Huntington Laundry 1972

  "No bag," I said for the second time to the bored teenager behind the counter.  He gave a deep sigh and grudgingly took my suddenly trendy Vitamin D out of the bag.  I assumed a bright and cheerful tone.  "Look!, it's already IN a bottle AND a box".  He shrugged his shoulders in the air conditioned comfort of the modern chain store.  I attempted empathy:  "I hope your next job is better than this one."  Sensing an ally, he leaned forward and whispered, "They make us listen to country music in here." 

I listened to the piped in drivel of what passes for country music these days and agreed it was difficult, if not hazardous working conditions. This is where I wanted to shake him and ask, "Do you want to hear about a sweatshop I worked in , in 1972?"  Of course I did not burden him with my story, but it's a true one and I am thankful every day for the experience.

I was 18 and had my own rented room with no TV or phone, but I did have a portable radio and a library card so considered myself to be well entertained.  I would ride my bike to the bus stop and then take the bus to Huntington Laundry, an old crumbling building with uneven floors, leaks, rumors of rats and no air conditioning, or even fans. 

Due to my towering height of almost 5'6" I qualified to work a shirt press with the equally statuesque Tomasa.  We pressed 600 or more shirts a day, we were paid 3 cents a shirt, otherwise we received minimum wage.

 It was very stressful keeping up the pace.  The only time we stopped our feverish pursuit of 600 was once when Tomasa lost an earring and all the girls came over to help us find it, which we did, Gracias a Dios.

 I learned the importance of speaking Spanish since I had to keep up with the banter and teasing of my co-workers.  I did not want to feel left out.  Throughout the years I have studied on my own, in Adult Ed, and in the hospitals  I worked.  Eventually I was able to teach such things as signs/symptoms of adverse reactions to blood transfusions or the importance of deep breathing post-operatively. A patient once told me I spoke "like a Puerto Rican." It was my proudest moment.

  Once a month union dues and insurance were deducted for something called "benefits" and I went home with $30 for a week's work.  I had no idea what benefits were, something about health care or sick time.  Why would I, a pregnant, anemic, underweight teenager need health care?  This low-paying job taught me money management.  "That's not a dime, it's a phone call," I would think.  Or, "That's not a quarter, it's a bus ride."  I learned to discern wants from needs, spending only for needs.

  During my first trimester, exhaustion was a problem and one day after almost fainting into a bin of shirts, I flopped to the floor.  The big boss man, who, for legal purposes I will call " Louie," since that was his name, leaned over me.  I thought he was going to help me up and get me a drink.  Instead, he just growled, "this is a job, not a convenience."  I left early that day and crashed on a cot in back of Kropotkin's Record Store. ( Yes kids, a long time ago there were record stores, and some were named after obscure Bolshevik revolutionaries, and you could hang out in them).  I learned from that experience not to expect any sympathy, but to be grateful when it came along.

 This was backbreaking and potentially dangerous work.  Recent union-mandated safety regulations decreased the chance of actually losing your fingers but you could still get badly burned if you were careless.  In hot weather we got an additional 5 minutes added to our 5 minute afternoon break.  Thank you Amalgamated Laundry Workers Union!

 This job taught me to appreciate work conditions in all my other jobs, and to this day I marvel that I can be sitting down to work, and still get paid.

 One day I received a letter from the Responsible Party stating he would be stopping by with oranges for me and our future baby.  I was looking forward to the visit, but even more to the oranges, as food had become my all consuming (get it?) obsession.  Not surprisingly, there was no visit, nor were there any oranges.  In literary terms this would be both a foreshadowing of and a metaphor for, the child support I would never receive. But despite not possessing any known Protestant DNA, this inspired in me a work ethic any Puritan would envy.  Working more hours or more jobs has been the solution to most of my problems.  One year I turned in 4 W-2 forms and was nominated for " Honorary West Indian" by my Jamaican co-workers.  

Eventually I became a nursing assistant, then L.P.N. ( thank you Pell Grant and American taxpayers!) and, by 1987, a registered nurse.  I think of those days often, especially of the kindness of the laundry girls, who gave me a baby shower on the loading dock during our 10-minute break.  Every job since then has seemed easier, and I gratefully hold the lessons of that job, and those hard times with me always.

Ann Rita Darcy lives in Huntington Station and still thinks 10 minutes is perfectly adequate for a baby shower.