What a difference a day makes. Or in the case of the Newspaper Guild of Pittsburgh’s strike against the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, what a difference 731 days make in one’s life.
Let me (re)introduce myself. I am Stephen Karlinchak, aka Conan the Librarian. I started working in the Post-Gazette’s morgue/information center/library way back 1990, before some of my co-workers were born. My job titles have included library clerk, information specialist, news assistant and, finally, librarian.
I became a striker when I joined my guild colleagues in an unfair labor practices strike that began on Oct. 18, 2022, 12 days after our colleagues in the production unions went on strike over a dispute that left them without health care coverage.
That was so long ago. I wrote an essay for the Pittsburgh Union Progress reflecting on my experiences during the first 100 days of the guild’s strike. I was also asked to contribute my reflections on the strike at the 200th-day, 300th-day and 500th-day marks, as well as at the one-year anniversary. As the strike, the longest ongoing one in the country, reaches its once unfathomable two-year anniversary, I am still here, with plenty to think about and plenty for which to be grateful, believe it or not.
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The Broadway musical “West Side Story” opens with the number “The Jets’ Song.” Considering the ending of the musical, the number is a paean to “toxic masculinity.”
However, the song explains the rationale why a group of young men might want to be a member of a gang:
You got brothers around, you’re a family man.
You’re never alone, you’re never disconnected.
You’re home with your own when company’s expected.
You’re well protected.
During the past 24 months, I haven’t been dependent “on the kindness of strangers” but on the support and strength of my brothers and sisters in the Newspaper Guild and NewsGuild, the Communications Workers of America and other unions.
While I am in fairly good health, I have developed a couple of conditions as well as aches and pains that come with age. I also have had to deal with a couple of medical situations that arose during this strike.
Back in October 2022 when the strike began, I was recuperating from eye surgery. When my recuperation ended, I had to make a major decision: join my fellow guild members on strike or cross a picket line. You know my decision.
The above-mentioned operation was followed by a second eye surgery. I soon found myself in health insurance hell. My first operation was to be covered by my health insurance provided by the Post-Gazette, and the second was to be covered by the health insurance I purchased through the CWA. Needless to say, wires got crossed, and a lot of confusion resulted. As I was pulling what little hair I have left, fellow striker and health & welfare committee member Sean Hamill stepped in. He kept me calm and walked me through the procedures to straighten out my situation. Sean, I don’t know if I ever thanked you for your assistance. If I didn’t, danke, merci beaucoup and muchas gracias, as well as thank you.
After the second surgery, my union thought I might not eat (ha! as if that would happen). The guild sent me a gift card to a restaurant in my neighborhood. More importantly, my fellow strikers called me to see how I was doing. Did I need a ride? Did I need anything from the grocery store? Webster’s doesn’t have enough words to describe my gratitude to my sisters and brothers for the concern.
While it’s not a physical ailment, I will admit to being technophobic. Trying to set up an account with the Pennsylvania Department of Labor and Industry for unemployment compensation was a mystery for me. My striking colleague Bob Batz Jr. gave up a Steelers Sunday afternoon to help me set up my account. Thanks again, Bob — I owe you big time.
Also, in the autumn and winter of 2022, I developed meralgia paresthetica, an extreme nerve pain in my leg. How painful, asked my physical therapist, on a scale from 1 to 10?
“Thirteen!” I answered. “Amputate!”
Walking the picket line was difficult, to say the least. As much as I tried to hide the agony I was feeling, I couldn’t. I am not that good of an actor. So, the decision was made to send me home. One day, CWA Executive Vice President Marian Needham gave me a lift. On another day, fellow striker Joe Knupsky did.
Then there was the third time, when guild unit chair Andrew Goldstein drove me home. He then ordered me to take the rest of the week off.
“But you need me on the picket line,” I told Andrew.
“We need you healthy” he replied. “End of discussion.”
After a couple of weeks of physical therapy, the leg pain subsided.
The nadir or apex, pick your noun, of my health problems happened in July of this year when I fell down a flight of stairs coming out of church. I misjudged the depth of a step, slid across the church portico, and went down four stone steps (I could have sworn there were 14) head first and on my stomach, hitting my head on the sidewalk.
Going down the steps, all I could think was, “Please, God, I would rather be dead than brain damaged or paraplegic.” I don’t want to be a burden to my brother.
Please note: It isn’t that my brother couldn’t or wouldn’t take care of me. He would. I just didn’t want to be his full-time responsibility.
Long story short, I ended up in the UPMC Mercy emergency room. I had a broken wrist and some broken bones in my nose and my thumb. I also had two black eyes. If I were 6 or 16, my injuries would have been a badge of honor; at age 66, I felt like a damn fool.
Plus I had to take a break from strike responsibilities such as authoring the strikers’ daily newsletter. I am a lousy typist to begin with, much less with one working wrist.
As in the past, my fellow guild members picked up their phones and reached out to me. “Steve, I am calling to see if you are all right.” “Hey, Conan, can I get you something from the store?” “Stephen, what do you need?”
I would tell everyone that I was fine, that I didn’t need anything. That doesn’t mean that I wasn’t appreciative, far from it. I like to think that I am an articulate guy, but I cannot find the right words to thank everyone for their love and concern for me.
I live alone in a condo unit on Mount Washington. I never married, nor do I have any children. My brother is my only immediate family member.
However, in the past 731 days, I have learned that family is more than a connection via birth, marriage or adoption. A family member need not be a member of your gene pool. A family member has your back at all times, holding your hand figuratively or literally if need be.
What I learned is that I have brothers and sisters around me. They are people who truly care about not just themselves but also other people. They’re striking for what’s legal and what’s right, and not just for themselves and for each other but also for people currently working at the PG and for future workers. I’m proud to still be striking with them.
Despite a National Labors Relations Board ruling overwhelmingly in the workers favor last month, it looks like the strike is going to continue for at least at little while longer while we wait for relief from the federal courts. I just learned that my wrist splint is going to remain on for a while longer, too.
But when it comes to continuing this fight, including by compiling the strike newsletter and completing this essay, well, I can type with the splint.
Stephen is the librarian at the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, but he's currently on strike. Email him at skarlinchak@gmail.com.