As a young, white, MBA director of a community development organization in 1975, I couldn’t understand why Nick was elected president of his 250-member bakery union. He showed me and he’s a model for our times.

               Unquestionably he was a leader. Union members re-elected him twice without opposition. Managers said he was the key to building trust at the plant.

Yet he didn’t fit the union leadership mold in our racially tense rural Michigan city. Two thirds of his members were white, but his skin was deep black without a soothing blue luster. He came from Alabama with an inherited distrust of whites and a southern drawl. He stuttered so miserably I couldn’t look him in the eye and felt foolish looking at his feet while I concentrated on what he said.

One time I offered him a conference pamphlet. His hands didn’t move. He nodded toward it and said, "Wh.. wh.. why don.. don't you t..t..t..t..tell me wh… wh.. it says?"

He puffed up my importance. He wanted to hear from me, but I suspected he was illiterate. I never saw him read a word, nor did I offer him any.

We met because community leaders pleaded with labor and management to build better relationships after seven bitter strikes over 13 months.

The bakery’s union and management, along with other companies, agreed to form an in-plant committee led by community mediators to solve non-bargaining issues in a collaborative style.

Nick wanted me to mediate. He told me he wanted to improve safety. The plant manager wanted to improve operations. I didn’t know anything about either issue, but they locked me into my first mediation.

We jointly established guidelines for six meetings, set an agenda, and agreed on a date. That didn’t seem hard.

It got harder. The personnel manager called and said I had to come over immediately.

She was distraught because Nick was unreasonable. Two managers had forgotten they had tickets and reservations for a bakery conference that conflicted with the next meeting. She’d asked Nick to reschedule, but he refused. 

Nick, a committee member and I huddled in a men’s bathroom just off the shop floor. Nick went right to the point, "D.. da … does this m.. m.. mm. mean they’re n.. no..  not c.. c..  committed?"

I was relieved. Absolutely not, I said. The managers blew it. They agreed without checking their calendars. His eyes bored into me. "D…d …do they d… d….  do this all the t ..t…time?"

His question opened a window into his world. No calendar, no notes, no lists ruled his life. He ruled it with his inviolate word. He’d given it to managers and members. He’d keep it.