The rescue effort began at home
It was the decision families pray they won’t be forced to make. But for many Pillowtex workers, there were no options.
After the mill shut down production in 2003, employees were left without health insurance and little way to obtain it. Many were forced to make the decision: Procure health insurance for you and your children and make drastic cuts to your budgets or go without and risk the possibility of a serious illness.
One former Pillowtex family was forced to make the difficult decision to take their ill 6-year-old daughter to the emergency room or wait out the night and hope she got better. They chose to keep her home and prayed through the night.
Many workers were used to taking frequent trips to doctors to heal painful injuries, many times acquired on the job.
Being a mill worker wasn’t easy. It was labor intensive, backbreaking work. The hum of the machines was deafening, and the stress of meeting deadlines and quotas could be almost unbearable. Ulcers, hearing loss and repetitive stress disorders such as Carpel Tunnel Syndrome were common diagnoses for workers.
The closing added stress onto already weary bodies. An April 2004 study by UNC-Chapel Hill found that 93 percent of the 4,800 laid-off workers were unable to afford or obtain health insurance after the closing.
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Dr. Kenny Tokunboh |
But there was hope in the form of Nigerian-born Dr. Kenny Tokunboh, medical director of the private Grace Medical Clinic.
After hearing of the closure, Tokunboh wrote a letter to the mill’s union chairman explaining that he would give free medical care to Pillowtex employees and family members with no questions asked.
“If you walked in the door and said, ‘I, or my mother or my brother worked at the mill,’ you were treated,” Tokunboh said. “We didn’t check IDs or anything like that; that wasn’t what was important to us. We just wanted to help.”
Tokunboh has lost count of how many Pillowtex employees he saw in his four examine rooms — he estimates the number is between 1,500 and 2,000 at a total cost of more than $100,000. He worked out deals with pharmaceutical reps for free samples of expensive medications. Some companies gave boxes of commonly prescribed drugs to dispense to the former mill workers.
He tried to handle as many procedures in-house as he could to prevent sending patients to doctors who may charge. However, his referrals to psychologists skyrocketed as financials troubles began to take their toll on the minds of unemployed workers.
Tokunboh remembers some workers breaking down in tears in his office. After a while, he could spot a Pillowtex worker or family member just by looking for the pain in their eyes.
“You can’t just treat a sickness, you must treat the person, as well,” Tokunboh said. “You must treat the person and help them find a reason to want to get healthier. Otherwise, not much can be done.”
For Tokunboh, giving free medical care to those in need was the reason he became a doctor. He didn’t hesitate to give out free care to Pillowtex workers because, he said, “they deserved dignity.”
Ed Hosack also felt dignity was lacking in post-Pillowtex Kannapolis.
Hosack had worked for the mill for 19 years. He managed the bedding division and had more than 1,000 employees under his supervision. He was one of the handful of employees chosen to stay behind for two months after the closing and shutdown the mill, but after that, he, like many of his workers, was without a job and had few prospects for a new one.
Hosack has a degree from Western Carolina University but realized the skills of a loom weaver or end hemmer without a high school education wouldn’t be highly sought by employers. The UNC study found that between 40 and 50 percent of Pillowtex employees hadn’t finished high school.
In the 1960s and 70s, recruiters from the mill would attend high school job fairs and cajole students to overlook college or military service to join the workforce. It was steady work, and many took the opportunity.
Hosack saw many of those employees struggling to make mortgage payments and buy groceries and decided to create LifeBuilder Ministries, a nonprofit organization dedicated to teaching laid-off workers how to find jobs and training at Rowan-Cabarrus Community College and elsewhere.
“One of the first things you lose after working at a job for a long time is remembering how to find another job,” Hosack said. “You have a job you like and you don’t expect to need to find another one.”
He led free six-week courses dedicated to networking; he taught classes on resume writing, Microsoft Office training and gave interview tips. Hosack, now executive director of the nonprofit crisis assistance organization Cooperative Christian Ministry said workers felt humiliated after being rejected by a prospective employer. Keeping spirits high was difficult.
