Alas, the saga for workers’ rights at Lesley University continues. On Thursday, February 13th, union organizers, Bon Appetit cafeteria workers, students, and faculty gathered on campus to rally for a decent living wage.
The rally began with a march from White Hall, which led to a circle of chants and slogans in the middle of the Doble Quad. To combat the snow, wind, and freezing rain, organizers handed out ponchos and hand-warmers. Armed with these as well as picket signs reading “UNITE HERE!”, the rally-ers stood up to the management and the weather.
Coming off of the heels of a recent unionization, the cooks, line chefs, and dishwashers of the Charlie’s, Washburn, and White dining establishments was had a bottom line of fair pay. Issues with low pay and lack of benefits has long been an issue between, Lesley, Bon Appetit Management, and their staff. Like the latter’s first rally that occurred last March, Thursday’s procession consisted of several worker testimonies. Among the speakers were Cambridge City Councilor Mark McGovern, Brattle Campus Chef Randy Wright and other cafeteria workers, Lesley student activist Theresa Powers and EDS Professor Reverend Dr. Norman Faramelli.
Brattle chef Randy Wright advocating for a cafeteria worker pay raise. (Photo Credit: Natalie Cohen)
Speaking in English and Spanish, cafeteria workers explained to the crowd that working full time on the wages they are paid by management is not enough for to pay for all their basic needs. ”I can’t pay my rent” claimed Randy Wright, who is also in recovery from addiction while trying to stay on his feet as a chef at Washburn Dining Commons. Senior Theresa Powers, who has long been an advocate for workers rights on campus and frontrunner of the People’s Alliance for Worker Solidarity (PAWS),aired her grievances with the system in the rally’s finale:
“As a student here at Lesley, I am absolutely appalled at the fact that these workers, who I call my family, can’t afford to feed their own families. We pay a lot of money to go to this school. How is our money transferring into what they get paid at all? It is time for Lesley to stand up for what’s right.”
The rally concluded with more chanting and calls of action before the cold and wet crowd dispersed. Though Bon Appetit and Lesley officials have not yet publicly responded, the cafeteria workers and their supporters certainly made an attention-grabbing statement. But will the future bring higher pay to those who feed the Lesley community? Only time will tell.
https://www.local26.org/wp-content/uploads/L26-logo-circle-tr-2022.png00UNITEHERELocal26https://www.local26.org/wp-content/uploads/L26-logo-circle-tr-2022.pngUNITEHERELocal262014-02-18 17:40:202015-04-02 18:41:46Lesley Cafeteria Workers Rally for Fair Pay
As the pink light of dawn recedes over Savin Hill, a man opens his front door and steps into the cold. He peers down from his porch, surveying what may now be the safest block in Boston.
A police cruiser has been parked there all night. These days, a police cruiser is always there.
The man — Mayor Martin J. Walsh — holds a set of keys, a relic from his past life. His car will sit in the driveway, as it has for weeks. The other day, he started it up and drove a few feet down the driveway. Just to move it.
His ride idles in the street, a black Chevy Tahoe hybrid driven by a plainclothes police officer. It’s the same vehicle — and, on this morning, the same driver — that ferried former mayor Thomas M. Menino. A city protects its mayor, whether he’s been in office 20 years or 20 days.
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A day in the life of Walsh
Walsh nods at the squad car, the police, the protection.
“This is bizarre,” he says.
Life has changed completely for Boston’s first new mayor in two decades. At stoplights, people in other cars do double takes. Shoppers in the grocery store snap cellphone pictures. An autograph seeker tries to follow the mayor into the bathroom of a steakhouse (his security detail intervenes). Heads turn at a Patriots game, where Walsh has held season tickets for decades.
“A guy looked at me and said, ‘That’s the mayor of Boston,’ ” Walsh recalls. “I’ve sat next to him for 20 years.”
A day shadowing Walsh makes this much plain: The job is all-consuming; there’s no time for the inconsequential, or for idle thoughts.
It’s 8 a.m. and the Tahoe lumbers up Dorchester Avenue, past the corner where a bullet grazed Walsh almost 25 years ago, past a dry cleaner with a red Walsh-for-mayor sign in the window.
He sits in the front passenger seat and keeps his head down, eyes buried in his two iPhones, one his personal phone, the other city-issued. A news broadcaster says his name on the radio. His face is on the cover of the Boston Herald with the headline: “Walsh’s first crisis: Spike in fatal violence; 9 slayings, 19 days.”
He arrives at City Hall at 8:23 a.m. His police driver unlocks a private entrance. He has his own elevator that whisks him up to his fifth-floor office. He throws his overcoat on a chair — he still hasn’t found a place to hang it up — and unwraps a piece of gum, which he throws in his mouth. His jaw flexes as he begins to chew.
