Workers Of The World, Unite

Ah, Labor Day. A celebration of our working men and women. We celebrate by taking a day off of that work to reflect on all the good work that we would be doing if we were at work. It's a vacation day. Not one that comes out of your personal stash of fourteen, on average, but a day away from the grind. Americans get a bunch of those, which tends to supplement the two weeks that we are generally allotted by our employers. As an elementary school teacher, I am afforded a great many more opportunities for this reflection, in part because I belong to a union.
When I first signed up for this teaching gig, I had no idea that I would be asked, nay required, to be part of organized labor. When my contract was brought along in that first month, I figured I would have a chance to mull over my options, and then decide if the union life was for me. It turns out that working for the Oakland Public Schools meant that I had already made that choice. I got my union card, but no wedding coat. I was already married.
Over the years, I've thought a lot about what it means to be a part of the dwindling number of U.S. workers who affiliate themselves with organized labor. At last count, only eleven percent of us workers belong to a union, compared to eighteen in Germany and a full seventy percent in Finland. I've participated in work actions, including a one day strike  a couple of years ago. I even went to some union meetings back before I became numb to the roar of dozens of different voices all heading in different directions with the ultimate goal of finding one vision: How best to serve our members.
For years now, I have complained to anyone that will listen that I would be happy to continue to donate part of my pay for union dues if we got to choose what our premiums were. I don't want a subscription to teacher magazines. I don't want to have to pay an additional twelve dollars for the T-shirt that identifies me as a union member. I paid my dues. Give me the shirt.
Still, I can't say it's all bad. At the end of just about ever school year, just as the children and I have reached that magical point where we really need an extra moment or two away from one another, there is an extra day off inserted in the calendar just before Memorial Day. It's called "In Lieu of Lincoln's Birthday," and it was part of a deal brokered by my union. And I suppose that's what I will be reflecting on this Labor Day.