“You want people to realize that there is something out there for them,” Hosack said. “They were willing to work and they were willing to give it their all, but they had been through so much. It was heartbreaking to watch at times.”
For a year and half, Hosack helped hundreds find jobs; some found work in textiles, some in other fields; others retired or never made it back on their feet. Hosack and some of his LifeBuilder Ministries volunteers still hold classes on updating older generations on newer technologies to help them stay current in the job market.
“It’s not over. People are still struggling,” Hosack said, “But I think you were able to see the heart of Kannapolis as the rebuilding effort began.”
The rebuilding effort was more than just large ground swells of philanthropy. It was the smaller gestures of kindness that helped many through the tough times. Auto mechanics worked on Pillowtex employees’ cars for free, churches turned rectories into free-food pantries and neighbors shared what little they had with one another.
Not many predicted the rebuilding effort that would take place weeks after the mill shut down.
The day the mill shuttered operations, fears of a crime wave swept through the mill village, making some lock their doors for the first time.
Police Chief Woody Chavis heard the rumors.
“Kannapolis is full of good, God-fearing people,” he said. “We put out extra patrols just in case, but we didn’t expect any major problems, and we were right.”
Chavis, then a major with the department, said police met with city officials and discussed fears of possible riots, break-ins and vandalism, none of which came true.
Chavis had a history with the mill and its workers. He wasn’t afraid of a spike in crime. He understood the town better than most and knew the workers would lean on one another and their religious faith for support.
“They don’t make them any better than in Kannapolis,” he said.
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Charles and Glenna Morris. James Nix photo |
Struggles persist
It’s late and the living room is dark as Glenna Morris tip-toes across the hardwood floor to be beside her sleeping husband, Charles. The only sound she can hear over the noise of the machines keeping Charles alive are the creaks of the floor joints. He has trouble sleeping, so Glenna moves quietly to not wake him.
She kneels beside him and begins to weep.
Glenna, by her own admission, is a worrier, but she has a legitimate right to be scared now. Charles has only been given a few more weeks to live by doctor’s estimates. After five years of struggle,
Glenna will be left to fight alone.
Charles, a former Pillowtex employee, was one of thousands laid off July 30, 2003. Like many of his former colleagues, Charles and Glenna never recovered from the initial shock.
Success over the past five years in Kannapolis has been measured in shades of grey. Some define success as purchasing a new home or car, while for others, it is being able to pay the rent and keep the lights on for another month.
Glenna and Charles married 43 years ago. She was his “sweetheart.” He was her “big, strong man.”
The two were inseparable. Saturday nights were spent cruising in one of Charles’ classic cars around “Idiots’ Circle” or catching a movie at the Gem Theatre.
When it was time to find a job and raise a family, Charles went to Cannon Mills because he knew the work was good. After working at the mill for 36 years, Charles was making more than $19 an hour with paid vacations and health insurance.
Charles dropped out of high school at 16 and never learned to read or write. But in the mill, he was an artisan.
He loved the work. He worked in every department and was considered a handyman who could fix any of the machines. It was his only job; a lifetime’s work.
Glenna also worked at the plant occasionally, working in different departments to earn extra money to support their two kids.
But in 2003, then 56-year-old Charles lost that good job with the great pay and first-rate benefits. The two had squirreled away a little retirement—but not enough to last them.
“It happened so fast,” Glenna said. “It just happened, and we were kind of left wondering what was next.”
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Charles Morris feeds himself a specially prepared liquid meal through a tube in his stomach. James Nix photo |
What was next was a series of serious medical issues for Charles, including heart stents, knee surgery, kidney stones and diabetes. Charles was prescribed more than 10 different medications, including a few for the stress. The medical bills destroyed nearly all of the money they had saved. With no insurance, Charles was forced to sell his cars, and the couple nearly lost their home.
