It's FEBRUARY already! Afrikan Liberation Month? Well, I and I not too, too much into having just one month to celebrate ALL the contributions of Afrikans and the diaspora (not enough time!), but if it shines some light on the suppressed and oppressed?--one love.
Speaking of suppressed and oppressed: I liberated myself at The Spotlight Project last month. Remember, I was taking part in their All in a Day's Work fundraisier on support of YES Toronto? Well, I did it! I stood in front of a room full of people and shared a very personal story that has been lurking in the shadows of my being for years! Well, the tale finally broke through into the light, and guess what? I let it SHINE:-)
My Intro:
Let me preamble, my tales with a reminder; that 1988 marked the Federal Governments fourth mandated directive that Canadian National Railways must hire more wombmyn trades persons, this time the order is sweetened by financial seduction. I was one of those pioneer wombmyn. Since leaving CNR; I have never been taken off the employee roster, in 2000 CNR made me a buy out offer, if I were to sign a gag order. I’m here telling a portion of my story so you can guess my response.
My Story:
Woke up this morning and I’m so glad about it. I’m so glad to be alive! I love to sing. My first response to any query will be the lyrics of some song. Anytime I’m singing, I feel connected to the natural world. In Manitoba, where I grew, folks sang for everything, any task or journey is lightened by a voice raised in song.
“Back in the day”, it was normal to see girls and wombmyn, doing repairs on their own tractors, bikes or ski-doo; we mechanical chicks were celebrated. The general machinist trade caught my fancy. At, Red River Community College I was the valedictorian while being the 1 wombmyn of the 21 in my graduating class. I quickly advance in my term positions with the Department of Defense, and the Winnipeg Health Sciences Centre. I also did piecework for General Motors, Dofasco, and Toyota. CNR meant a sideways move, one whole province over. I’d cut and machined numerous mechanical parts, indexed a lifetime of flywheels, up-keeping the ancient engines of Canada’s tanks. How hard could it be? Doing parts installation for maintaining old train engines.
Having wombmyn at CNR meant a redefined: “safety first” rule, that forced the purging of pornographic photos and drawings from most common area walls, I’m blamed for this action which fosters a greater hatred of me. The only wombmyn on back shifts, I’m treated to an insidious onslaught of insulting behaviors night after night; the purging had only increased the environments toxicity I move covertly where possible, my head down, singing myself calm, song is my refuge. I sing to pace my movements. With song I masks my disappointment to find I’m a machinist in job title only; not one familiar task. Song gives flow as I walk the gauntlet of inane comments, traverse vast distances of insults, climb heights of anxiety, and I plumb the depths of reproach, while on contrived searches to locate and retrieve elusive engine parts, any machinist could well fashion themselves, but here, I’m back in school, earning a second ticket as a heavy-duty diesel mechanic. {Such a sacrilege the only lathe that CNR has on site is rusting on a back lotL a beautiful Dean Smith &Grace 17, Made in Manitoba}
I stay vigilant, ever on guard against the illicit, raucous group laughter, used to camouflage the intentional falling-down “oops!” accidental groping of my body parts. I shrug off the most painful of things with song. Cloaked by song, I remain blissfully engaged in my labour, keenly aware that my singing only feigns peace of mind in a place where I truly feel unsafe. Still, I sing my worries, concerns, and rebuttals; my spoken words don’t match the language of this land, they seem incomprehensible and go unheard. Then, I am called for a private health and safety meeting in managements offices, not being in a common area; pages of scantily clad Sunshine-girls & pin-ups are proudly displayed. Seems like my groping falling-down-with-laughter workmates who’d constantly jeered: “don’t quit your day job!” had slowed in their production. While I sang to lighten my load, they dropped their loads to listen. My voice is a “liability”, my songs; a” breach of health and safety”. For the record, I state that I use song as a way of overriding habitual-on-the-job harassment; of course, they are so adamantly focused on my not singing they can’t hear my spoken words. Safety first!!” is shouted, “Radios aren’t allowed on the machine shop floor, Singing while you work is an infraction”!! CNR’s “Safety first” slogan, apparently counted for machinery and virtual rapists, not for the bodies & souls of wombmyn workers. A promissory agreement is signed; “I will not sing while I work.”
