At the end of last summer, a friend from the labor community invited me on a historical walking tour. The walk, which took us through the heart of the city, would focus on the history of white supremacy and anti-racist resistance in Chattanooga. It was the first time I’d get to hear Michael Gilliland, the organizing director of CALEB, speak from his deep personal connection and wealth of knowledge about our hometown.
It was here, in this sleepy place, that Willie Ricks spoke the words “Black Power” into the world, changing it forever with a phrase that would define a movement.
It was in Chattanooga that five Black women were torn from their ordinary lives, after a Ku Klux Klansman attacked them on the street; and these clever and brave women dared to rise up against the criminal justice system that had failed them and ultimately run the Klan out of town for good.
I came away from the walk feeling amazed and overwhelmed by all this new information. After a while, that amazement moved aside and I felt a little grief, and finally, some confusion and anger. How did I know so little about radical Black history in my own home?
I know there are multiple answers to this question. There’s the failure of the US education system to teach its own history of revolt—no doubt, because that history would empower children today to follow their revolutionary ancestors’ example. There are the long-running right-wing attacks on public knowledge that have ramped up in recent years to banning library books that cover the civil rights movement. And then, there’s the persistent segregation of the city; which doesn’t get much public mention, because it goes against the bucolic tourist-facing image of Chattanooga.
But, something Michael said at the beginning of the walk stuck with me: that he gives these tours “because he loves Chattanooga.” You can’t truly love something without reckoning with all of its parts, including the things you find shameful and difficult. Often, loving something is also daring to challenge it, and committing yourself to the hard work of changing it for the better.
In the weeks after I met Michael, the two of us seemed to have the exact same spark of an idea. Last September, we met up and talked about a similar revitalization of labor history in Chattanooga. My textile practice, which often compares union history to contemporary events, could help re-introduce the working people of this city to our long and impressive tradition of union struggle.
Michael and I agreed that I would pull from existing labor research by the People’s History of Chattanooga to create a timeline threading through some of the major events in the city’s working-class history: the industrial textile strikes, the streetcar strike, the Knights of Labor, and finally, an image of unions in Chattanooga today.
But, as you probably know already, if you follow my work anywhere… this plan has been turned upside down by the latest and most exciting UAW campaign at Volkswagen. As more than half of workers have already signed union cards, signaling that they’re ready to petition for legal recognition, the countdown to a historic victory at the plant is suddenly feeling very real.
To meet the moment, and connect the broader class of working people in Chattanooga to this fight, I’ve started working on a tapestry that follows and memorializes the Volkswagen campaign. I’m using personal interviews with workers, journalists’ coverage of the topic, and both UAW and Volkswagen press releases to understand the story of this union drive.
I’m also trying to grasp what makes this moment so different from the two previous union votes that failed since the Chattanooga plant opened. It’s an interesting way to study why some labor movements succeed, and what strategic mistakes end up derailing others.
Often, I feel like my labor tapestries are disconnected from the union movement. Of course, I find most of my inspiration from participating directly in picket lines and Socialist organizing; but then, I end up taking those ideas back to an isolated studio where I make my work alone.
A tapestry can be a public art piece, but it’s not like a mural that can weather the elements on the side of a building. It’s an expensive object that, too often, ends up hidden inside a collector’s home — of course, I am extremely grateful to my collectors — but I’ve felt like I need to push for a way to get these pieces closer and more intimately involved with the subject.
I don’t know where the People’s History Tapestries will ultimately end up - perhaps one of the last remaining indoor public spaces, like the library, will be able to host them. Or in my wildest dreams, they’ll go to the new union hall that gets built for the emergent UAW local.
In the meantime, I’m taking inspiration from the history of the trade union banner, and working to create a Volkswagen tapestry that can travel outside and move with people during an action. There’s something poetic about the idea that two pole-bearers share the work of raising a banner above the rally; a reminder that nothing in labor was ever won by an individual.
Hopefully, the presence of a tapestry like this can remind workers that they’re not alone, now or in history. We’re all part of a tradition that’s greater and much older than any of us, and that’s something we have to fight to remember, as we take that struggle into the future.
I’ll have more to share about the Volkswagen tapestry next month. Fingers crossed, by then, my tapestry will be the least exciting thing going on with the UAW in Chattanooga.
Labor Intensive Recommendations
The Color of Pomegranates — I am writing a screenplay in my downtime, and it’s very challenging! I was recommended this striking Soviet-Armenian film as inspiration, and I really enjoyed it, especially the scenes that include windows that look like rugs.
The Valley Labor Report — Years ago, I designed a T-shirt graphic for this Alabama radio show, but it wasn’t until I started digging into my current tapestry project that the show became an absolute staple in my listening routine. I’m so grateful for these union dudes and their coverage of Southern labor news, which is sorely needed, and often a bright spot in my doomer intake of depressing global updates.
Milly Johnstone — I received an email from a Bethlehem, PA-based researcher wondering if I’d heard of this 20th-century textile artist who made imagery inspired by the steel mill. I went to high school in Bethlehem, but I never encountered Johnstone’s tapestries until now. I’m amazed by how much her work resembles mine, in both style and color palette, and I’m glad to know of it.