any hard working man that
he's being rewarded with a pay cut, and tell me what the result is. This
point is especially sharp when his company's website talks about owners
that crisscross the country, forging economic partnerships via the
luxury of jet planes. It's not just a matter of wage decrease, either.
Take a look at any modern assessment of wealth. The gaps are getting
wider, between the richest and everyone else. MSNBC's Ed Schultz loves
to tout his graphs, one of the most consistent being the growing wealth
disparity.
Yet more to the point is not the disparity, but the rate of wage growth for the average worker versus that of the
wealthiest.
While the earnings of the wealthiest have continued to climb, that of
everyone else has stagnated. That's what has created the disparity, and
that's why it's difficult to take a working man aside, look him in the
eye and tell him that his work has earned him a paycut. Not with jet
flying owners, and not in this economy. Because of inflation and other
factors, the buying power of the average American worker no longer has
the strength it did even just ten years ago. So, a pay cut of even four
dollars a week makes no sense. If their dollars already buy less, then a
pay decrease means they can contribute even less to the economy. It
doesn't add up.
Not for the members of Teamsters Local 657.
*
April 2012, the beginning of a new year of protests. In the past six
months, Occupy Wall Street, despite its stumbles and the criticisms
against it, has at least managed to begin a narrative about the growing
inequalities in America. Major uprisings in places like Wisconsin and
Chicago are the marks of organized, somewhat powerful labor groups.
Public workers and teachers are no longer willing to take the abuse of
government. In the months following April, they'll win major concessions
in the legislature, in places like Ohio, as well as win victories in
the courts.
That doesn't mean much to the people standing, every day, in the
heart of the King William's District though. You never hear their story.
It's not carried on MSNBC, and nobody from CNN is listening. Even the
local news only carries occasional coverage. San Antonio, despite its
growing reputation as a more liberal, tolerant city that is distinct
from the Republic of Rick Perry's Texas, casts only an occasional eye
toward them.
Hell, I was barely able to cast an eye toward them, as my car jumped
along on the street as I passed on to work. It's year two now, for them,
and they're still standing out there. The damn shame is, nobody's
telling their story. They're just a motley group, all wanting to be
treated like human beings, treated with compassion and fairness. Their
jobs have all been replaced, now. Pioneer boasts that they're back to
100% employment and efficiency, having trained new employees and filled
all the gaps.
They're not giving up though, not these people. I'm no longer passing
by every morning, as my life has drawn me elsewhere. I can leave. My
future, still being written, is for the moment secure. These people are
living on the
edge,
though. It's hard to go so long without a fair shot at the job you
enjoyed. In six months, they'll be staring at year three. They're still
shouting, still crying, but there are no ears to hear. Nobody is paying
attention, and that protest that began with a shout has dimmed to a
whimper. Not for lack of passion on the part of the workers, but for
lack of care from anyone else. In a world where labor movement after
movement is being covered in the media, there are still groups like this
going unheard.
Still, for my money, and it's not much, there's just one memory I'll
never be able to let go of. It's that old man, white t-shirt on, his
ballcap pulled down tight. Seated in a collapsible chair, brown skin
sizzling beneath the sunset, he's not off to join the festivities. He's
sitting on the unattended side of Pioneer Flour Mill, alone on an
evening when groups of people will soon be passing by, their minds more
on alcohol than on fair wages. Perhaps rightfully so.
This man, though, was something else. He was anyone and everyone
you've ever met but never given a fair shot. I hope he hasn't given up,
and that he's still fighting for the job he believed in, even if he was
standing alone while all the world was trying to ignore him. Holding
that sign.
Teamsters Local 657.
