Three years ago — for reasons I could explain — I wrote an essay about my lifelong wrestling with labor unions. Internal, mental wrestling, I should say. It was called “A Long Way from Harlan County.” You can read it here. Also, it’s included in my recent collection, Digging In.
Let me excerpt a few paragraphs that appear toward the end (as my indignation crescendos):
On the sidewalks of New York, there is often a huge inflatable rat parked in front of a building, blocking your way. A union has put it there, to shame the people within. They are non-union. It is not a cute, cuddly rat, but a giant nasty one. Non-union workers are supposed to be “rats,” you see. Didn’t Nazis equate their opponents with vile animals? Last October, before the opening night that never occurred, the stagehands placed this rat in front of Carnegie Hall. That tells you even more about their character.
I hate this rat. I hate the word “scab.” I hate the idea that you can’t cross a picket line — some holy cordon. I hate the whole bullying, ugly, greedy, undemocratic nature of unions.
To a degree, I am stunned and abashed to be anti-union and pro-management.
Why do I excerpt these paragraphs now? Because, at the moment, that rat — that giant, ugly, disgusting, bullying, sinister rat — is outside the building where we National Reviewniks have our offices. I lofted my middle finger to it a few minutes ago.
It’s all I can do, besides write, and republish . . .
P.S. One of the things that turned me off the New York Post many years ago is that, in their headlines, they referred to FBI informants as “rats” — just like the mob.