As the couple struggled to pay the mortgage, their two children were able to scrape enough together to purchase the mill home their parents lived in, which was tough for the proud Charles, who didn’t like accepting the help. But tough times called for tight budgets, humility and prayer, Glenna said.
Two months ago, matters only got worse as Charles was diagnosed with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, better known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, a fatal degenerative motor neuron disorder that causes muscles to atrophy from lack of nourishment.
Doctors placed a tracheal tube in his throat, which forces him to eat through a tube in his stomach and took away his ability to speak. Glenna now does all the speaking for him.
He fights to make sounds that Glenna can recognize, but even she struggles to understand him sometimes.
Extra space in their home is overflowing with medical supplies and equipment, a little more than $100,000 worth, and there is no way they can pay for it. Dr. Kenny Tokunboh, the couple’s general practitioner, has provided some free medical care for the couple, but Charles’ ALS requires specialists. Some doctors have refused to see the couple until payments are made, while others have looked the other way and given Charles treatments anyway, adding to the medical debts.
Glenna acts as his full-time nurse, rarely leaving his side. For Glenna, there are no quick trips to the store or short visits to friends’ homes. Charles may need her.
Glenna also has disabilities. Excruciating back pains keep her from most of the jobs she would be qualified to have.
Their medical problems have kept the two from working for more than four years.
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The story of struggling mill workers is not uncommon. Since 1994, North Carolina has lost 193,000 textile jobs, the most in the nation, according to the U.S. Department of Labor’s Bureau of Statistics. More than a million textile jobs have been lost across the country since 1994. Many of those employees had no more than a high school education, leaving them little opportunities as mills shut down.
Kannapolis is a microcosm for the country as communities across the Southeast bare the brunt of the collapsing American textile economy. Some laid-off employees were able to escape the depression the departing mill jobs left behind, while others are ill equipped to handle the rapid changes.
After years of economic free fall, opportunities are flooding back into Kannapolis from the North Carolina Research Campus and many former employees hope a new job in biotechnology would be possible.
Ed Hosack is glad to see those jobs but fears the cultural change may be too quick for many to keep up.
“A rising tide lifts all ships, but this wasn’t a rising tide,” he said. “This was a tidal wave, and some people got swallowed up in it.”
It’s unlikely that anyone will be able to trace the struggles and successes of all the former employees. Many workers fled the area in search of opportunities elsewhere, leaving behind the city they called home their entire lives. It is also unlikely that anyone will ever forget the impression left on Kannapolis by the company that protected it for more than 100 years only to leave in a flash.
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Ruth Crisco |
Ruth Crisco was an assistant at Pillowtex the day it closed. She remembers her 10-year-tenure as being filled with pot-luck dinners, departmental softball games and company picnics.
“There was always a job at the company for you,” Crisco said. “That was how it always was, and people knew that back then.”
Crisco hadn’t prepared for the possibility of a closing. She was 47 when the mill closed, so retirement was out of the question. She needed to find work.
She returned to school to receive her general education diploma and earn an associate degree in early childhood development from Rowan-Cabarrus Community College, but she has been unable to get a job in her field. She had hoped to find work, but, like Glenna, health problems have plagued her husband. She took the first job she was offered.
“I was making $19.88 when I was at the mill,” she said. “Now, I’m making $9.50 an hour and scraping to get by.”
Crisco works non-stop. She picks up odd jobs and works full-time at the Commercial Vehicle Group. Her work weeks last between 80 and 90 hours and stretch all seven days. She can go months without a day off.
Many employees, like Crisco, were able to be retrained in other fields. Several of the older employees were too close to retirement for potential employers and decided to take early retirement and press their luck with their savings.
When the elder members of the family are forced to make a decision like that, their children take up the slack by picking up extra jobs or working extra hours to supplement their parents’ income.
