Pauline McColgan - First Things First
First Pay Campaign
It was the late 80s and I was a wee girl, watching and listening to my mum becoming more and more angry, upset, frustrated, at the threat of strike over pay and conditions at my dad’s work. He was a member of the GMB in a 95% union member workplace. We lived in a house right at the front entrance of my dad’s work, and my mum paced up and down the living room as if she was looking out at the picket line before there was even a ballot.
“They’ll be hanging about outside the house… I’ll be expected to feed them, make them tea all day… The noise, the smoking… How will we get in and out of the house – we’ll have to cross the picket line. You going to school, me going to the shops, the dog needs out… I’ll get no peace.”
My dad didn’t talk about it much, he continued to come home at lunchtime, take the dog for a walk, tell us what had happened that day. And then one day there was no more mention of it. No one was lining up outside our wall. What happened?
My dad sat me down and explained: “Mr Mitchell made us a deal and we took it.”
An almost 50% pay raise was an amazing success.
30 odd years later and I’m involved in a pay campaign with EIS. There hasn’t been one in Education since the 80’s when I was that wee girl. Unlike the all-male workforce of that time, where the women and weans were invisible, at home, awaiting news of what was coming next, now it’s women front and centre – leading crowds in song. Alongside every member of the community, including pets. Pets on picket lines surprised me at first; now I look out for them.
Something during the campaign sparked that memory of my mum’s worry about strike all those years ago. Then the realisation, it wasn’t the people hanging about the house my mum was worried about, it was the loss of pay – probably the only thing she hadn’t named as a worry. Even a day’s pay would have made a noticeable difference to us. So my dad as the sole breadwinner had been, as workers in all campaigning sectors are today, negotiating between the everyday reality right now, what we want for the future, the voices of the workforce and the voices from home.
Standing Strong, Singing Along
“Do you want to hand out sweeties, Pauline? We’re handing out sweeties at the rally.”
Anne handed me a wee box of chewy sweets, explaining what we were planning to do. I taste tested one, before agreeing to take on the task. Secretly, I was so grateful to have a task. Waiting for a gathering of people, not knowing what to expect had me a bit anxious. And there were three of us working together. I had pals.
Another taste test...
We were moving outside, gathering round the podium that had sprung up in the last few minutes, or I just hadn’t noticed it before. Enveloping us were the most intricate banners from branches across the country. Banners I’d only seen on TV, in pictures, and on the walls of the office. This is where they belonged, and I understood their power now.
Nicola got up on stage, belted out a rally tune, encouraging us all to sing back. No chance, I’ll stay quiet. Another tune. I can do better than those droners in the back.
Third song, I’m singing along, and that taken in, forget to hand out the sweeties. Hurriedly, I run round the disappearing crowd, throwing them at people: “Take one for the journey home, for the weans… Take them so I don’t eat them!”
And as quickly as we all came together, we are all going our separate ways. My first rally was over.
A Hat’s a Hat, for All That
Climbing over piles of well-worn coats, shoes, moth-eaten jumpers, there atop the pile of clothing donations, was the prize. An unworn hat to wear out into the dreich afternoon where a brolly would be no use.
I was hesitant, not because I was borrowing something meant for someone in real need, but because it was… a beret. I’d never worn a beret before.
How is this to be fashioned? At an angle? Hair up or down? Really it would make no difference once outside when it would be pulled down to save as much hair as possible.
Heading for the front door, I was ready for comments. But nothing. Nothing from Neil or Mark or Chris, or the guys here for their daily hot meal, who always had something to say about something. Well, the east end of Glasgow is clearly ready to embrace the beret. It wasn’t until I returned, and they’d had a good two hours to think of something smart to say: “Oh aye, here comes Rhianna” a reference to the music video for Run This Town. Not meant as such, I took it as a compliment, put a donation in the box and kept the hat.
In fact, over ten years later and I’m rarely without a beret, rolled up in my bag, ready for our predictably unpredictable weather. They’ve been collected from charity shops and markets and as a collection, span every colour of the rainbow.
Which is why it felt so familiar and comforting to don a beret as I stood in Glasgow Green amid hundreds of EIS members with their families and pets, activists, and colleagues one dreich November, barely ten minutes from where I once worked at the day centre. This time, not black and something to somehow hide beneath, but bright pink, with a slogan to be noticed: Pay Attention.
Written by Pauline McColgan, EIS