Walsh sits behind the desk — something Menino almost never did — and fiddles with a pack of Post-it notes. The middle desk drawer is antiseptically neat, with everything in its place: paper clips, pens, a toothbrush with a protective cover over the bristles. One of his top aides, Joseph Rull, appears in the doorway.
“What’s up?” Walsh asks.
“It’s busy,” Rull says.
* * *
Walsh walks to the office next door for an 8:30 a.m. staff meeting. He hasn’t fully adjusted to the idea that when he wants to meet, people will come to him. Does he want to be that kind of mayor? Still sorting it out.
Seven people crowd an oval table, which holds cups of coffee and three laptops. The roster includes Rull; the mayor’s press people; his attorney and adviser Elissa Flynn-Poppey; and his chief of staff, Daniel Arrigg Koh. Policy chief Joyce Linehan is there, too, pecking at a laptop festooned with two blue bumper stickers that declare: “Don’t blame me — I’m from Massachusetts.”
Joanne Rathe/Globe Staff
Martin Walsh is still sorting out his approach to his mayoralty as he settles in. “A lot of it now is reacting because I’m new.”
They are reading headlines, talking about the spate of deadly shootings, parsing out the day ahead. The conversation zips through a host of topics: an announcement of a grant to combat asthma; an update on reports from his transition team; a discussion about an upcoming monthly radio feature called “ask the mayor.” He is attending the governor’s State of the Commonwealth speech.
But mostly, they talk about the violence.
Walsh leans forward, elbows on knees, jaw pulsing as he chews his gum. He is frustrated because the media are demanding a press conference. He has begun taking steps to tamp down the violence, he says. He wants to treat neighborhood trauma and get at root causes. But he says no to the press conference. They just want a sound bite. The insatiable hunger of the press is an adjustment.
On this night, he is speaking at a graduation for Year Up, a job training program that places urban youth in corporate apprenticeships. TV reporters will be there, looking for a comment on the violence. Walsh wants the media to cover the graduation. Highlight what’s being done to break the cycle, he says. Not just the violence.
“This isn’t like a snowstorm where we can go out and shovel,” Walsh says. “This is a long-term problem that’s been going on for generations in American cities.”
* * *
Walsh throws his gum in the garbage and unwraps a fresh piece. The 46-year-old former labor leader is sturdy but trim with a wide, sometimes goofy smile. He plasters his reddish hair neatly in place with gel and has a skin-colored mole high on his left cheek. On this day, he wears a gray suit with subtle blue pinstripes, powder-blue tie, and a white shirt.
The anteroom immediately outside the mayor’s office is a hectic crossroads. There are three doors. Two receptionists regulate the flow, knocking on the mayor’s door to keep meetings moving. A coffee table has an Irish America magazine. Walsh’s face is on the cover with the headline: “A hero for the working man.”
A young aide enters the anteroom with a puzzled look. “Do you know where Joyce is?” he asks, pointing at two of the doors. “I think she’s in one of these rooms.”
Walsh is on his sixth meeting, running 15 minutes late. He listens to a labor negotiations update. He’s sitting at the head of a 10-foot mahogany table, occupying the perch where Menino always sat.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a postcard-perfect view of Boston: the red bricks and grasshopper weather vane of Faneuil Hall, curving narrow streets, and the bright blue sparkling water of Boston Harbor. A police siren wails in the distance. Walsh is learning to distinguish between police and fire sirens. He thinks about where they are going, whether he’ll get a call. He has different worries now.
Walsh looks back at the table. For the moment, he must focus on the contract update.
“It would be nice to get this done,” he says.
* * *
It’s afternoon and Walsh is sticking his hand up a fireplace in Parkman House, the city-owned Greek Revival mansion on Beacon Hill. He is feeling for ashes, checking to see whether the fireplace is still used. He possesses a child-like enthusiasm. Ask the right question, and Walsh will take you into the basement of his Dorchester condo to see his sports memorabilia. Or he’ll stick his hand up a fireplace at Parkman House.
The mansion is extraordinary: original portraits and Chinese porcelain, 14-foot ceilings, an elevator, and a dining room capable of hosting 60 for supper. Walsh says his roughly 800-square-foot condo in Savin Hill could fit in the mansion’s second-floor parlor.
He is here hosting an informal meeting of local mayors. He wants to work together and not fight over resources and companies and people. Walsh is sitting in a leather chair, drinking coffee with milk and sugar, talking with Mayor Alex B. Morse of Holyoke. Other mayors chitchat.
Walsh is in the center of the room, but he isn’t the focal point. Not yet. He wants to start the meeting, but he can’t quiet the chatter. He looks to Everett Mayor Carlo DeMaria for help.
“Can you whistle?” Walsh asks.
But DeMaria can’t hear him. Walsh raises his voice a little louder. The chatter subsides. He leads a discussion. He still sounds like a state representative, referring to people’s “districts” or “areas.” These are mayors. They control cities and towns. No matter the words, his tone stresses cooperation.