Nathan Morris, Glenna and Charles’ son, sleeps at friends’ homes or at his parents’ to help out with chores and catch a few hours of sleep before leaving for his third-shift job. Currently, he doesn’t have a home to call his own.
Thirty-seven now, Nathan has two children, and his paycheck from his job in the maintenance department at P&E Machine Shop in Kannapolis goes to his kids or his parents.
Nathan was a contract electrician with Pillowtex for 12 years. Since the closing, he has had trouble keeping jobs because of cutbacks in the service sector. He was forced to file for bankruptcy shortly after the closing.
“A lot of people look at things they’d like to buy and just buy it,” he said. “I can’t do that. I just look at it and move on.”
Nathan enjoys his work and loves his family, but he didn’t expect things to turn out this way.
For Nathan, the mill provided options, just like it had for his father, but those options left town along with Pillowtex five years ago.
“When I got my job at the plant, I was so excited you couldn’t understand, because I was going to make good money and support my family,” he said. “But now, it’s just tough all over, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to get any better any time soon.”
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Glenna Morris |
Charles and Glenna are also hoping for some relief.
Many of their former friends left Kannapolis after years of wrestling to make a living or died in the wake of the closing. Charles places his hand, which is shaped like a gun to his temple, and pulls an imaginary trigger. He then motions like he’s drinking from a bottle.
Glenna, acting as his translator, interprets.
“They’re all dead,” she said. “Almost all of his friends are dead.”
Glenna said the family was able to avoid a similar fate through their faith and devotion to God. Every night, as Charles lays down to sleep, Glenna takes out the couple’s well-worn leather bible and reads passages to him. The exercise comforts them both.
Outside the couple’s home, a faint edge of the golden dome atop the Core Lab can be seen through the trees, a constant reminder of a changing Kannapolis.
For many, the mill was the last remaining symbol of happier times.
“It’s not our town anymore,” Glenna said. “It’s like a ghost town for the older generation.”
Helping the displaced
The file room at Concord’s Employment Security Commission is a recent expansion for the office. But already it’s crowded.
The room is lined with large, elongated file cabinets, and standard sized file cabinets fill its middle. On top of those cabinets are boxes stuffed with individuals’ files.
And the majority of those cabinets and boxes are clearly marked with one word: Pillowtex.
It’s a very real perspective on how many individuals were affected when Pillowtex announced it was shutting down production, displacing 4,800 North Carolina workers and 7,000 company-wide.
“I think the amazing part to me was that it was not possible to fathom what these people were going through, because that was their whole way of life,” said Cecilia Williams, assistant director of Concord’s Employment Security Commission.
In Cabarrus County, 2,592 Pillowtex employees were laid off. In Rowan County, 1,392 Pillowtex workers lost jobs.
Of those Cabarrus County mill workers, 1,545 had obtained employment by the two-year anniversary of the closing.
Months before the closing, government and education leaders convened in Raleigh to discuss a plan for the possible closing of Pillowtex, a probability following bankruptcy filings and a shaky recovery.
“We were all in a room in Raleigh talking about ‘What if…?’” said Jeanie Moore, vice president of continuing education at Rowan-Cabarrus Community College. “It was known then that there would be an event, but no one knew the magnitude.”
Moore recently testified before Congress about the economic recovery of the region following the Pillowtex closing. By June 17, 2003 a task force had been organized by the Governor’s office with a mission of “planning for the worst, hoping for the best,” according to Moore’s testimony.
“We were told there would be money for training,” Moore said. “And we said ‘Okay, this is great, but what kind of jobs do we train these people to do…Then, the announcement came at the end of July.”
For the days and weeks following the Pillowtex announcement, local leaders scrambled for footing in an economic blow that shot the county’s unemployment rate from 4 percent to around 11 percent.
By Aug. 4, 2003, rapid response meetings began at Pillowtex Plant No. 4, which had closed two years prior.
Leading the way was the Employment Security Commission, which helped the displaced workers through paperwork for training grants, job searches and other employment training.
