Home | Articles | Documents | Events | Sources A Dignity Denied: The Black Porter on Canadian National RailwaysBy Jim Simmons In the first half of this century railway growth proceeded at a phenomenal pace with both Canadian National and Canadian Pacific Railways vigorously competing for the rail passenger patronage of the nation. Among the most stalwart representatives of the railway and many times, the rail traveling public's first encounter with railway personnel was the Porter. They were the ones who "sold" the railway to "John Q. Public." The sleeper was useless without the porter - they were the magic touch of labour, which transforms any material into a salable commodity. As service workers in a luxurious sleeping car train, the porter had the highest status in the black community and the lowest rank on the train. They were trapped into dual roles of charming hosts and menial, obedient servant.
Leroy Shackleford, a former Porter and Vice-President of The
Brotherhood of Sleeping Here in the Maritimes, porters rode some of the big name trains such as The Ocean, The Scotian and The Maritime Express and also some of the lesser-known "locals" to other areas of the provinces. In central and western Canada, trains such as the Continental Limited, The Montrealer and others were the sought after routes. Working 400 hours for $66 dollars a month and surviving on three hours sleep per night, tips were the things that made it the kind of job it was. Most men preferred working for the C.N.R. because it paid them more than the C.P.R. and worked them far fewer hours than their counterparts south of the border. The reliance on "tips" forced porters to perform onerous jobs - and often endure insults and racial slurs - with a smile. Leonard Dixon, who joined C.N. in 1939 and retired in 1983 said, " I was born and went to High School in Halifax. My father was a porter and my two brothers. In all the industries in Halifax, there were no blacks. As a person of colour, the only job you could apply for in C.N. was sleeping car porter. They made that quite clear. If you applied for a labourer's job, they would direct you to the sleeping car department. As far as I was concerned it was a good place to work. You were making more than the white waiters. The job of porter was delegated to "those of colour." It was only in the 1960's with the civil rights movement coming to the limelight that black porters finally were allowed to work in other positions at Canadian National and Canadian Pacific Railways. Finally, in 1964, Canadian National decided to employ black porters as conductors. To most, the tenacious struggle by the railway porters for dignity and fairness in employment is not well known. A struggle which resulted in the formation of the Brotherhood of Railway Porters of Canada in 1937, organized by and for black men. Many of the memories of the porters on some of the most elegant name-trains in the country are painful.
A Canadian National Railways' ad depicting a Black Porter. They hauled luggage, ironed suits, and kept the sleeping car always in immaculate order. They were constantly at the beck and call of white passengers and relied on the mercy of supervisors. If passengers complained, the company would call you in and "dress you down." Many supervisors were unfair and at times docked your pay. They would fire people frequently. The job included more than helping passengers with baggage or preparing their sleeping berths. If a passenger wanted to eat in his berth, the porter walked to the dining car for food. He baby-sat children shined shoes and ironed suits. He tended to the sick and still had to find time to keep the car clean. Back in the early days of the formation of The Brotherhood of Railway Porters there was the old tale of Pullman porter Silent Bumbry of the New York Central. When Bumbry pulled into the yards his name appeared on the black board and in the order book. The other porters looked knowingly at each other and shuddered. When Bumbry reported to the offices, the pale, fragile - appearing blonde switchboard operator in the tight yellow blouse asked him what he wanted. "Nothing" said Bumbry and he shrugged his shoulders. "Who do you want to see?" "Who me?" "Well whatcha here for?" "Mr. Richmyer wants to see me." "Oh well, sit down, Porter." "Sit down and wait." Bumbry waited. He waited thirty - five minutes by the office clock on the exceedingly hard bench reserved impartially by the Company for it's porters, whether faithful Company men or radical union agitators. Then she told him "You can go in now." Silently, Bumbry entered the Superintendent's office, twisting his misshapen hat and walking on tiptoe lest he interrupt the Superintendent who seemed too busy with scattered diagrams on his mahogany desk. After a few fog - heavy seconds Richmyer looked up from the diagrams, acknowledged Silent's presence with a curt nod, then returned his eyes to the diagrams before him and began to mumble the copyrighted, periodically aired lecture. "You have been a good porter, Bumbry, considered among management as one of the most reliable and congenial members of staff serving in this district. As you know, there are more negroes in the passenger sleeping car service than in any other unit of industry in this land. The Company took your forefathers from slavery, illiterate and untaught, and has given them work, and the means wherewith to buy food, clothing and excellent shelter. The company is training this select group of workers into a school of thought that will make your children worthy of citizenship in the greatest republic on earth. And with what shall you repay the company? Service is not enough. There must be loyalty." Bumbry punctured the monologue with a shift of the already battered hat in his hands. When he reached the psychological volume and pitch, Richmyer yelled, "Porter, are you a member of The Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters?" Bumbry shifted, then waited for the echo to die down in the silver pitcher on the table beside the massive mahogany desk. Then he whispered in a pitchless nasal tone. "Mr. Richmyer, Sir, do you belong to the Roman Catholic Church? The Masons? The Child Welfare Society? The Metropolitan Life Insurance Company? The Book of the Month Club? The Animal - ." "Porter, you're out of place and insubordinate. Have you forgotten that I'm the District Superintendent? Why - why that's none of your business just what I belong to!" "No Sir, Mr. Richmyer, I ain't forgot who you are, but your answer is exactly the same one I was going to give to the question you put to me!" "What answer?" That ain't none of your business what I belong to neither." Bumbry turned to leave. He walked slowly as if respectful of the high office, but the superintendent would not accept defeat at the hands of a dark menial so easily. He jumped to his feet and yelled in a voice like a trumpet. "Now, Porter, I want you to be careful, do you understand. Bumbry turned, knowing that the questioning was not over yet, but fully aware that everything that he uttered would be used against him. He spoke in a voice more moderately thin than his previous one, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Mr. Superintendent, I got nothing to be careful for. I own enough houses in Brooklyn." Bumbry quietly opened the office door and walked evenly through the main office, thinking back to those days of the oppressive South when some white folks had offered to buy his rock strewn, infertile farm because they had discovered on it the graves of their ancestors, and they weren't particular about having "niggers" owning their flesh and blood. He thought of the then fabulous sums of money they paid for their contempt of dark skin, then turned his thoughts to the snug row of houses in Brooklyn. Inwardly, he laughed at the impudence of the Superintendent who had pried in vain, and as he passed the mourner's bench with the half anxious, half defiant porters waiting to be admitted to the office, he felt inside his pocket and caressed with his long fingers the membership card of The Brotherhood of Railway Porters. ©2009, Jim Simmons, all rights reserved.
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