So Long, Labor Dog

All victories for working people – no matter how small – are hard won.
Anonymous

My friend, colleague and mentor Bill Millard passed away a few days ago. If anyone knew how difficult it is to win gains for workers it was Bill because he was an old “labor dog” who had been in the thick of many tough fights on behalf of working people.

In Bill’s case those people were carpenters and accounting clerks and bus drivers and instructional assistants and plumbers and bakers and cooks and groundskeepers and purchasing agents and custodians – all of them employed by public school districts in California – unseen and unheard for the most part, those that work behind the scenes; Bill gave these people presence and voice.

Bill once drove a school bus for a living, and I’d wager that he was good at his trade and took pride in doing the job well because that’s the way he was wired. He got started in the labor movement as an active member in a local and became a professional labor relations representative. He negotiated and wrote contracts, filed and settled grievances, counseled employees, and agitated for legislation to protect workers.

Most of all, Bill taught working men and women to seize responsibility for their own fates by banding together and looking out for their common benefit – a concept that seems utterly foreign in this era of “me-first” greed.

The labor movement was more than a vocation for Bill – it was an intense passion more demanding than any woman, requiring the stamina and grit of a marathon runner, the patience of a Buddhist monk, and the mental toughness of a prizefighter. The battle for decent wages and safe working conditions, for respect and dignity, for basic fairness, has always been uphill against formidable odds.

Bill was a Liberal’s Liberal and proud of it and we immediately hit it off. Even though he was a decade and a half my senior, we shared an intense dislike for Ronald Reagan and William Jefferson Clinton as well as a belief that unchecked corporate power and influence was antithetical to democracy and detrimental for working people. Injustice ticked us off.

I shared The Nation magazine with Bill and he shared Mother Jones with me.

Love of language was another thing Bill and I had in common. When it came to writing Bill was a craftsman – careful, exacting and meticulous. He’d work a sentence the same way a sculptor works a slab of granite, chipping and shaping until it was flawless.

Whenever Bill and I went into a disciplinary meeting or contract negotiations the only thing I’d want to know is whether or not he had eaten beforehand. On an empty stomach Bill was ferocious. The hungrier Bill was the shorter his temper became – and I could tell with one glance when his cork would pop. I made it a practice to have a granola bar handy, just in case.

Like all people who work in close contact with one another over a long period of time and in tense situations, we developed a shorthand method of communicating. Bill knew the word or thought I was searching for just as I knew what question he wanted to ask next. This kind of connection is rare and wonderful.

One case we worked on together revealed Bill’s character more than any other. We were representing an employee who was clearly on the wrong side of the contract, of common sense, and of every policy on the school district’s books. The man had cooked his own turkey and deserved what was coming to him – or at least that was my take. Bill didn’t disagree with my assessment but the humanist in him saw deeper, saw that this man was a damaged soul, no danger to anyone but himself, seriously flawed, no doubt about it, but still deserving of empathy.

“He doesn’t have a leg to stand on,” Bill said. “But if we don’t help him walk away with at least some dignity we’ll both regret it.”

Quintessential Bill Millard. Die-hard, hard-boiled, realistic, pragmatic and idealistic, but most of all a man who never let his professional role rob him of his humanity.

You gave me courage, old dog, courage and hope, and I know how unlikely it is that I’ll ever have the good fortune to cross paths with your kind again. Long may your spirit run.