Document text
Fenno to be Filled out for _Each Interview
FOLKLORE
NEW YORK
FORMA
Circumstances of Interview
STATE New York
NAME OF WORKER Vivian Morris
ADDRESS 225 West 130th Street, ILY.C.
DATE March 9, 1939
SUBJECT Laundry Workers
1. Date and time c!' DMCFPRPRObsettration March 8th. 110.0 A.M. to
12 Noon.
observation
2. Place of Zatamitus West End Laundry
41th Street between 10th 11th Avenues.
3. Name and address of informant
4. Name and address of person, if any, who put you in
touch with informant.
5. Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you
8. Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.
(Use US many additional sheets as necessary, for any of the forms, each
bearing the proper heading and the number to which the material refers.)
STATE
New York
FORM C
Text of Interview (Unedited)
NAVE OF WORKER Vivian Morris
ADDRESS 225 West 130th Street, N.Y.C.
DATE March 9, 1939
SUBJECT Laundry Workers
LAUNDRY WORKERS
FOLKLORE
NEW YORK
The foreman of the ironing department of the laundry
eyed me suspiciously and then curtly asked me, "what you
want?" I showed him a Laundry Workers Union card (which
I borrowed from an unemployed lanudry worker, in order to
insure my admittance) and told him that I used to work in this
laundry and I thought I would drop in and take a friend of
mine who worked there, out to lunch.
He squinted at the clock and said, "Forty minutes be-
fore lunch time. Too hot in here and haw. Better wait out-
side."
"But," I remonstrated, "the heat doesn't bother me.
used to work in here."
"Say," he ignored my argument no fishy back talk and
get outside." He watched me until I was out of sight and then
he left the room. I promptly darted back into the ironing
room where my friend worked.
The clanging of metal as the pistons bang into the sock-
ets, the hiss of steam, women wearily pushing twelve pound
irons, women mechanically tending mashines, one, button half
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of the shirt done, two, top finished, three, sleeves pressed
and the shirt is ready for the finishers, that is the scene
that greeted me as I stood in the Laundry's ironing depart-
ment.
Shirts, thousands of white shirts that produce such a
dazzling glare that the women who work in this department
wear dark glasses to protect their eyes. The heat is almost
unbearable; there seems to be gushes of damp heat pushed at
you from some invisible force in the mechanism of the machine.
The smooth shiny faced women work in silence, occassionally
dropping a word here and there, slowly wiping away dripping
perspiration, then back to the machines, to the heary irons
without any outward show of emotion no protest. The morn-
ing has been long and ardous, this is *Wednesday a heavy
day but thank God half the day is nearly over.
The heavy, strong armed women pauses, the iron, arms
unflex and she glances at the clock. She sillies. Forty-
five minutes until eating time. A soft contralto voice gives
vent to a hymn, a cry of protest, as only the persecuted can
sing, warm, plantive, yet with a hidden buoyancy of exultation
that might escape q person who has not also felt the pathos,
and hopes of a downtrodden, exploited people.
She sings, a trifle louder, "Could my tears forever flow,
could my zeal no languor know. Thou must save, and thou alone,
these fo' sin could not atone; In my hand no price I bring.
Simply to his cross I cling."
The women tend their machines to the temno of the hymn.
They all join in on the chorus, their voices blend beautifully,
though untrained and unpolished they voice the same soulful
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sentiment, "Rock of Ages, cleft for me. Let me hid myself in
thee." Stanza after stanza rings from their lips voicing op-
pression centuries old, but the song rings out that the inner
struggle for real freedom still lights a fiery spark in the
recesses of the souls of these toiling women.
The song ends as it began with soft words and humming.
One squat,• attractive young woman, who single-handedly handles
three of the shirt machines, begins a spirited hymn in militant
tempo, with a gusto that negates the earlier attitude of fatigue
the entire crew of the ironing room joins in either humming or
singing. They are entering the final hour before lunch but to
judge from the speed which the song has spurred them to, you
would believe they were just beginning. The perspiration
drips copiously but it is forgotten. The ohorus of the hymn
zooms forth. "Dare to Be a Daniel, Dare to stand alone. Dare
to have a purpose firm and make it known and make it known."
The woman who finishes the laces with the twelve pound iron
wields it with feathery swiftness and sins her stanza as the
others hum and put in a word here and there. "Many a mighty
gal is lost daring' not to stand (The words of the next line
were overcome by the rise in the humming, but the lost line
was clear and resonant) "By Joinin' Daniel's band." The
chorus was filled with many pleasing adlibs and then another
took up a stanza. Finally the song dies away.
Then the squat machine handler says to the finisher
who guides the big iron, "Came on baby, sing'at song you made
up by yourself. The Heavy Iron Blues."
Without further coaxing the girl addressed as baby-
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cleared her throat and began singing. "I lift my iron Lawd,
heavy as a ton of nails. I lif' my Von Lawd, heavy as a ton
of nals, but it pays my rent cause my man's still layine in
jail. Got the blues, blues, got the Heavy i'on Blues; but
my feet's in good shoes, so doggone the heavy i'on blues."
Then she starts the second stanza which is equally as
light but carries some underlying food for thought. "I lift
my i'on Lawd, all the livelong day. MP my Von Lawd, all
the live long day, cause dat furniture bill I know I got to
pay, Got the Blues, blues, got the Heavy Iron blues, but,
I pay my union dues, so doggone the Heavy Pon Blues."
There is a sound of whistles from the direCtion of the
river and the girls drop whatever they are doing and there
are many sight of relief. Lunchtime.