“I believe in strength in numbers,” Walsh says.
* * *
The phone rings in the car. This is one of those calls: a parent looking for help with a son struggling with addiction. Walsh is a recovering alcoholic, sober now for almost 20 years. He’s long been a leader in the recovery community, taking phone calls at all hours, helping people get help. As mayor, he won’t give up his old cellphone. Too many people need the number.
“Where’s the kid, Mass. General?” Walsh asks. “Was he doing heroin? Or was it more than that?”
* * *
A crowded union hall heaves with excited hotel workers. Walsh’s campaign anthem blares, “I’m Shipping Up to Boston,” driven by accordion, banjo, and guitar. He enters like a hero. The crowd roars, clapping and raising their arms. Cellphone cameras flash.
“Mayor Marty Walsh. It feels good to say that, doesn’t it?” shouts Local 26 president Brian Lang. “Immigrant parents. Worked with his hands. Built his union. Lives in our neighborhoods. Shares our dreams. Marty is us.”
Walsh is here to say thank you for the election. The endorsement of Local 26 was a turning point. The union is a liberal force composed largely of people of color. The endorsement helped him grow beyond his base in Dorchester and South Boston. And it validated his progressive bona fides.
Walsh delivers a stump speech, ticking off his biography. But he has a different ending. On election night, he slept at the Boston Park Plaza hotel. He ordered room service. A member of Local 26 delivered the food, he says. He points to her in the union hall crowd. She left the trays in the hall, he says, and ran in the hotel room to give him a hug.
“She said basically, ‘I just got elected mayor of the city of Boston,’ ” Walsh says. “I want to thank you for that. That’s when it really started to sink in that we won.”
* * *
The media find Walsh backstage at John Hancock Hall in Back Bay, before the Year Up graduation. He is patient when a cameraman’s microphone malfunctions. They ask about the spike in killings. He says there is work to be done, that nine dead is nine too many.
Police have seized 20 guns this year. But policing alone will not solve violence, he says. The city needs to increase opportunities and programs for young people. Programs such as the corporate apprenticeships at Year Up.
Moment later, he’s on stage, addressing an audience of about 1,000, speaking to graduates. He reads from notes and stumbles over statistics. His numbers are wrong, he says. The audience laughs.
“I don’t know what I was thinking when I wrote this speech. I’m getting rid of the notes,” Walsh says, looking up. “I know what Year Up does. Let me just say this: When the news media talks about what’s going on in the city of Boston and they talk about violence, they don’t talk about Year Up graduates.”
He goes into stump-speech mode again. This time, he highlights his adversity. He talks about childhood cancer and struggling in school. A nun liked him so much in fifth grade, she kept him there an extra year. The audience laughs. He goes into detail about his drinking, blacking out, recovery, second chances. When he ran for mayor, he says, he never had a doubt he was going to win.
“The reason I tell you this story isn’t because I’m bragging,” Walsh says. “It’s because when I look out at the graduates, I’m looking in a mirror.”
* * *
Backstage, Walsh is walking fast, almost running. He has less than 20 minutes to make it to the State House for the governor’s speech. He tosses a piece of gum in his mouth. A man wants a photograph. He stops and then is off again and in the car.
The Tahoe makes good time. Lights and sirens are not necessary. This is Walsh’s first time back to the State House since resigning his seat. But mementoes of his time there are never far away. Even his cellphone reminds him: The screen saver on one of the phones shows his name in lights on the House board that captures roll call.
Inside the State House, Walsh tosses his gum in the garbage. He steps onto a red carpet and shakes the governor’s hand. Then he’s in his seat, in the front row.
After the speech, Walsh is circled by seven reporters. He thrusts his hands in his pockets and takes questions: property taxes, revenue estimates, the retirement system, and more about the recent run of violence.
“Anything else?” he asks.
* * *
The mayor’s office is dark. Walsh gropes a wall, quickly finding the light switch. He is looking for the text of a speech he is giving at 8 the next morning, less than 12 hours away.
The mayor is hungry and talking to his aides about ordering a pineapple, ham, and onion pizza from a joint on Savin Hill Avenue. The best Hawaiian pizza in town, he says. There are no takers. He orders a salad and chicken fingers. He is down the elevator, back in the car, and bound for Dorchester.
“There’s still a lot of work to do before I get settled in the job. A lot of it now is reacting because I’m new,” Walsh says. “We haven’t had the time to implement the policies we talked about during the campaign. We’re still in the setup phase.”
At Venice Pizza, the woman behind the counter smiles. She hands him his food but doesn’t recognize him as mayor. Walsh is home at 9 p.m. A patrol car is parked at the curb. Inside the house, he turns on the light. The Tahoe drives away.
Walsh sets down his keys and flips through his mail. He clicks on the television and flips to the State of the Union speech. He says he is going to slip into his New England Patriots sweat pants, sink into the couch, eat the chicken fingers and salad, and watch the president.
