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Milwaukee Indy Media

Of labor unions and fetish gear

By Matt Wild A man wearing an American flag headband tears past me on his bicycle, narrowly avoiding a collision forceful enough to rearrange our collective bone structures. He turns back to look at me, a strange grin on his face, a psychotic glint in his eyes. “Wake up, kid. Wake up!” It’s 11 a.m. and I’m stumbling east along Wisconsin Avenue, hung over and slowly following the annual Labor Fest parade to the Summerfest grounds. I’m here to find out why so many perfectly sane people have decided to get out of bed on this cold, wet morning and gleefully march through the streets of downtown Milwaukee. Hordes of union-types carry banners denoting their affiliations (Sheet Metal Workers, Bricklayers Union). Small children hold signs saying “Don’t Roll Back Workers’ Rights!” A WTMJ news chopper hovers overhead like a threat. I try to snap a few pictures, but a hay-bailer driven by a bunch of iron workers nearly plows me over, my second near-miss of the day. Collecting my wits, I decide to heed the biker’s advice: Wake up. Ask questions. “Immigration reform” are the words I hear most often when pressing people on their reasons for marching, as well as a laundry list of candidates to be supported: Doyle, Kohl, Falk, et al. Amidst the admittedly left-leaning crowd I manage to spot a small group of Mark Green supporters, huddled tight against the inclement weather. Quietly sidling up I politely try to strike up a conversation. Would they like to answer a few questions? Nothing. What are their reasons for being here today? No answer. What are Mark Green’s views on unions? On immigration? A few evil glares, some hushed mumblings (I distinctly hear “Don’t even look at him.” ), but still nothing. Have you guys seen any of Green’s TV commercials, and if so, how long can you make it before you start laughing? Sensing a potentially ugly scene, I decide to ditch the weasely bastards and head for the festival grounds. Inside, the mood is somewhat muted, the light drizzle from the morning having turned into a fairly steady downpour. While signs screaming “Safety on the Job!” and “Protect Immigrant Workers Now!” abound, the event itself is disturbingly similar to Summerfest: eight dollar cups of beer and cover bands playing “Love Shack.” Barbara Lawton is giving a speech on the Miller Oasis stage, her words echoing off a sea of wet, empty bleachers. A grizzled-looking man suddenly approaches, a despairing look on his face. “You see this crowd? This represents every progressive in the state. It’s no wonder we always lose.” Surely it’s just the weather, I remark. If it wasn’t such a miserable day, maybe then…but no, he’s already gone. An unidentified woman takes Lawton’s place on stage and begins making an impassioned speech in Spanish. I ask another woman nearby to translate for me, but she doesn’t speak any… “ENGLISH! DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND. ENGLISH!?! Take another picture of me and I’ll…” There’s a drunken lunatic […]