Song; my only freedom, and combat weapon the perfect non-violent tool against constant verbal aggression, a prairie Afrikan on a rocky northern plantation singing coded songs in the presence of the ignorant, oppressive overseer. Now what?
Enraged I return to my isolated engine room incarceration, careful to not let any sound escape my lips. Song is silenced but the music continues. Small trickles of sound seem to get by my safety ear plugs, until those rumbling rhythms of engine sounds penetrate my mind with clarity. I’ve begun to hear music in the lift of every lever, in every tappet that descends; each cam and crankshafts rotation hold song with complex syncopations. Inspired I become a writer of songs and rhythmic poetry in a noisy engine room. Brake times find me pen in hand, as I express the torture of this life, my determination to get through each day in a place where song is forbidden. It was this toxic environment with heinous conditions, which I endured for seven more yearsL.
On my last day, as I’m passing an emergency (only) loudspeaker phone that cover both VIA and GO yards. “forbidden” still, I pick it up even as my tears of rage flow, I proudly lend voice to song…”I’ll give my hand to those who cannot see the sunrise or the falling rain, I’ll sing my song to cheer the weary along, for I may never pass this way again.” I never did.
I avoid driving through Mimico. I accept that my ear will always differentiate between a 710 and 645 engine sounds, occasionally upon hearing of some Go train mishap, I’ve railed against the federal government’s possibly still paying CNR cash incentives; for me, I’m a “twofer” you see! {All in one federal family I guess?} I’m physically irked to think of my being cheated, harassed and intimidated out of two skilled trades; Gratefully, I got out before they could suppress all my creativity. My voice I freely raise.
My current labour of love is creative healing in my community; there are folks all over the GTA singing those rhythmic poems and engine room songs. Song is still my soul’s rebellion. . Do you hear that passing 645 engine? Hey! That’s Gloria Gaynor? Yes…at first I was disgusted, soiled, felt petrified, not knowing how to cleanse the nasty wounds from my inside. Yes, I wasted loads of time, wondering what had I done wrong? Found, I was strong! I stayed alive! I got along! I survived!
Speaking of suppressed and oppressed: I liberated myself at The Spotlight Project last month. Remember, I was taking part in their All in a Day's Work fundraisier on support of YES Toronto? Well, I did it! I stood in front of a room full of people and shared a very personal story that has been lurking in the shadows of my being for years! Well, the tale finally broke through into the light, and guess what? I let it SHINE:-)
My Intro:
Let me preamble, my tales with a reminder; that 1988 marked the Federal Governments fourth mandated directive that Canadian National Railways must hire more wombmyn trades persons, this time the order is sweetened by financial seduction. I was one of those pioneer wombmyn. Since leaving CNR; I have never been taken off the employee roster, in 2000 CNR made me a buy out offer, if I were to sign a gag order. I’m here telling a portion of my story so you can guess my response.
My Story:
Woke up this morning and I’m so glad about it. I’m so glad to be alive! I love to sing. My first response to any query will be the lyrics of some song. Anytime I’m singing, I feel connected to the natural world. In Manitoba, where I grew, folks sang for everything, any task or journey is lightened by a voice raised in song.“Back in the day”, it was normal to see girls and wombmyn, doing repairs on their own tractors, bikes or ski-doo; we mechanical chicks were celebrated. The general machinist trade caught my fancy. At, Red River Community College I was the valedictorian while being the 1 wombmyn of the 21 in my graduating class. I quickly advance in my term positions with the Department of Defense, and the Winnipeg Health Sciences Centre. I also did piecework for General Motors, Dofasco, and Toyota. CNR meant a sideways move, one whole province over. I’d cut and machined numerous mechanical parts, indexed a lifetime of flywheels, up-keeping the ancient engines of Canada’s tanks. How hard could it be? Doing parts installation for maintaining old train engines.