“Today was a busy day. I’m a little tired,” Walsh says. “Another day in the life.”
https://www.local26.org/wp-content/uploads/L26-logo-circle-tr-2022.png00UNITEHERELocal26https://www.local26.org/wp-content/uploads/L26-logo-circle-tr-2022.pngUNITEHERELocal262014-02-06 15:55:272014-02-06 15:55:27Boston is now Martin Walsh’s neighborhood
“Over the summer of 2013, Harvard student Gabriel Bayard surveyed dozens of workers at the Harvard-owned DoubleTree Hotel in Allston. “I was dismayed to hear stories of chronic pain, debilitating injuries, poverty and loved ones without health insurance.” he explained. “Ninety-six percent of surveyed workers said that their jobs had gotten worse in the past six years; 84% said they could not imagine working there for the next ten years. I was shocked. This was not the Harvard that I knew.”
Bayard’s findings are compiled in the recently published report “DoubleTree, Double Standard: Comparing Harvard University’s Workplace Standards On and Off Campus.” Read his results here
National Day of Action for Respect and Reform (7 photos)
On October 5th, Local 26 members joined other allies from across the Boston area to march for the National Day of Action for Respect and Reform. Click on the title to see pictures from the march!
https://www.local26.org/wp-content/uploads/Immigration-March-Begins.jpg24274045UNITEHERELocal26https://www.local26.org/wp-content/uploads/L26-logo-circle-tr-2022.pngUNITEHERELocal262013-10-05 19:15:102013-11-20 19:16:29National Day of Action for Respect and Reform
Campus food service workers and their student, faculty, and community allies continue to build a movement for real food, real jobs, & thriving communities in Cambridge and Boston.
In just 18 months, 650 dining hall workers at Harvard Law School, Northeastern University, Lesley University, the Episcopal Divinity School, and Simmons College have voted to join UNITE HERE Local 26, Greater Boston’s union of food service and hotel workers.
This spring saw 80 workers at Lesley join the union on March 1 and, most recently, 70 workers at Simmons join through an NLRB election that was held on April 24.
“We made a family out of ourselves”
Every September, a quarter million students from around the world breathe life into Cambridge and Boston, filling over fifty colleges and universities. Arriving students, many of whom are new to the area or to the country, find that in the dining halls they develop a bond with each other and with the workers who care for them.
Every day, thousands of food service workers — mostly women, immigrants and people of color — sustain them and show them love.
“I love my job because I love my students”, says Estella Cosby, a cook at Simmons, and it shows. When winter storm ‘Nemo’ shut down roads, schools, and businesses in February, Stella walked in the snow for an hour to reach campus. During the citywide lockdown in April, cook Melvin Butler and five co-workers kept the cafeteria running from morning to night. “I’m needed. You all need to eat!” he told astonished students.
For Ren Kenney and hundreds of other students, the love is mutual: “When I first got to Simmons, the cafeteria workers treated me with kindness, like family. They take care of us. So when the workers started organizing, I had their back the way they had mine. That’s what community is about”, says the rising senior.
“We made a family out of ourselves because all we had was each other. I got to know the students and professors, I shared a little about myself, they shared a little about themselves, and then students became like my sisters and daughters, and professors became like my aunts and mothers,” says Stella.
“Stick Together, and we have power”
Last fall, worker committees, supported by students, faculty and community allies from both sides of the Charles River began to build bridges to bring it all together. Andre Lucas, a cook at Lesley, practiced an idea that would later become the campaign’s motto: “in Haiti we say, ‘L’union fait la force’ — stick together, and we have power.” Every day after work, Andre spent time getting to know workers from other kitchens and cafeterias, forging bonds that crossed campuses.
From proudly wearing ‘We Love our Cafeteria Workers’ buttons to collecting hundreds of petition signatures, “students gave us motivation and confidence”, says Nico Cotto, a cook at Simmons. Lesley’s People’s Alliance for Worker Solidarity (PAWS), sang “We Shall Not Be Moved” in one of many delegations to management. Simmons’ Fighting Injustice Now at Simmons (FINS) designed personalized cards for each and every worker before election day.
Building Momentum in Boston
The family, and the movement, will continue to grow, with contract negotiations at Simmons and Lesley ongoing, and thousands of food service workers in the Boston area who are still without a union.
Today, workers and students from both institutions are taking their stories and organizing experience beyond their campuses, driving new organizing across Greater Boston: “I love talking to workers and visiting them in their homes. It just makes me want to do more”, says Edith “Tiny” Figueroa, a cook at Simmons for 5 years.