“There was no way we could provide for all those people in our office,” Williams said. “We would have different things going on simultaneously, and set a computer room up for job searches.”
Williams and Carolyn Mays, who came in as director of the Employment Security Commission in the April following the layoff, both said that over the course of the workshops and training, it became apparent just how close-knit the Pillowtex workers were with one another.
“The ones who worked in the same department would gravitate together. It was like that at RCCC, too. They would all sit together,” Williams said.
For the Fall 2003 semester, RCCC saw a 20 percent enrollment increase.
“Many (former Pillowtex employees) naturally migrated to our trade and technical programs like welding and electric work,” Moore said. “And these were sectors where employers said they didn’t have enough graduates.”
By 2005, 40 percent of the displaced workers who enrolled at RCCC had found work, Moore said.
The day after Pillowtex’s closing, the Cabarrus Regional Chamber of Commerce announced it would host a massive job fair at Lowe’s Motor Speedway.
The event took place on Aug. 14, 2003, and drew 5,000 people from around the region.
“We contacted big regional employers,” said John Cox, CEO of the chamber. “We had copy machines for copying resumes. We took over 300 of the salaried workers to the speedway that morning. That was the first time these people had seen each other since July 30.”
While the massive job fairs and constant training sessions were necessary and obvious steps to take following Pillowtex layoffs, some more unique initiatives were also proposed.
The chamber, in secret, crafted a letter to billionaires Bill Gates, Warren Buffet and Oprah Winfrey, asking for their investment into Cabarrus County as a way to stabilize the economy. The plan was to spend $50,000 to advertise the letter in USA Today.
However, regional media caught word of the plan and ran with the story before the ad was published.
“It was not a joke,” said Cox. “But once it got all that media attention, it’s the most successful media campaign we ever did.”
But the letter to the billionaires wasn’t completely scrapped, Cox said.
In fact, the letter was slightly redrafted and forwarded to David Murdock, who within two years time, would announce plans to demolish the entire mill facility to make way to the $1.5 billion research campus.
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Demolition experts implode the mill’s smokestacks. |
When the majority of the Pillowtex plant was imploded in 2005, it proved to some displaced workers that there was no going back to the mill, Mays said.
Mays recalled a story about a man waiting at the mill’s fence, early in the morning on the the day of the implosion.
“He said, ‘Well, I guess they’re never going to open the plant again are they?’” Mays said. “It was years after we started doing workshops, and people really thought the plant was going to reopen.
Because several displaced Pillowtex workers went to other companies that saw layoffs, such as truck maker Freightliner and textile firm Shogren Hosiery, some made repeat visits to the Employment Security Commission.
Even though the workshops after the layoff worked with groups of 300, with three groups coming through each day, Williams said she often has personal experiences with individual workers.
“I was in the grocery store the other day, and a man said, ‘I am one of your former clients,’” Williams remembered. “I recognized his face from the workshops. He had gone to school in law enforcement, and is now a policeman in High Point, I believe. And he loves it and is so happy.”
With the research campus set to open by the close of 2008, RCCC now offers two biotechnology programs. And the school plans to break ground on a biotech building next fall.
“The jobs, while in Kannapolis and attractive, are going to be attractive enough that they will be attracting people from everywhere,” Moore said.
Moore said she has suggested a clearing house site where local workers can search for jobs on the campus and for the eight universities that will do work there.
“Right now, there is none,” Moore said. “And that’s something we’re continuously trying to work with.”
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comments
Sad story.
All the rhetoric and hype about the research jobs will only lead to false hopes for a community left with retail and service jobs.
Research Triangle Park in the Durham/Raleigh area already has a lock on the types of jobs that are being promised and, with competition from other states to get in on the biotech/pharma industry, rest assure that the huge numbers that Murdoch promised will probably be a fraction of what actually materializes.
Posted by Ronald Corey on 03.06.2010 at 02:29 am
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