For years I was general assignment reporter. My schedule was Sunday through Thursday. Which meant I went to a lot of church services, on Sundays. Fridays were my day off. One Friday, when I lived on Logan Boulevard, I was heading to the health club, one hand holding my gym bag, the other on the doorknob, when I heard the phone ring inside the apartment.
"Don't answer it," I thought. "Just leave."
I went back inside and picked up the phone. Being a reporter is a responsibility, almost a calling, that transcends clocks and schedules. It was the paper, of course, telling me to get over to Christ Hospital right now. The Tribune was unleashing some big piece on trauma centers Monday and we were going to try to steal their thunder — spend 24 hours in Christ's ER, write it up Sunday, hit the newsstands at the same time. I was expected to produce the same story in two days that the Trib probably had four reporteres spend a month preparing. That's how the Sun-Times rolls: lean, mean, by the seat of our pants. A trust drop into the dedication and professional of its employees.
"Okay," I said.
Spending 24 hours at Christ on my day off meant, the way our comp time system works, that I would earn 36 hours, almost a full week, of time due — vacation I could take when I like. That struck me as a fair trade for spending my Friday night unexpectedly watching gunshot victims writhe in agony, having to avoid being splashed with blood, and catching a quick catnap on a stainless steel gurney in a brightly lit unused operating room, wondering, idly as I drifted off, whether I would awake to someone sawing off my leg.
Now imagine that I wasn't contractually assured that eventual time off. Imagine I wasn't confident I would be compensated at all, at least not any more than my usual week's salary. That changes the story, doesn't it? That affects whether I step back into the apartment to pick up the phone or continue with my carefree weekend. It injects a corrosive element of doubt and disrespect. How can you give your all to an organization that doesn't give its all back to you? A question that keeps poking me in the shoulder while watching the new Sun-Times management dicker concerning overtime, and other contractual fine points, during our union negotiations, which drag on. Sun-Times reporters and photographers have been guaranteed overtime since 1945 (when the paper was just the Sun). Now it's an issue. To even float the idea that overtime might be watered down, seems ... ominous. Get paid for the work you do, and paid more if you are asked to do more — not a very radical concept.
Progress is being made, and I don't want to bite the hand that feeds us. Yet. Maybe gum a few digits, as practice, because this is taking longer than it should, and the guild is slowly, gradually, turning up the pressure, reminding the people that a certain organization presenting itself over the airwaves as responsible and thoughtful and concerned and caring about all people everywhere is, behind the scenes, is alternating between dragging its feet and playing iron glove hardball when it comes to giving their employees a fair deal. Which is doubly strange, because the main reason that Chicago Public Media snatched up the Sun-Times (in addition to gaining access to our far more popular online platform) was to tap this ocean of charitable giving by people who want both organizations to endure, even thrive, despite the Great Media Die-Off. Some $60 million, right? It's like winning the lottery and then stiffing the paperboy.
When I first joined the Sun-Times, I gave a wide berth to union activities. First because it was a union grievance that got me hired in the first place — I freelanced so much, they considered me a scab, so I walked in the door a dubious figure, corrupted by magazine work. And second, due to my big mouth, I was unpopular enough with management without also establishing myself as a union firebrand. Which I might be doing now, unwisely. Maybe I should have stuck to that strategy but honestly, I'm entering into stage of life where there just isn't as much to lose. I got mine, enjoyed a long career at a good job with good benefits. I can't sit on my hands now while the next generation gets the shaft.
This round, for the first time, I signed up as a union shop steward. A role of minimal responsibility — I have to keep other columnists informed of what is going on — but that duty requires me to at least keep abreast of how negotiations are proceeding. And I've been disappointed. First, at the agree-right-now-or-we'll-sic-Jones-Day-on-your-ass attitude that management assumed right off the bat. That's not how it works. They're called "negotiations" because, well, you negotiate. Otherwise it's just demands being flung.
And second, the way they're playing with the benefits for new hires. Which is doubly objectionable because at the same time they're patting themselves on the back for their attempts to encourage staff diversity. The idea seems to be to quietly create a new set of performance hoops and then lure underrepresented employees to try to leap through them. A bad mix I have dubbed, "Welcome people of color and then fuck 'em."
This isn't my first rodeo. Both sides talk tough, scare each other. The talks seem to go on forever and at the last moment, with the newsroom putting on their coats to walk out the door, the clocks are stopped, the brass tacks gotten down to, and an agreement is signed that everyone likes, sort of, and we all breathe a deep sigh of relief and go back to the work we love. I fully expect that to happen again. At least I hope it will. Any moment now.
In the meantime, we need to remember why jobs at the Sun-Times ought to be great jobs. To attract great people. Who'll create great journalism. To benefit a great city. Chicago deserves no less.