Theresa Powers, a rising senior at Lesley, agrees: “Seeing the change at Lesley made me want to work on bringing those changes to food service workers all over Boston. When all workers are receiving fair wages, respect and dignity — that’s going to have a powerful effect on their communities.”
https://www.local26.org/wp-content/uploads/L26-logo-circle-tr-2022.png00UNITEHERELocal26https://www.local26.org/wp-content/uploads/L26-logo-circle-tr-2022.pngUNITEHERELocal262013-10-04 19:04:022015-04-02 18:41:46Cafeteria workers at Lesley and Simmons Join UNITE HERE Local 26
Lesley Cafeteria Workers Rally for Fair Pay
Alas, the saga for workers’ rights at Lesley University continues. On Thursday, February 13th, union organizers, Bon Appetit cafeteria workers, students, and faculty gathered on campus to rally for a decent living wage.
The rally began with a march from White Hall, which led to a circle of chants and slogans in the middle of the Doble Quad. To combat the snow, wind, and freezing rain, organizers handed out ponchos and hand-warmers. Armed with these as well as picket signs reading “UNITE HERE!”, the rally-ers stood up to the management and the weather.
Coming off of the heels of a recent unionization, the cooks, line chefs, and dishwashers of the Charlie’s, Washburn, and White dining establishments was had a bottom line of fair pay. Issues with low pay and lack of benefits has long been an issue between, Lesley, Bon Appetit Management, and their staff. Like the latter’s first rally that occurred last March, Thursday’s procession consisted of several worker testimonies. Among the speakers were Cambridge City Councilor Mark McGovern, Brattle Campus Chef Randy Wright and other cafeteria workers, Lesley student activist Theresa Powers and EDS Professor Reverend Dr. Norman Faramelli.
Brattle chef Randy Wright advocating for a cafeteria worker pay raise. (Photo Credit: Natalie Cohen)
Speaking in English and Spanish, cafeteria workers explained to the crowd that working full time on the wages they are paid by management is not enough for to pay for all their basic needs. ”I can’t pay my rent” claimed Randy Wright, who is also in recovery from addiction while trying to stay on his feet as a chef at Washburn Dining Commons. Senior Theresa Powers, who has long been an advocate for workers rights on campus and frontrunner of the People’s Alliance for Worker Solidarity (PAWS),aired her grievances with the system in the rally’s finale:
“As a student here at Lesley, I am absolutely appalled at the fact that these workers, who I call my family, can’t afford to feed their own families. We pay a lot of money to go to this school. How is our money transferring into what they get paid at all? It is time for Lesley to stand up for what’s right.”
The rally concluded with more chanting and calls of action before the cold and wet crowd dispersed. Though Bon Appetit and Lesley officials have not yet publicly responded, the cafeteria workers and their supporters certainly made an attention-grabbing statement. But will the future bring higher pay to those who feed the Lesley community? Only time will tell.
Boston is now Martin Walsh’s neighborhood
Walsh is finding that being mayor is a blur of decisions, distractions, and demands, but also a chance to put his mark on this old town.
By Andrew Ryan
| Globe Staff
February 02, 2014
LANE TURNER/GLOBE STAFF
Martin J. Walsh says his condo could fit into the second-floor parlor of the city-owned Parkman House on Beacon Hill.
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As the pink light of dawn recedes over Savin Hill, a man opens his front door and steps into the cold. He peers down from his porch, surveying what may now be the safest block in Boston.
A police cruiser has been parked there all night. These days, a police cruiser is always there.
The man — Mayor Martin J. Walsh — holds a set of keys, a relic from his past life. His car will sit in the driveway, as it has for weeks. The other day, he started it up and drove a few feet down the driveway. Just to move it.
His ride idles in the street, a black Chevy Tahoe hybrid driven by a plainclothes police officer. It’s the same vehicle — and, on this morning, the same driver — that ferried former mayor Thomas M. Menino. A city protects its mayor, whether he’s been in office 20 years or 20 days.
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Walsh nods at the squad car, the police, the protection.
“This is bizarre,” he says.
Life has changed completely for Boston’s first new mayor in two decades. At stoplights, people in other cars do double takes. Shoppers in the grocery store snap cellphone pictures. An autograph seeker tries to follow the mayor into the bathroom of a steakhouse (his security detail intervenes). Heads turn at a Patriots game, where Walsh has held season tickets for decades.
“A guy looked at me and said, ‘That’s the mayor of Boston,’ ” Walsh recalls. “I’ve sat next to him for 20 years.”
A day shadowing Walsh makes this much plain: The job is all-consuming; there’s no time for the inconsequential, or for idle thoughts.
It’s 8 a.m. and the Tahoe lumbers up Dorchester Avenue, past the corner where a bullet grazed Walsh almost 25 years ago, past a dry cleaner with a red Walsh-for-mayor sign in the window.
He sits in the front passenger seat and keeps his head down, eyes buried in his two iPhones, one his personal phone, the other city-issued. A news broadcaster says his name on the radio. His face is on the cover of the Boston Herald with the headline: “Walsh’s first crisis: Spike in fatal violence; 9 slayings, 19 days.”
