jerk if he’d taken in his brother-in-law when both the boy’s parents died unexpectedly. I tried to let our differences go, and when I did, Stan realized that I didn’t hold grudges or spy on people. Finally, he started to give me a chance. With Stan I learned I had to meet people in the middle and try to understand their personalities, even changing my attitude when necessary to make a relationship work. Before I knew it, we were able to work together without acrimony.
I didn’t mention this incident, or any of the others, to Charles. During those first couple of years, Charles never knew the extent of what I was dealing with at Goodyear. We communicated mostly through notes on the stove; when I was home, he was at work, and vice versa. Our shifts just worked out that way. He was traveling a fair amount for his job at Fort McClellan, while also finishing the college degree he’d never completed when moving up in rank in the National Guard. The real reason I didn’t confide in him, though, is that I tried to leave work at work. I refused to let my troubles at work consume my family life, and when we talked, we were solving other problems at home—now Phillip was in high school and Vickie off at college. He never even set foot inside the Goodyear plant. I thought I could handle my own problems, so I adjusted to thesituation, like a contorted tree twisting its way around another tree that’s too close, eager to find just enough space in which to grow.
T HERE WERE enough dependable people at Goodyear to keep me going. The first time I cut a batch of rubber running the tuber in stock prep, my supervisor gave me a dull knife—even though I’d asked for a sharper one. When the blade got stuck in the rubber, another man came over and jerked it out for me. He pointed the knife in the direction of the man across the room, who’d lost his thumb cutting rubber. “Let me show the right way so you don’t end up like him,” he said, slicing the thick white sheet that made me think of whale blubber. There were other simple acts of kindness, too, like when the guys helped me with faulty wiring on the old machines, or let me in on the best type of shoes to wear on the concrete floor.
Once the guys got to know me, they usually came around—even the most stubborn. The day I was introduced to one of the millwrights, he leaned close to me and said, “Well, you think you should be here, don’t you?” He was a big ole boy with scraggly long hair. His breath was foul.
“Yeah, I think I should be here,” I said. I wanted to ask him when was the last time he took a bath.
He hitched up the waist of his stained khakis over his belly and said, “Well, you know, it gets hot out here and sometimes I wear cutoffs without anything underneath, and I might have to drop my shorts to cool off.” He spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the floor beside me. “Or fart.”
I didn’t move away from the brown spittle.
“I’m responsible for your production and making sure you’re paid properly, so don’t go changing your habits on my account. Just because I’m female doesn’t mean I require anything different.”
That day he remained unconvinced, but he soon changed his tune once we’d spent some time together. It didn’t matter whetherI was male or female—the union guys would have had to test me. That was the nature of the relationship between management and the union men. Respect was never a given for anybody. Just as a coach has to earn the respect of the players, managers, who had a history of stepping on men’s necks, had to gain the confidence of their crew. Once they saw I was willing to drag one-hundred-pound rolls of material off the conveyor by myself if someone wasn’t around to help, and work overtime on the weekends when they were sick of doing it, most of them started calling me Miss Lilly with a real sense of regard.
T HE SUPPORT of a few good men carried me a long way, and I could never have survived without
I didn’t mention this incident, or any of the others, to Charles. During those first couple of years, Charles never knew the extent of what I was dealing with at Goodyear. We communicated mostly through notes on the stove; when I was home, he was at work, and vice versa. Our shifts just worked out that way. He was traveling a fair amount for his job at Fort McClellan, while also finishing the college degree he’d never completed when moving up in rank in the National Guard. The real reason I didn’t confide in him, though, is that I tried to leave work at work. I refused to let my troubles at work consume my family life, and when we talked, we were solving other problems at home—now Phillip was in high school and Vickie off at college. He never even set foot inside the Goodyear plant. I thought I could handle my own problems, so I adjusted to thesituation, like a contorted tree twisting its way around another tree that’s too close, eager to find just enough space in which to grow.
T HERE WERE enough dependable people at Goodyear to keep me going. The first time I cut a batch of rubber running the tuber in stock prep, my supervisor gave me a dull knife—even though I’d asked for a sharper one. When the blade got stuck in the rubber, another man came over and jerked it out for me. He pointed the knife in the direction of the man across the room, who’d lost his thumb cutting rubber. “Let me show the right way so you don’t end up like him,” he said, slicing the thick white sheet that made me think of whale blubber. There were other simple acts of kindness, too, like when the guys helped me with faulty wiring on the old machines, or let me in on the best type of shoes to wear on the concrete floor.
Once the guys got to know me, they usually came around—even the most stubborn. The day I was introduced to one of the millwrights, he leaned close to me and said, “Well, you think you should be here, don’t you?” He was a big ole boy with scraggly long hair. His breath was foul.
“Yeah, I think I should be here,” I said. I wanted to ask him when was the last time he took a bath.
He hitched up the waist of his stained khakis over his belly and said, “Well, you know, it gets hot out here and sometimes I wear cutoffs without anything underneath, and I might have to drop my shorts to cool off.” He spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the floor beside me. “Or fart.”
I didn’t move away from the brown spittle.
“I’m responsible for your production and making sure you’re paid properly, so don’t go changing your habits on my account. Just because I’m female doesn’t mean I require anything different.”
That day he remained unconvinced, but he soon changed his tune once we’d spent some time together. It didn’t matter whetherI was male or female—the union guys would have had to test me. That was the nature of the relationship between management and the union men. Respect was never a given for anybody. Just as a coach has to earn the respect of the players, managers, who had a history of stepping on men’s necks, had to gain the confidence of their crew. Once they saw I was willing to drag one-hundred-pound rolls of material off the conveyor by myself if someone wasn’t around to help, and work overtime on the weekends when they were sick of doing it, most of them started calling me Miss Lilly with a real sense of regard.
T HE SUPPORT of a few good men carried me a long way, and I could never have survived without
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