The following was written in response to a Jan. 8 New York Times article headlined “A Construction Worker’s Suicide Highlights a Wider Crisis.”
By PETER HAASE
I’ve personally experienced this narrative a few times, and witnessed the loss of friends and workers.
The things one sees and personally goes through in the life-long drudgery of heavy industrial construction: the mines, mills, shipyards, refineries, factories; it’s work, it’s grimy people, it’s a difficult environment of constant pollution and danger, the drugs on the job, the alcohol on the job and, after work, the indifference from the employer and sometimes the corrupted union, the resulting host of injuries (some life-threatening, as I personally had), the addiction I endured to the pain-killing morphine which took two years to kick . . . shaking at night, trying to sleep. Stopped, only through my own stubborn determination, without professional help.
The loss of income and the curse of unreliable income, through layoffs and the pittance of financial compensation for injuries incurred. The hostile environments of the many out-of-town jobs, where the occasional suicides happened, by gun, rope or drugs (one night in the next room to me, in camp). Over the years, I’ve known a few lovely young construction guys who topped themselves. It was tragic, to say the least. Absolutely heartbreaking. Some were close friends. Snuffed out bright candles of hope.
I worked from 1966 to 2014 on construction sites; some with thousands of various tradespeople, many with iffy backgrounds, crazy mentalities, wide political/religious beliefs, ethnicities; all on those jobs because they had to be, not because they wanted to be. Some sites had over 3,000 men with a handful of tradeswomen. We often worked in temperatures from 40 below zero to 110 above. Sometimes, 12-hour days, dressed like astronauts in layers, hard hats, goggles, gloves, high-viz, steel-capped boots, gas masks, coveralls and rain gear, all compulsory and you’re fired if you don’t put it all on. Sometimes, mean-spirited foremen, and slow-paying bosses. Over time, it all mounts up within you, if you’re stuck on a bad job, praying for quitting time from the time you start at 7 a.m.
I was foreman on many jobs, and had the rep of being the helpful and lenient guy with the apprentices and tradespeople. If they were late, I’d warn them, but never dock them; if hungover, I’d put them on safe work with a sidekick. I always stood up for the women in my crews, if harassed by the misogynistic ignorance that usually fills up construction sites. I once witnessed a big, Black female American bricklayer punch out an iron worker. It was great entertainment.
The last big job was the KMP: the Kitimat Modernization Project, renewing the 60-year-old aluminum smelter. We had to wear heavy-duty respirators all day long, for 10 months, on that hellish site. Loneliness creeps in if you’re a complete stranger and not part of the connected group. Drinking and drugs ease the pain, and tempers flare at the card tables and in the pool room. Interestingly, more people quit over the lousy food than the job conditions. I joined the chess club and sometimes borrowed a guitar and sang a few numbers at the company pub in those northern microcosms.
The New York Times article is such a common story, where many succumb and many escape. Luckily, I escaped through the abundant companionship of family love. Hard hats can only do so much.
I bless the memory of all those great mates of mine who passed; most way too young. Disposable construction workers.
The writer is a longtime Salt Spring resident and author of the autobiography Liverpool Lad: Adventures Growing up in Postwar Liverpool.