Living My Life - Emma Goldman [138]
Perhaps it was just as well, for what could the poor creature give to the boy who had read queer books, had dreamed queer dreams, had committed a queer act, and had even been queer in the face of death. People out of the ordinary, those with a vision, have ever been considered queer; yet they have often been the sanest in a crazy world.
In Pennsylvania I found the condition of the miners since the “settlement” of the strike worse than in 1897 when I had gone through the region. The men were more subdued and helpless. Only our own comrades were alert, and even more determined since the shameful defeat of the strike, brought about by the treachery of the union leaders. They were working part time, barely earning enough to live on, yet somehow they managed to contribute to the propaganda. It was inspiring to see such consecration to our cause.
Two experiences stood out on my trip. One happened down in a mine, the other in the home of a worker. As on my previous visits, I was taken to the pit to talk to the men in one of the shafts during lunch-hour. The foreman was away, and the miners eager to hear me. I sat surrounded by a group of black faces. During my talk I caught sight of two figures huddled together—a man withered with age and a child. I inquired who they were. “That’s Grandpa Jones,” I was told; “he’s ninety and he has worked in the mines for seventy years. The kid is his great-grandchild. He says he’s fourteen, but we know he’s only eight.” My comrade spoke in a matter-of-fact manner. A man of ninety and a child of eight working ten hours a day in a black pit!
After the first meeting I was invited by a miner to his home for the night. The small room assigned me had already three occupants: two children on a narrow cot, and a young girl in a folding bed. I was to share the bed with her. The parents and their infant girl slept in the next room. My throat felt parched; the stifling air in the room made me cough. The woman offered me a glass of hot milk. I was tired and sleepy; the night was heavy with the breathing of the man, the pitiful wailing of the infant, and the monotonous tramp of the mother trying to quiet her baby.
In the morning I asked about the child. Was it ill or hungry that it cried so much? Her milk was too poor and not enough, the mother said; the baby was bottle-fed. A horrible suspicion assailed me. “You gave me the baby’s milk!” I cried. The woman attempted to deny it, but I could see in her eyes that I had guessed correctly. “How could you do such a thing?” I upbraided her. “Baby had one bottle in the evening, and you looked tired and you coughed; what else could I do?” she said. I was hot with shame and overcome with wonder at the great heart beneath that poverty and those rags.
Back in New York from my short tour, I found a message from Dr. Hoffmann calling me again to nurse Mrs. Spenser. I could undertake only day duty, my evenings being taken up with the Turner campaign. The patient consented to the arrangement, but after a few weeks she urged me to take care of her during the night. She had become more to me than merely a professional case, but her present surroundings were repugnant. It was one thing to know that she lived from the proceeds of a brothel, quite different to have to work in such a house. To be sure, my patient’s business now went by the respectable name of a Raines hotel.2 Like all legislation for the elimination