He arrives at City Hall at 8:23 a.m. His police driver unlocks a private entrance. He has his own elevator that whisks him up to his fifth-floor office. He throws his overcoat on a chair — he still hasn’t found a place to hang it up — and unwraps a piece of gum, which he throws in his mouth. His jaw flexes as he begins to chew.
Walsh sits behind the desk — something Menino almost never did — and fiddles with a pack of Post-it notes. The middle desk drawer is antiseptically neat, with everything in its place: paper clips, pens, a toothbrush with a protective cover over the bristles. One of his top aides, Joseph Rull, appears in the doorway.
“What’s up?” Walsh asks.
“It’s busy,” Rull says.
* * *
Walsh walks to the office next door for an 8:30 a.m. staff meeting. He hasn’t fully adjusted to the idea that when he wants to meet, people will come to him. Does he want to be that kind of mayor? Still sorting it out.
Seven people crowd an oval table, which holds cups of coffee and three laptops. The roster includes Rull; the mayor’s press people; his attorney and adviser Elissa Flynn-Poppey; and his chief of staff, Daniel Arrigg Koh. Policy chief Joyce Linehan is there, too, pecking at a laptop festooned with two blue bumper stickers that declare: “Don’t blame me — I’m from Massachusetts.”
Joanne Rathe/Globe Staff
Martin Walsh is still sorting out his approach to his mayoralty as he settles in. “A lot of it now is reacting because I’m new.”
They are reading headlines, talking about the spate of deadly shootings, parsing out the day ahead. The conversation zips through a host of topics: an announcement of a grant to combat asthma; an update on reports from his transition team; a discussion about an upcoming monthly radio feature called “ask the mayor.” He is attending the governor’s State of the Commonwealth speech.
But mostly, they talk about the violence.
Walsh leans forward, elbows on knees, jaw pulsing as he chews his gum. He is frustrated because the media are demanding a press conference. He has begun taking steps to tamp down the violence, he says. He wants to treat neighborhood trauma and get at root causes. But he says no to the press conference. They just want a sound bite. The insatiable hunger of the press is an adjustment.
On this night, he is speaking at a graduation for Year Up, a job training program that places urban youth in corporate apprenticeships. TV reporters will be there, looking for a comment on the violence. Walsh wants the media to cover the graduation. Highlight what’s being done to break the cycle, he says. Not just the violence.
“This isn’t like a snowstorm where we can go out and shovel,” Walsh says. “This is a long-term problem that’s been going on for generations in American cities.”
* * *
Walsh throws his gum in the garbage and unwraps a fresh piece. The 46-year-old former labor leader is sturdy but trim with a wide, sometimes goofy smile. He plasters his reddish hair neatly in place with gel and has a skin-colored mole high on his left cheek. On this day, he wears a gray suit with subtle blue pinstripes, powder-blue tie, and a white shirt.
The anteroom immediately outside the mayor’s office is a hectic crossroads. There are three doors. Two receptionists regulate the flow, knocking on the mayor’s door to keep meetings moving. A coffee table has an Irish America magazine. Walsh’s face is on the cover with the headline: “A hero for the working man.”
A young aide enters the anteroom with a puzzled look. “Do you know where Joyce is?” he asks, pointing at two of the doors. “I think she’s in one of these rooms.”
Walsh is on his sixth meeting, running 15 minutes late. He listens to a labor negotiations update. He’s sitting at the head of a 10-foot mahogany table, occupying the perch where Menino always sat.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a postcard-perfect view of Boston: the red bricks and grasshopper weather vane of Faneuil Hall, curving narrow streets, and the bright blue sparkling water of Boston Harbor. A police siren wails in the distance. Walsh is learning to distinguish between police and fire sirens. He thinks about where they are going, whether he’ll get a call. He has different worries now.
Walsh looks back at the table. For the moment, he must focus on the contract update.
“It would be nice to get this done,” he says.
* * *
It’s afternoon and Walsh is sticking his hand up a fireplace in Parkman House, the city-owned Greek Revival mansion on Beacon Hill. He is feeling for ashes, checking to see whether the fireplace is still used. He possesses a child-like enthusiasm. Ask the right question, and Walsh will take you into the basement of his Dorchester condo to see his sports memorabilia. Or he’ll stick his hand up a fireplace at Parkman House.
The mansion is extraordinary: original portraits and Chinese porcelain, 14-foot ceilings, an elevator, and a dining room capable of hosting 60 for supper. Walsh says his roughly 800-square-foot condo in Savin Hill could fit in the mansion’s second-floor parlor.
He is here hosting an informal meeting of local mayors. He wants to work together and not fight over resources and companies and people. Walsh is sitting in a leather chair, drinking coffee with milk and sugar, talking with Mayor Alex B. Morse of Holyoke. Other mayors chitchat.
