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Studio photograph of my parents, taken in Charlotte,
North Carolina, where my father served as an MP
(Military Policeman) in the US Army Air Corps
during World War II. The Air Corps was the parent
of the US Air Force.
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This is going to be a bit of a departure from my usual
topics. However, one day last week I got
to thinking about fathers and especially about my own father and how much I owe
to him (and to my mother, of course).
My father was a simple, good, man. He was born in Ireland in the last few years
of the nineteenth century, a fact that still surprises me. He was the third child and second son of a
fairly prosperous farmer from County Longford.
It has been fascinating to me to find him among the rest of his family
in the Irish censuses for 1901 and 1911.
The first of the censuses lists him as a toddler, in the second he is
dignified with the term for a schoolboy “scholar”. (Also, from the 1901 census I learned that my
great-grandmother’s name was Rose and that my grandmother’s nickname was the
same as mine.)
He was living in Ireland at a time of great turmoil and
change. At the time of the Easter Rising
he was just 18 years old. During the
bitter years of the Black and Tan War he was in some way associated with
Michael Collins, one of the most important rebel leaders, primarily because
Collins was engaged to a local girl, Kitty Kiernan, and was frequently in that
corner of Longford.
In 1927, at the age of almost 30, my father came to America,
driven, as most immigrants were and are, by the hope of finding
employment. He never talked very much about
his life before arriving here, nor of the first years he spent in the US. I know he lived for a time with some cousins,
until he was able to find a steady job.
The job he found was a tough blue-collar one, as it often is for
immigrants. He was hired as a conductor
on the New York City subway. At that
time, in the early 1930s, the subway was not yet owned by the city of New
York. Rather, it was the property of the
various investors who had built the lines at the turn of the century.
He found work on the IRT west side division, the second oldest
line. This is the job he held for the
rest of his working life, broken only by the two years he spent as an MP in the
US Army Air Corps (which later became the Air Force) and a long vacation leave
for a trip to Ireland when I was three years old.
The current job description of a subway conductor shows that
there has been little change in the duties.
Conductors are
Conductors are
“responsible for the
safe, timely and proper operation of the Transit Authority’s trains in
customer, yard and
work train service. In customer service, they open and close doors,
make proper
announcements to customers and set up the automatic announcement
system. While in
road service, they interact with the Train Operator, Supervision and the
Control Center when
necessary. They provide flagging protection service duties, such as
setting up flags and
light signals and take other required measures for the protection of
workers performing
work on or near trainways. They work as platform conductors in the
stations; patrol
platforms; assist customers in safely entering and exiting trains, and assist
in the timely dispatch
of trains from key stations. They operate hand-thrown switches in
the yards; make
reports of unusual occurrences; and perform related work.
Some of the physical activities performed by Conductors and environmental conditions
experienced are: walking along subway tracks; stepping over rails (including live third rails);
ascending and descending from trains and catwalks to roadbeds; responding to audible
signals such as alarm bells, train
whistles, horns and radio conversations; responding to
visual signals including distinguishing
colored lights; using manual equipment related to
train operation; remaining in a
standing position for extended periods of time; and lifting
heavy equipment.
Special Working Conditions: Conductors may be required to work rotating shifts including
nights, Saturdays, Sundays, and holidays.”1
Just about
the only thing in that description that seems new is the reference to the
automatic announcement system.
Everything else is very familiar, including those rotating shifts and
weekend and holiday work. He usually
managed to get Sundays and holidays off, but there was always the possibility
that the phone would ring and he would have to go to work. I particularly remember one New Year’s Eve
when the call came around 11:00 PM. He
was needed to replace someone who hadn’t come to work so that the Times Square
revelers would have trains to take them home.
He quickly put on his uniform and left my mother and myself to somewhat
glumly watch the ball descend on TV.
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| Subway conductor at work today. |
What the job
description cannot convey, of course, is the actual sense of working. In summer the heat in the subway tunnels is
infernal (and this was largely before the trains were air conditioned), in the
winter it can be freezing during the periods in which the trains run in the
open, as most subway lines do for some part of their runs outside
Manhattan. It can be hazardous, not just
from the obvious dangers mentioned in the job description, but from the
violence that exists just below the surface in any crowded city. The conductor is in a fixed location, a small
cab in the middle of the train. At every
station he (or she) has to lower the window of the cab and lean out in order to
see each end of the train to ensure that no one gets caught by a closing door
and dragged by the train. While thus
exposed, they can be subject to attack.
My father occasionally came home from work with bruises from thrown
objects and once was delayed for hours due to having to have stitches to a long
graze on his forearm where someone on the platform had knifed him just as the
train began to move. Another time he had
gashes on his face from being attacked by someone wielding a broken
bottle. Happily, these instances were
rare and none were very serious.
My father’s normal
shift began in the early morning, well before the start of the “rush hour” that
would see the great majority of office and factory workers traveling to reach
their jobs. So, he would have to get up
at 4:00 AM. As I grew older I would
sometimes wake up at that hour and see the light on in the kitchen. When this happened I would usually get up and
visit with him as he ate breakfast and prepared food for his mid-morning lunch
break, usually a simple sandwich and a thermos of hot tea with milk and
sugar. Then he would be off to work and
I would return to bed since there were still hours to go before I had to get up
for school. When I was in high school I
would sometimes be able to catch him on one of his morning runs and ride with
him on my way to school. I think those
short visits made him very happy. They
made me happy too.
Like many
Irish men and women of their generation my parents married later in life. My father was 49 when I was born and my
mother was 38. I was in my second year
of college, aged 19 when my father retired.
It ought to have been a comfortable retirement as his union, the
Transport Workers Union (TWU), for which he and others had fought very hard
during the 1930s, had wrested decent provisions from the city, when the city
took over administration of the subways.
But, it wasn’t to be. Within a
few months of retiring he began to show the symptoms of what turned out to be
lung cancer that had metastasized to the brain.
Barely 12 months after retiring he was dead. My mother, who was totally broken by his
loss, developed leukemia within two years and died 11 years later of its
complications.
As I thought
about him and his dogged daily effort to get up at 4:00 AM winter and summer, to work at a job
that is little considered by those he served, that could at times be dangerous,
I realized that he did it to ensure that I would not have to endure such
conditions. In a sense, he did it so
that I could be one of the unconcerned public, so wrapped up in my own affairs
that I do not see those men (and now women) who are his successors in the same
job. And I realized too that there are
still hundreds of thousands of men and women whose lives are ruled by the very
same clock, who are getting up in the wee hours and doing the same kind of
thankless jobs in order to feed and educate their families so that one day
their children can have a better life. It’s a humbling realization.
So, let us
praise those fathers (and mothers) who do the hard, unsung, unglamorous jobs of
this world out of love. And let us honor
them as they deserve.
Thank you,
Daddy, from my heart. I still miss you
very much.
©
M. Duffy, 2018
