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Slaves to the Teacher Unions The
teacher unions are a longstanding cancerous influence on the body
politic. They are highly
accomplished in the art of political pressure, and funnel money into
the accounts of whatever political candidates will uphold their
monopoly on public schooling. In
the 2000 election cycle, $2.7 million found its way into the
Democratic Party war chest and was quite useful in promoting the idea
that more governmental intervention in our economy is needed as a
panacea for everything (the issue of state paid prescription drug
coverage is a prime example). This
past year in Unfortunately,
this writer must admit to being one of the dupes whose pay fuels the
enormous statist machines that are America’s teacher unions.
This year my coerced contribution amounted to about $480, but
it grows every time I receive a raise.
When I first started working, I was completely unaware of their
political machinations, but by 2001, I learned that the profits from
my work were being spent to sponsor ideas and policies to which I am
diametrically opposed. I
resolved to act, through letters or complaints or whatever, but did
not know where to begin. I
spoke to my building union representative, who told me that there was
a way to separate contributions from the union proper and its
political action committee. He
did not know exactly how to go about doing it, so he gave me the
number of our area representative.
When I called her, she was cordial but wondered “why I would
not want to support the Ah
yes, “pro-education.” That’s
always the way it’s phrased. It
doesn’t make any difference that most of these people running for
office haven’t had any new ideas since 1905, but they’re still
pro-education. The unions
are married to the equation of “increased funding = better
education,” but this is a fallacious idea, as spending (in real
dollars) has increased exponentially since the 1960s.
We spend more for less today than ever before.
I
told her that I hoped that education would improve with her
candidates, but that I did not ask to make any political contributions
with my dues, and that I thought it improper of the union to do that
without my consent. She
then engaged in a couple more lame attempts to guilt me into
volunteering for the union’s kleptocratic plan, but I stood fast.
Finally, my representative stated that it was only $10 a year,
so what was the big deal? “A
very big deal to me,” I answered.
In fact, I was surprised at how low the actual amount deducted
for the PAC was, though even if it was only a penny, I was determined
to have it be stripped from their East German hands. The
union steward then dropped the anvil and informed me that if I refused
to donate the money to the PAC, I would not be allowed to vote in
local elections or have a say in the ratification of our contracts.
I was taken aback. I
still cannot see any legitimate link between a refusal to endorse the
donkey-crats and my right to vote on the contract that I work under.
I could not believe what I was hearing.
Our union rules appear to have been written by some of the
extras from the film On the Waterfront.
I
had two options: take it or leave it.
I left it, and at least one union member won’t be
contributing to the unreasonable growth of our state.
I chose to vote with my feet, and $10 never meant so much to me
before in my life. I
remain a member of the union today and have a mailbox full of letters
and unread magazines to prove it.
If one calculated the amount of money they’ve wasted sending
me credit card applications and loan solicitations, you’d have
enough to start up a corner Kinko’s. Even
though I have been barred from their official decision making, the
union has not given up hope that I’ll be brought into the fold.
In the fall of 2002, they sent me a flyer offering crib notes
on who to vote for in the upcoming election.
It seems that if I followed their suggestions, we’d be ruled
by a “pro-education ticket.” It
had several ethnically diverse candidate’s names on it, but they all
had one thing in common, which was that their personas were followed
by a letter “D” in the column.
In the words of the old Billy Bragg song, my union has a bad
case of “socialism of the heart.”
It turned out to be the one mailing that I kept. I
went to the bureau, took out a thick black marker and wrote, “F---
You” over their recommendations and then attached it to the
refrigerator door, where it has hung since.
Although I tell my story to all who will listen, I acknowledge the futility of the struggle, as I have no proof that the $480 that they extort from me each year does not somehow find its way to the politicians. Yet, I can take pride in the fact that if a couple million other members did the same thing I did, we’d slowly sink the maniacal socialist barges that our teachers unions.
Bernard Chapin works as a school psychologist full-time, a college instructor part-time and writes whenever possible.
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