Excerpt
Introduction: What Is a Strike?
The camp outside the mine gates was unusually quiet. The usual clatter of pickaxes against rock and the deep rumble of carts coming out of the tunnels had stopped completely. Men leaned on shovels, women stood in small groups whispering, and children peeked out from behind their mothers’ skirts, wide-eyed. Nobody was going down into the mine today. That’s what it meant to go on strike—everyone stopping work at the same time to send a message: something has to change.
A strike wasn’t just about being angry, though some people were. It was a plan, and it took everyone’s help. One person refusing to go to work wouldn’t do much. But when all the miners stayed home, it forced the bosses to notice. The mines wouldn’t run without hundreds of hands swinging picks and loading coal. When workers stood together like that, it was a kind of power they couldn’t find anywhere else.
Of course, striking wasn’t easy. Nobody got paid while they refused to work, and most families didn’t have money saved up. That meant figuring out how to stretch what little food they had. People shared bread and beans, passed down extra coats to kids who’d grown out of them, and patched shoes over and over. Everyone tried to help each other, because striking only worked if people didn’t give up.
Some kids even helped in their own ways. They’d carry water buckets to the men who were picketing at the mine entrance. They’d help watch their little brothers and sisters while their mothers cooked for the whole camp. Sometimes they’d sit quietly and listen to their parents talk at night about what was fair and what wasn’t. That was when they heard words like “strike” and “union” over and over, words they didn’t hear much before.
Being on strike also meant being brave. The bosses didn’t like when workers stopped working. The company hired guards to stand near the gates, their eyes sharp and unfriendly. They were there to scare people into going back to the mines. The guards carried guns, rode horses, and sometimes even tore down the workers’ tents or threw their belongings into the dirt. But even when that happened, many miners stayed on strike, because they believed it was the only way to make things better.
The longer the strike lasted, the harder life became. Families had to move out of the little houses they’d rented from the company, because the company wouldn’t let them stay if they weren’t working. That was when the tent camps sprang up, rows of canvas homes flapping in the wind. Some days were cold and wet, and the tents barely kept the chill out. But at night, people huddled together and sang songs to keep their spirits up.
At first, some children thought of the strike as almost like a holiday, since nobody was going to work and they didn’t have to sneak past the mine gates to carry lunch pails to their fathers. But as days turned into weeks, the excitement wore off, and everyone started to feel tired and hungry. People argued more easily. Parents’ faces looked drawn and worried. Still, no one wanted to be the first to give up.
In the evenings, after the sun sank behind the mountains, the workers held meetings in the biggest tent. Men and women crowded in together, some holding babies on their hips. Lanterns lit their serious faces while leaders stood at the front, explaining what had happened that day. Sometimes the company offered a little bit more pay to try to convince them to come back to work. The crowd would murmur, and someone would always stand up and say, “Not enough. We deserve more.”
There were also meetings where everyone talked about what they’d ask for if the company really listened—safer mines, fair wages, no more company guards bullying them. Even the children in the back of the tent listened closely. It was one of the first times they saw grown-ups standing up for themselves, and it left an impression they wouldn’t forget.
Not everyone agreed all the time. Some workers thought the strike was hurting their families more than helping. A few quietly slipped back into the mine when nobody was looking, just to earn a little money again. That made others angry, because a strike only worked if everybody stayed out. The word “scab” got whispered—an insult for someone who broke the strike.
The tent camps felt different from the company towns in more ways than just the canvas walls. In the camps, people from all over—Italians, Greeks, Slavs, Mexicans, Americans—worked together as equals. They shared food, taught each other songs in their own languages, and watched each other’s children. There was no company store telling them what they could buy. For the first time, it felt like they really owned their lives, even if just a little.
Every once in a while, reporters came out to the camps, carrying notepads and pencils. They’d talk to the strikers, write down what they said, and leave again. Afterward, the miners would talk about whether people far away were reading their story. They hoped that if enough people learned about how they were living and why they’d stopped working, they’d help put pressure on the company to listen.
For the children, the strike was both scary and exciting. They learned how to tell when the guards were riding toward the camp. They helped tie down loose ropes before a snowstorm blew through. And when their parents whispered about what the company might try next, the kids learned to keep quiet and watch. Every day taught them something new about standing together and not letting fear win.
