Labor pains

New AFL-CIO chief Bob Haynes wants to change the face of the state's unions

Working by Yvonne Abraham

For unions, election years are the great seasons of sucking up, the brief, shining moments when these wallflowers of the political scene become its prom queens. Politicians who might be tempted to duck volatile issues like minimum-wage hikes or industrial disputes in peacetime become labor's most vocal champions out on the hustings. Legislators too busy to see unionists during the year suddenly have oodles of time for personal appearances at the dinkiest locals.

Robert J. Haynes, who succeeded the retiring Joseph C. Faherty as president of the Massachusetts AFL-CIO on July 1, couldn't be moving into the state's top union job at a better time. Right now, just about every Democratic candidate wants to be his special friend, and special friends with the 750 unions he represents. Because, in an election year, unions are champions at providing candidates with the bodies and votes to put them over the top, and politicians know it. "It's a tremendous boost to my campaign," gubernatorial candidate Scott Harshbarger told the Boston Globe after the AFL-CIO endorsed him over his Democratic rivals on June 25. The unions have almost certainly sealed his place on November's ballot.

But come December, unions usually go back to being what they were before the campaigns: one voice in a cacophony of interest groups competing for politicians' ears. It's Haynes's job to prevent that from happening, to keep Massachusetts unions in politicians' faces even when there are no votes immediately at stake. To do that, he must bolster union membership, which has plummeted over the past decade or two. And he must help remake the unions' image, from militant defenders of the already well-paid into compassionate advocates for the dispossessed. "We used to stick strictly to [union] issues," says Haynes. "We feel now that we need to be much more community- and family-oriented."

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Over the past generation, unions in America have taken a serious hit: memberships have plummeted in the wake of corporate downsizing. Attempts to organize new members have foundered partly because of hostility from employers, whose intimidation may be punished only by minimal fines and slaps on the wrist from courts years after the damage is done. Image problems, fed by corruption allegations swirling around Teamster rivals James Hoffa and Ron Carey, haven't helped either.

In 1950, 35 percent of American workers were union members. When President Reagan fired the air-traffic controllers in 1981, a low point in union history, that figure had dipped to 21 percent. Now only 15 percent of American workers (and just 10 percent of the private-sector workforce) are in unions.

And this at a time when, despite an economic boom and 4.5 percent unemployment, the gap between professional and unskilled workers' wages yawns ever wider. The unionized workers who remain are decidedly less militant than those of earlier generations: most of the country's auto workers endure conditions much worse than those facing the thousands who are now striking at General Motors, yet they're staying on their assembly lines. And even the GM workers' strike means less than such battles once did: this week, Newsweek reported that the industrial action came as a relief to some economists, who see it as a good way of slowing the too-hot economy. Not quite what organizers -- or unions anywhere -- would hope for.

Enter Bob Haynes. For a guy riding high on election-season popularity, the tall, 48-year-old former ironworker is pretty unassuming. He smiles easily, and he asks as many questions as he answers. Haynes is grim, however, when he talks about the decline in union membership, or about the steady stream of unskilled, low-paid workers unleashed by welfare reform and the economic disaster he is certain they will bring for all. But he does allow himself some pride: whenever the discussion turns to politicians' labor-friendly policies, he always adds: "And we take credit for that."

After 11 years as secretary-treasurer to Joe Faherty, Haynes is no stranger to the issues on which he'll now be the go-to guy, and in a decade as the number-two union official in the state, he's been able to gather some clout. City officials included him in their bid to host the Democratic National Convention in 2000: Haynes spoke to the site-selection committee several times, appeared in the pitch video, and called labor leaders around the country to let them know Boston does right by its unions. (An indication of how important union support for a bid will be: the DNC site-selection committee left Philadelphia early to avoid seeming unsupportive of striking transit workers.)

"He can be aggressive," says Massachusetts Senate president Tom Birmingham, who was once a labor lawyer for the ironworkers' union and has known Haynes for 15 years. "He's very articulate, and he's capable of understanding the other side of the argument, and he brings some passion to the job as well. I think he'll be high profile."

Haynes and Faherty have worked in concert for more than a decade, and the succession probably won't create too many ripples within the unions. But Haynes's AFL-CIO might make bigger waves on the outside. It's his intention to accelerate some of the changes begun under Faherty -- to strengthen the unions' political muscle, make politicians sing for their support, and remake the unions' image by spreading their influence beyond dues-paying members. If he succeeds in all of that, he will have stanched the slow bleed of union membership.

