by Mike Scott, past president of the Berklee Faculty Union

On a misty morning in April, 1986, we let out a roar that could be heard throughout the Back Bay.  Then, we began to move, one hundred and fifty faculty and nearly a thousand students strong.  Dampness chilled to the marrow, but determination kept us warm.

As the march rumbled along Boylston Street to the funereal strains of a Dixieland band, we understood what we were—powerful, relentless, synchronized footfalls for a heartbeat, a collective voice demanding fair treatment.

We snaked through the mist and chill toward the 1140 building.  The administration thought we were lucky to have jobs, thought we should be grateful, docile.  But our cause was just.  We’d put our jobs on the line.  We’d missed a paycheck.

We halted in front of the six-story stone and concrete building, pristine glass entry doors flanked by Doric columns.  We knew our employers huddled on the sixth floor in the warm, teak-paneled presidential suite, worried men singing a worried song.

We fanned out, filling the street.  Mounted policemen patrolled our perimeters, corralling our anger.  Steve Prosser and Joyce Lucia strode up the stairs carrying a sign with bold red letters that said, DEATH TO PATERNALISM, ARROGANCE AND CONDESCENSION.

I joined them.  Me, a tenor player from Kansas City who suddenly found himself leading a faculty strike for desperately needed improvements in salary, teaching load and working conditions.  I wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t give in and neither would the faculty who elected me.

Someone handed me a megaphone.  “You’ve been on strike ten days now,” I said.  “You’ve marched in the cold.  You’ve marched in the rain.  Are you tired?”

“No!” they shouted.

“I heard you.”  I glanced at the sixth floor.  “But I don’t think they heard you.  Are you tired!?”

“NO!” they roared.  “No, no, no!”

Their echoes rocked the Back Bay.  The mounted policemen tightened their line.  I looked up at the sixth floor again and saw someone move quickly away from the window.  They were watching.  They must be wondering what the hell was wrong with us.  Didn’t they let us work here?

“Good,” I said, as the echoes subsided.  “Can’t win if you’re tired.  Are we gonna get fair pay?  A fair workload?”

“Yes!”

“Are we gonna get respect?“ I asked, and then added  “Are we gonna demand respect?”

“Yes!” they thundered.  “Yes!”

Steve and Joyce held the death to paternalism sign high.  Steve’s booming voice didn’t need a megaphone,  “Death to long hours, short pay and no benefits,” he shouted.  “Death to making big bucks off our backs!”

In the silence that followed, a horse snorted.  Someone threw a rotten tomato that splattered against the sparkling glass entry doors.  At the same time the Dixieland band broke into “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

Another roar, and we began marching back down Boylston Street to our meeting hall, where the United Electrical Workers were preparing lunch for us.  On the way, a cold drizzle fell while we sang with the band, “Oh we want to be in that number, when the saints go marching in.”   Mounted police clopped a staccato accompaniment.

When we arrived,  the hall was warm, dry and smelled of curry.  We ate, talked.  We felt like we were part of something, like we belonged.  We would prevail.  Yes we would.  We had to.

Four days later, I stood in the president’s office and signed our first Faculty Contract Agreement.  An imperfect document, to be sure, but one we improved on year after year after year.  Now, thirty-five years later, the faculty has greatly changed but the task remains the same: continue to improve the Contract.  If you never give up, never give in, if you are relentless, if you stand together and feel that collective heartbeat, maybe one day, just maybe, that imperfect document will have become perfect.