Walsh is in the center of the room, but he isn’t the focal point. Not yet. He wants to start the meeting, but he can’t quiet the chatter. He looks to Everett Mayor Carlo DeMaria for help.
“Can you whistle?” Walsh asks.
But DeMaria can’t hear him. Walsh raises his voice a little louder. The chatter subsides. He leads a discussion. He still sounds like a state representative, referring to people’s “districts” or “areas.” These are mayors. They control cities and towns. No matter the words, his tone stresses cooperation.
“I believe in strength in numbers,” Walsh says.
* * *
The phone rings in the car. This is one of those calls: a parent looking for help with a son struggling with addiction. Walsh is a recovering alcoholic, sober now for almost 20 years. He’s long been a leader in the recovery community, taking phone calls at all hours, helping people get help. As mayor, he won’t give up his old cellphone. Too many people need the number.
“Where’s the kid, Mass. General?” Walsh asks. “Was he doing heroin? Or was it more than that?”
* * *
A crowded union hall heaves with excited hotel workers. Walsh’s campaign anthem blares, “I’m Shipping Up to Boston,” driven by accordion, banjo, and guitar. He enters like a hero. The crowd roars, clapping and raising their arms. Cellphone cameras flash.
“Mayor Marty Walsh. It feels good to say that, doesn’t it?” shouts Local 26 president Brian Lang. “Immigrant parents. Worked with his hands. Built his union. Lives in our neighborhoods. Shares our dreams. Marty is us.”
Walsh is here to say thank you for the election. The endorsement of Local 26 was a turning point. The union is a liberal force composed largely of people of color. The endorsement helped him grow beyond his base in Dorchester and South Boston. And it validated his progressive bona fides.
Walsh delivers a stump speech, ticking off his biography. But he has a different ending. On election night, he slept at the Boston Park Plaza hotel. He ordered room service. A member of Local 26 delivered the food, he says. He points to her in the union hall crowd. She left the trays in the hall, he says, and ran in the hotel room to give him a hug.
“She said basically, ‘I just got elected mayor of the city of Boston,’ ” Walsh says. “I want to thank you for that. That’s when it really started to sink in that we won.”
* * *
The media find Walsh backstage at John Hancock Hall in Back Bay, before the Year Up graduation. He is patient when a cameraman’s microphone malfunctions. They ask about the spike in killings. He says there is work to be done, that nine dead is nine too many.
Police have seized 20 guns this year. But policing alone will not solve violence, he says. The city needs to increase opportunities and programs for young people. Programs such as the corporate apprenticeships at Year Up.
Moment later, he’s on stage, addressing an audience of about 1,000, speaking to graduates. He reads from notes and stumbles over statistics. His numbers are wrong, he says. The audience laughs.
“I don’t know what I was thinking when I wrote this speech. I’m getting rid of the notes,” Walsh says, looking up. “I know what Year Up does. Let me just say this: When the news media talks about what’s going on in the city of Boston and they talk about violence, they don’t talk about Year Up graduates.”
He goes into stump-speech mode again. This time, he highlights his adversity. He talks about childhood cancer and struggling in school. A nun liked him so much in fifth grade, she kept him there an extra year. The audience laughs. He goes into detail about his drinking, blacking out, recovery, second chances. When he ran for mayor, he says, he never had a doubt he was going to win.
“The reason I tell you this story isn’t because I’m bragging,” Walsh says. “It’s because when I look out at the graduates, I’m looking in a mirror.”
* * *
Backstage, Walsh is walking fast, almost running. He has less than 20 minutes to make it to the State House for the governor’s speech. He tosses a piece of gum in his mouth. A man wants a photograph. He stops and then is off again and in the car.
The Tahoe makes good time. Lights and sirens are not necessary. This is Walsh’s first time back to the State House since resigning his seat. But mementoes of his time there are never far away. Even his cellphone reminds him: The screen saver on one of the phones shows his name in lights on the House board that captures roll call.
Inside the State House, Walsh tosses his gum in the garbage. He steps onto a red carpet and shakes the governor’s hand. Then he’s in his seat, in the front row.
After the speech, Walsh is circled by seven reporters. He thrusts his hands in his pockets and takes questions: property taxes, revenue estimates, the retirement system, and more about the recent run of violence.
“Anything else?” he asks.
* * *
The mayor’s office is dark. Walsh gropes a wall, quickly finding the light switch. He is looking for the text of a speech he is giving at 8 the next morning, less than 12 hours away.
The mayor is hungry and talking to his aides about ordering a pineapple, ham, and onion pizza from a joint on Savin Hill Avenue. The best Hawaiian pizza in town, he says. There are no takers. He orders a salad and chicken fingers. He is down the elevator, back in the car, and bound for Dorchester.