National AFL-CIO president John Sweeney, who took office in 1995, has made organizing workers his highest priority, and Haynes is doing the same. He's just about to hire an executive officer for organizing, and will be devoting 30 percent of the AFL-CIO's $1.2 million annual budget to unionizing efforts.

"There's been some lack of leadership in the labor movement," he says. "Because they couldn't win in the courts, they sort of put down their swords and said, `We can never win an organizing drive because the employers intimidate employees and there isn't any penalty for it.' " Sweeney, says Haynes, tells all the members to go out and do it anyway. But to succeed, the unions will have to regain their status as altruistic -- and effective -- champions of American workers.

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Despite the organizing problems it shares with its counterparts across the country, the Massachusetts AFL-CIO -- the political and legislative arm of the unions -- has had a pretty good run lately.

"Cellucci has had an election-year conversion to the kinds of issues we care about," says Haynes. "He backed down on privatizing [some MBTA bus services], and he recommended the minimum wage [hike]. He knows that if he antagonizes or aggravates us, he's not going to get enough votes to get through the general election when the time comes."

And the city of Boston recently passed a living-wage ordinance to raise the hourly wages for employees of some companies doing business with the city to $8.23. Several portions of the legislation stuck in the business community's craw, though, so they've been delayed. Following the lead of national president Sweeney's kinder, gentler approach to advocating for workers, Haynes was by all accounts most reasonable.

"Bobby could have held firm, but he didn't," says a City Hall official. "He got some of what he wanted."

Even Paul Guzzi, president of the Greater Boston Chamber of Commerce, admires the way Haynes handled the living-wage issue, calling him "bright and capable, with a breadth of understanding for different points of view."

City councilor Thomas Keane -- the lone holdout on the ordinance -- was apparently not so impressed. Now Keane is a Democratic candidate for the Eighth Congressional District, and Haynes seems to have him in his sights: "I dunno what Keane's problem is," Haynes says. "Now he wants to be a congressman. I don't think so."

That I don't think so means something when Haynes says it. He and his unions can help get people elected. The state's unions have about 400,000 members, which means they have the potential to influence as many votes, plus those of spouses and children and parents.

But more important, unions provide machinery -- folks to hold signs and make calls and hand out fliers. Haynes takes credit for US Senator Ted Kennedy's victory over Mitt Romney in 1994, and for US Senator John Kerry's win over Bill Weld in 1996. And for the defeats of Peter Blute in the Third Congressional District and Peter Torkildsen in the Sixth. "Once you're in Congress, it's pretty hard to get kicked out," says Haynes. "And nobody, nobody in the political establishment thought we had a chance. We got rid of both of them. John Tierney won [over Torkildsen] because we could put people on the streets."

Still, it was a close call. "We won by 371 votes," says Tierney campaign manager Harry Hoglander, a former labor activist and a fan of Haynes. "Everybody from Portuguese fishermen to Jewish day-camp operators is claiming they made a difference. They made a difference because everybody came together."

That's probably a more accurate depiction of the unions' heft. They're formidable, but they're not as all-powerful as Haynes would have us believe, especially now. If they really could make or break candidates single-handedly, Cellucci's "election-year conversion" might have been more complete.

But it isn't. In May, the MassJobs Council, of which Haynes is chair, voted to recommend that education count

toward welfare recipients' 20-hour-a-week work requirements. Cellucci promptly fired eight of the council's members for their trouble.

"I can't find one person who agrees with the governor on this issue," says Haynes, who was not among the sacked. "We had statistics as long as your arm to support [the proposal]. He's placating the right." Haynes says he will quit the MassJobs Council in retaliation: "I can't be chairman of a committee where the governor doesn't accept the advice and punishes people who disagree with him. Democracy doesn't work that way." And he says the unions will try to get rid of the Republican come November.

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At Joe Faherty's June 13 farewell gathering, some of the speakers who'd come to pay tribute to the outgoing AFL-CIO chief were having technical difficulties. A lamp at the podium would not stand up of its own accord, so Haynes, eager to help, had been holding it up for them. But after Joe Moakley's speech, Haynes made an announcement: "I need somebody to help me fix this lamp," he said. " 'Cause I'm sure as hell not gonna hold it for the next speaker."