The camp outside the mine gates was unusually quiet. The usual clatter of pickaxes against rock and the deep rumble of carts coming out of the tunnels had stopped completely. Men leaned on shovels, women stood in small groups whispering, and children peeked out from behind their mothers’ skirts, wide-eyed. Nobody was going down into the mine today. That’s what it meant to go on strike—everyone stopping work at the same time to send a message: something has to change.
A strike wasn’t just about being angry, though some people were. It was a plan, and it took everyone’s help. One person refusing to go to work wouldn’t do much. But when all the miners stayed home, it forced the bosses to notice. The mines wouldn’t run without hundreds of hands swinging picks and loading coal. When workers stood together like that, it was a kind of power they couldn’t find anywhere else.
Of course, striking wasn’t easy. Nobody got paid while they refused to work, and most families didn’t have money saved up. That meant figuring out how to stretch what little food they had. People shared bread and beans, passed down extra coats to kids who’d grown out of them, and patched shoes over and over. Everyone tried to help each other, because striking only worked if people didn’t give up.
Some kids even helped in their own ways. They’d carry water buckets to the men who were picketing at the mine entrance. They’d help watch their little brothers and sisters while their mothers cooked for the whole camp. Sometimes they’d sit quietly and listen to their parents talk at night about what was fair and what wasn’t. That was when they heard words like “strike” and “union” over and over, words they didn’t hear much before.
Being on strike also meant being brave. The bosses didn’t like when workers stopped working. The company hired guards to stand near the gates, their eyes sharp and unfriendly. They were there to scare people into going back to the mines. The guards carried guns, rode horses, and sometimes even tore down the workers’ tents or threw their belongings into the dirt. But even when that happened, many miners stayed on strike, because they believed it was the only way to make things better.
The longer the strike lasted, the harder life became. Families had to move out of the little houses they’d rented from the company, because the company wouldn’t let them stay if they weren’t working. That was when the tent camps sprang up, rows of canvas homes flapping in the wind. Some days were cold and wet, and the tents barely kept the chill out. But at night, people huddled together and sang songs to keep their spirits up.
At first, some children thought of the strike as almost like a holiday, since nobody was going to work and they didn’t have to sneak past the mine gates to carry lunch pails to their fathers. But as days turned into weeks, the excitement wore off, and everyone started to feel tired and hungry. People argued more easily. Parents’ faces looked drawn and worried. Still, no one wanted to be the first to give up.
In the evenings, after the sun sank behind the mountains, the workers held meetings in the biggest tent. Men and women crowded in together, some holding babies on their hips. Lanterns lit their serious faces while leaders stood at the front, explaining what had happened that day. Sometimes the company offered a little bit more pay to try to convince them to come back to work. The crowd would murmur, and someone would always stand up and say, “Not enough. We deserve more.”
There were also meetings where everyone talked about what they’d ask for if the company really listened—safer mines, fair wages, no more company guards bullying them. Even the children in the back of the tent listened closely. It was one of the first times they saw grown-ups standing up for themselves, and it left an impression they wouldn’t forget.
Not everyone agreed all the time. Some workers thought the strike was hurting their families more than helping. A few quietly slipped back into the mine when nobody was looking, just to earn a little money again. That made others angry, because a strike only worked if everybody stayed out. The word “scab” got whispered—an insult for someone who broke the strike.
The tent camps felt different from the company towns in more ways than just the canvas walls. In the camps, people from all over—Italians, Greeks, Slavs, Mexicans, Americans—worked together as equals. They shared food, taught each other songs in their own languages, and watched each other’s children. There was no company store telling them what they could buy. For the first time, it felt like they really owned their lives, even if just a little.
Every once in a while, reporters came out to the camps, carrying notepads and pencils. They’d talk to the strikers, write down what they said, and leave again. Afterward, the miners would talk about whether people far away were reading their story. They hoped that if enough people learned about how they were living and why they’d stopped working, they’d help put pressure on the company to listen.
For the children, the strike was both scary and exciting. They learned how to tell when the guards were riding toward the camp. They helped tie down loose ropes before a snowstorm blew through. And when their parents whispered about what the company might try next, the kids learned to keep quiet and watch. Every day taught them something new about standing together and not letting fear win.