Having wombmyn at CNR meant a redefined: “safety first” rule, that forced the purging of pornographic photos and drawings from most common area walls, I’m blamed for this action which fosters a greater hatred of me. The only wombmyn on back shifts, I’m treated to an insidious onslaught of insulting behaviors night after night; the purging had only increased the environments toxicity I move covertly where possible, my head down, singing myself calm, song is my refuge. I sing to pace my movements. With song I masks my disappointment to find I’m a machinist in job title only; not one familiar task. Song gives flow as I walk the gauntlet of inane comments, traverse vast distances of insults, climb heights of anxiety, and I plumb the depths of reproach, while on contrived searches to locate and retrieve elusive engine parts, any machinist could well fashion themselves, but here, I’m back in school, earning a second ticket as a heavy-duty diesel mechanic. {Such a sacrilege the only lathe that CNR has on site is rusting on a back lotL a beautiful Dean Smith &Grace 17, Made in Manitoba}
I stay vigilant, ever on guard against the illicit, raucous group laughter, used to camouflage the intentional falling-down “oops!” accidental groping of my body parts. I shrug off the most painful of things with song. Cloaked by song, I remain blissfully engaged in my labour, keenly aware that my singing only feigns peace of mind in a place where I truly feel unsafe. Still, I sing my worries, concerns, and rebuttals; my spoken words don’t match the language of this land, they seem incomprehensible and go unheard. Then, I am called for a private health and safety meeting in managements offices, not being in a common area; pages of scantily clad Sunshine-girls & pin-ups are proudly displayed. Seems like my groping falling-down-with-laughter workmates who’d constantly jeered: “don’t quit your day job!” had slowed in their production. While I sang to lighten my load, they dropped their loads to listen. My voice is a “liability”, my songs; a” breach of health and safety”. For the record, I state that I use song as a way of overriding habitual-on-the-job harassment; of course, they are so adamantly focused on my not singing they can’t hear my spoken words. Safety first!!” is shouted, “Radios aren’t allowed on the machine shop floor, Singing while you work is an infraction”!! CNR’s “Safety first” slogan, apparently counted for machinery and virtual rapists, not for the bodies & souls of wombmyn workers. A promissory agreement is signed; “I will not sing while I work.”
Song; my only freedom, and combat weapon the perfect non-violent tool against constant verbal aggression, a prairie Afrikan on a rocky northern plantation singing coded songs in the presence of the ignorant, oppressive overseer. Now what?
Enraged I return to my isolated engine room incarceration, careful to not let any sound escape my lips. Song is silenced but the music continues. Small trickles of sound seem to get by my safety ear plugs, until those rumbling rhythms of engine sounds penetrate my mind with clarity. I’ve begun to hear music in the lift of every lever, in every tappet that descends; each cam and crankshafts rotation hold song with complex syncopations. Inspired I become a writer of songs and rhythmic poetry in a noisy engine room. Brake times find me pen in hand, as I express the torture of this life, my determination to get through each day in a place where song is forbidden. It was this toxic environment with heinous conditions, which I endured for seven more yearsL.
On my last day, as I’m passing an emergency (only) loudspeaker phone that cover both VIA and GO yards. “forbidden” still, I pick it up even as my tears of rage flow, I proudly lend voice to song…”I’ll give my hand to those who cannot see the sunrise or the falling rain, I’ll sing my song to cheer the weary along, for I may never pass this way again.” I never did.
I avoid driving through Mimico. I accept that my ear will always differentiate between a 710 and 645 engine sounds, occasionally upon hearing of some Go train mishap, I’ve railed against the federal government’s possibly still paying CNR cash incentives; for me, I’m a “twofer” you see! {All in one federal family I guess?} I’m physically irked to think of my being cheated, harassed and intimidated out of two skilled trades; Gratefully, I got out before they could suppress all my creativity. My voice I freely raise.
My current labour of love is creative healing in my community; there are folks all over the GTA singing those rhythmic poems and engine room songs. Song is still my soul’s rebellion. . Do you hear that passing 645 engine? Hey! That’s Gloria Gaynor? Yes…at first I was disgusted, soiled, felt petrified, not knowing how to cleanse the nasty wounds from my inside. Yes, I wasted loads of time, wondering what had I done wrong? Found, I was strong! I stayed alive! I got along! I survived!
The Spotlight Charity is showing Haiti some love on February 14th. Please click here for more information.
Here is a link to an article about the event posted by the torontoist: http://torontoist.com/2010/02/working_class_heroes.php
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