“There’s still a lot of work to do before I get settled in the job. A lot of it now is reacting because I’m new,” Walsh says. “We haven’t had the time to implement the policies we talked about during the campaign. We’re still in the setup phase.”
At Venice Pizza, the woman behind the counter smiles. She hands him his food but doesn’t recognize him as mayor. Walsh is home at 9 p.m. A patrol car is parked at the curb. Inside the house, he turns on the light. The Tahoe drives away.
Walsh sets down his keys and flips through his mail. He clicks on the television and flips to the State of the Union speech. He says he is going to slip into his New England Patriots sweat pants, sink into the couch, eat the chicken fingers and salad, and watch the president.
“Today was a busy day. I’m a little tired,” Walsh says. “Another day in the life.”
http://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/2014/02/02/day-life-boston-new-boss-mayor-martin-walsh/q52qI1MtZOtM5CIF4dzalI/story.html
“DoubleTree, Double Standard”
“Over the summer of 2013, Harvard student Gabriel Bayard surveyed dozens of workers at the Harvard-owned DoubleTree Hotel in Allston. “I was dismayed to hear stories of chronic pain, debilitating injuries, poverty and loved ones without health insurance.” he explained. “Ninety-six percent of surveyed workers said that their jobs had gotten worse in the past six years; 84% said they could not imagine working there for the next ten years. I was shocked. This was not the Harvard that I knew.”
Bayard’s findings are compiled in the recently published report “DoubleTree, Double Standard: Comparing Harvard University’s Workplace Standards On and Off Campus.” Read his results here
DoubleTree Web Version
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National Day of Action for Respect and Reform
Cafeteria workers at Lesley and Simmons Join UNITE HERE Local 26
Campus food service workers and their student, faculty, and community allies continue to build a movement for real food, real jobs, & thriving communities in Cambridge and Boston.
In just 18 months, 650 dining hall workers at Harvard Law School, Northeastern University, Lesley University, the Episcopal Divinity School, and Simmons College have voted to join UNITE HERE Local 26, Greater Boston’s union of food service and hotel workers.
This spring saw 80 workers at Lesley join the union on March 1 and, most recently, 70 workers at Simmons join through an NLRB election that was held on April 24.
“We made a family out of ourselves”
Every September, a quarter million students from around the world breathe life into Cambridge and Boston, filling over fifty colleges and universities. Arriving students, many of whom are new to the area or to the country, find that in the dining halls they develop a bond with each other and with the workers who care for them.
Every day, thousands of food service workers — mostly women, immigrants and people of color — sustain them and show them love.
“I love my job because I love my students”, says Estella Cosby, a cook at Simmons, and it shows. When winter storm ‘Nemo’ shut down roads, schools, and businesses in February, Stella walked in the snow for an hour to reach campus. During the citywide lockdown in April, cook Melvin Butler and five co-workers kept the cafeteria running from morning to night. “I’m needed. You all need to eat!” he told astonished students.
For Ren Kenney and hundreds of other students, the love is mutual: “When I first got to Simmons, the cafeteria workers treated me with kindness, like family. They take care of us. So when the workers started organizing, I had their back the way they had mine. That’s what community is about”, says the rising senior.
“We made a family out of ourselves because all we had was each other. I got to know the students and professors, I shared a little about myself, they shared a little about themselves, and then students became like my sisters and daughters, and professors became like my aunts and mothers,” says Stella.
“Stick Together, and we have power”
Last fall, worker committees, supported by students, faculty and community allies from both sides of the Charles River began to build bridges to bring it all together. Andre Lucas, a cook at Lesley, practiced an idea that would later become the campaign’s motto: “in Haiti we say, ‘L’union fait la force’ — stick together, and we have power.” Every day after work, Andre spent time getting to know workers from other kitchens and cafeterias, forging bonds that crossed campuses.
From proudly wearing ‘We Love our Cafeteria Workers’ buttons to collecting hundreds of petition signatures, “students gave us motivation and confidence”, says Nico Cotto, a cook at Simmons. Lesley’s People’s Alliance for Worker Solidarity (PAWS), sang “We Shall Not Be Moved” in one of many delegations to management. Simmons’ Fighting Injustice Now at Simmons (FINS) designed personalized cards for each and every worker before election day.
Building Momentum in Boston
The family, and the movement, will continue to grow, with contract negotiations at Simmons and Lesley ongoing, and thousands of food service workers in the Boston area who are still without a union.
Today, workers and students from both institutions are taking their stories and organizing experience beyond their campuses, driving new organizing across Greater Boston: “I love talking to workers and visiting them in their homes. It just makes me want to do more”, says Edith “Tiny” Figueroa, a cook at Simmons for 5 years.
Theresa Powers, a rising senior at Lesley, agrees: “Seeing the change at Lesley made me want to work on bringing those changes to food service workers all over Boston. When all workers are receiving fair wages, respect and dignity — that’s going to have a powerful effect on their communities.”