That would be House Speaker Thomas Finneran. It's ironic that Haynes's biggest State House headaches come not from Cellucci, but from the Democratic Speaker.

"My moniker for him is `the ever-challenging Speaker Finneran,' " says Haynes. "He certainly marches to his own drum." Finneran has pledged to oppose the minimum-wage hike, threatening the AFL-CIO's big victory.

"Our challenge is to get him to recognize the value of our arguments, " says Haynes, using typically careful, measured understatement. "And if I can pay him any compliment, it's that he makes you work at it. But we are tired, and growing more frustrated by the day."

Finneran marks the limits of the unions' clout right now. But if the AFL-CIO can't get to the Speaker, Haynes says, the unions will try to persuade the legislators who are so docile in the face of his obstructionism. If they want help winning elections, the argument goes, then they'll have to stop being such wimps in the State House.

"We have to convince [Finneran's] members that our support is predicated on them helping us move our agenda," says Haynes. "It's no good if we present legislation and it never sees the light of day."

Haynes is dealing with a common problem. Making their influence stick after the final ballots are cast has long been the challenge for unions in the face of diminished membership. To that end, the AFL-CIO is determined to bring a new seriousness to its political activities -- to make this year's candidates work for their support and remember, once in office, on which side their bread is buttered.

"We used to do sort of the politics of personality," says Haynes. "If people were friendly with us and talked a good game, we supported them. That's no longer good enough."

Now, the organization has an official election-year agenda, to which candidates have had to speak. To qualify for the unions' nod, gubernatorial candidates had to pledge the right things on workers' compensation, the minimum wage, education, privatization, welfare issues, and workers' efforts to organize. Then the AFL-CIO called all the hopefuls to answer for themselves at a forum in May.

Harshbarger, who has taken to saying "Labor's agenda is my agenda," came out on top, garnering 40 of the 56 votes at a June 25 meeting of union leaders. Harshbarger lobbied the unions heavily for their support. And Haynes had lobbied heavily for Harshbarger, who was not universally hailed as a shining example of union solidarity (as attorney general, some unionists say, he has hardly been vigilant at enforcing wage laws, for example, and then there were those T-shirts from Honduras). But faced with former state senator Patricia McGovern's own patchy labor past, and former ambassador Brian Donnelly's slim chances, Harshbarger was the best bet.

Some union leaders didn't want to endorse at all, but Haynes and Faherty convinced them that making no choice would make labor look wimpy. Harshbarger's victory also underlined an important fact: for all Haynes's mountain-to-Mohammed talk of calling politicians to account on labor issues, the AFL-CIO, like all good political players, had to hitch its wagon to someone who would likely win, partly to avoid seeming effete come September. There's only so much leading a union organization can do these days.

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Haynes, like other unionists, has understood a fact that's vital if labor is to be rebuilt into a credible social and political force: to keep the show open, unions have to play to wider audiences.

"We want to be the voice for the three million working people in the Commonwealth, not just AFL-CIO members," he says. In a political climate where many Democrats are slouching rightward, unions have an opportunity to occupy the vacuum and give themselves a legitimacy -- and an image -- they haven't had for a generation. "The only institutional defenders of working people in this country are the unions," says Senate president Tom Birmingham. "Unions recognize their role must go beyond the interests of dues-paying members."

The AFL-CIO has been concentrating on issues that directly affect few of its members. It pushes politicians to make welfare reform more humane. Its workforce-development office provides laid-off workers with training and runs school-to-work programs that teach kids about options other than college. And the living-wage and minimum-wage proposals affect everybody but union members, who have been making more money than that for years.

But extending the AFL-CIO's reach is only partly a matter of image and altruism. Promoting better conditions for all workers also benefits union members -- who, after all, are threatened by a cheap, unprotected labor force. "In the old days, the business strategy used to be, `In order to avoid unions, we'll pay good benefits and wages, and that will prevent organizing drives,' " says Haynes. Now, with only about 15 percent of the workforce organized, it's easier to fight these much weaker unions than to accede to their demands.

That, Haynes knows, will ultimately blunt the clout of the movement even more. So ushering in the era of kinder, gentler, more inclusive unions is more than a matter of conscience. It's also about survival.

Yvonne Abraham can be reached at yabraham[a]phx.com.