Quiet Mountain Essays
Copyright ©, 2005
The Textile Factory
by
Judith K. Witherow
I was raised in the northern Appalachians Mountains. After graduating high school in 1962, I
went to work at one of the local factories. The fact that I was seventeen didn't deter the ones in
charge from hiring someone underage. My mother, sister, and two aunts were employed at this
particular sportswear factory. It was the natural progression for many female family members.
Anyone who has ever worked in one of these sweatshops can attest to its mind-numbing,
backbreaking nature. The noise, fiber dust, stale air, and nonstop pressure to work faster on the
assembly lines are intense. It was hell on earth, but it was a means of survival until hopefully
something better came along. Hopefully, rarely happened once you got caught up in the
unending nightmare.
During the two years I worked there more than one woman suffered a breakdown. Their screams
would make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Other women would carry the broken
woman out, and hardly a moment of work would be lost. I guess we thought slowing down might
allow the Spirits to catch us next, or the bosses would find a way to get rid of someone else who
wasn't producing to their satisfaction. It was a hellish place for a naive teenager.
For the most part, men held positions of authority. As a teenager, I was ill equipped to deal with
adult men. Back then there was no term for sexual harassment. The word "fresh" was meant to
cover all forms of abuse. It was accepted as just the way things were, and you kept quiet to protect
your job. When one of the line supervisors started hitting on me, I was shocked. He was old
enough to be my father. I was worried that even with the noise of the sewing machines, and
cutting equipment the other women would hear what he was saying, and believe I had done
something to deserve his treatment.
Among many things, he told me was that "virgins were a pain in the ass", and he would be "doing
me a favor by busting my cherry." I thought if I worked even harder he would see that I was
someone worthy of respect. Needless to say it gave him permission to embolden his tactics.
There was a union at our workplace and I decided to file a grievance when nothing I did stopped
his hated behavior.
I had always heard wonderful things about unions, and it didn't hurt that my aunts were officers
in the local chapter of the Amalgamated Ladies' Garment Workers' Union. When I told them
what was taking place they were outraged. I was too embarrassed to tell them everything, but
they knew and trusted me as a person who would not lie to elders. They went to management
with what I told them, and all hell broke loose! These were two women who would not back down
from anything. The fact that it was a young family member fueled their anger higher. An earlier
sit-down strike in the factory, over another issue, had been very successful, so I'm sure the shop
knew my aunts wouldn't hesitate to call a strike over such a just cause.
The man who harassed me tried to say I was lying. When that tactic didn't work, he tried to
convince me that I had misunderstood what he said. With my aunts' strength and backing I
refused to allow his intimidation to continue, but it was truly scary.
The ones in charge at the sportswear factory held a closed meeting and agreed that my tormentor
would leave the job immediately. The matter was settled without further action.
Everyone agreed to the situation being handled in this manner. My aunts, who were usually fun
loving women, found nothing funny in the disrespectful way their niece had been treated.
They were feminists before the term was known or understood. Credit goes to my aunts for
teaching me how to fight and win when something that's taking place makes me feel
uncomfortable or I believe is wrong.
The memory of that incident has always remained with me. It taught me to look out for other
women who might not have gained a voice. Young or old, we all need others to believe us and
stand together.
Years later I ran into the harasser. He was parking cars. (No exaggeration.) His actions cost him a
good-paying job, and hopefully taught him a lesson that remains with him to this day.
Contributor's Notes...
Judith K. Witherow is a storyteller, poet and essayist known for her work on race, class, gender and sexual
orientation. Her book of poetry, All Things Wild, was recently reviewed in Lambda Book Report. She
currently serves on the Board of Directors for Sinister Wisdom, a multicultural journal by and for Lesbians.
www.jkwitherow.com
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