Ask a Union Organizer: Meet Emily, our Union Organizing Expert

Welcome to our new column, Ask a Union Organizer! Each month, union organizer and former abortion clinic staffer Emily Likins-Ehlers answers your most pressing questions about unionizing your reproductive health, rights, and justice workplace. Anything is fair game — how to unionize, when to unionize, and what to do when shit hits the fan.

Note: We may edit your question for privacy, specifics, grammar, clarity, or length. Depending on the volume or similarities of submissions, not all may be selected.

In 2011, I had an abortion at Blue Mountain Clinic in Missoula, Montana. 

In 2012, I became an abortion counselor and outreach intern at Blue Mountain Clinic’s Family Practice.

As an intern, I wrote grants, assisted with fundraising, did research, wrote press releases, created and implemented programs. I lobbied the state legislature; and managed all of the clinic’s volunteers. I taught sex-ed to teens in high schools and group homes and rehab centers; we planned events and rallies and protests.

As an abortion counselor, I provided continuous care to patients. I poked their fingers and collected their urine sample. I held space for them, witnessed their struggles, and obtained their informed consent. I held hands and told the patient not to worry, those cramps are normal…just breathe through them with me. When the procedure was over, I walked them to after-care, cleaned the surgical room, and completed a medical chart describing how the abortion went.

I made $12.50 an hour. 

Well, first, when I was still Intern-Emily, I made nothing at the clinic. My mentor helped me secure a second, *PAID* internship as NARAL campus organizer at the University of Montana. I received $100/month stipend. Ok, so it was only sorta-paid.

Eventually, I got that elusive W4 and started making $10 an hour as a counselor. I topped out making $2.50 more than the other counselors, because my mentor aggressively advocated for me to have both a raise and a title after I graduated: Deputy Director of Development, Outreach and Communications. I loved that title. 

$12.50 an hour, 15 hours a week. I was working more like 30 hours a week. Maybe more. Probably more. Who knows; it’s all a blur when it’s for the good of the movement. Eventually I landed pay for full-time hours, but only through a complex combination of white-privelege moxie, mentors who championed my professional development, and pure luck. 

My workplace benefits included an Executive Director who was always hung-over, the occasional box of doughnuts in the breakroom, and $100 in-house medical care.

A medical abortion at the clinic was $550.

I bussed tables at a pizza shop and cleaned a real estate office in the middle of the night to pay my rent and fill my fridge.

One day, my mentor got fired. She was my direct supervisor--the one who recruited me and taught me how to get sh*t done. My mentor-sister-friend who always understood what I was trying to say—the person in my life who pushed me to new heights and unequivocally

advocated for me. She made me really believe that I didn’t have to grind for the rest of my life. And she got fired. Out of the blue.

Well, I guess these things are never really out of the blue; I felt so betrayed that I quit.

See, I come from a strong union family; and in unions—if someone is wronged, when someone is fired illegally like that; others take action. We didn’t have a union, so I just wrote a strongly-worded letter to people who probably didn’t even bother reading it. I wasn’t afraid because I had another job that was already paying my bills.

 We didn’t have a union, so I just rage-quit my dream-job. I cried with my cat for a few hours; and then I went to the bar.

 I ran into a friend while downing shots of tequila; soon, of course, the Clinic—and how upset I was about it all—became the focus of the conversation.

 “Well, you should come to this thing downstairs. It’s in like 15 minutes”

 “What thing?”

 “It’s like, a workers’ research project-thing. The guy who runs it is suuuper cute and wears these tight little graphic T-shirts. Anyway, it’s a union thing”

 I know unions, because my dad’s in one. My brother, cousins, both grandpas, and all my uncles on both sides are proud union tradespeople. My sister’s a teacher.

 So I went to the meeting and met Chad. He saw my fire and bought me a beer—well, the union bought me a beer—and we talked about my work history and how I got to where I am today. He asked me open-ended questions about my solutions to the problems at work. He inspired me to see there was something I could do about it. He helped me make friends with my anger.

 I started interviewing workers for the research project, and started pushing for more benefits at my pizza-shop job. My boss actually responded by giving us health insurance, a retirement plan, and a raise for the dishwashers! But that’s a different story for a different day.

 Since then, I’ve organized workers in more industries than I can count. I’ve witnessed the struggle of workers in all parts of our country and watched as some of them have lost their jobs. I’ve also celebrated some excellent wins and believe the unions are making a serious come-back. Like scrunchies!

 The point is—unions are complicated; full of legalese and muddied hierarchical structures and archaic ways of organizing. Many of them have come to resemble the industries they hope to disrupt. 

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed. You’re not alone! Unions are a political process as well as a legal one; frankly, very few people understand the process in its entirety. But that’s the beauty of unions--nobody goes in alone, and unions have amassed experienced staffers, lawyers, and tons of other union members who help guide campaigns to success.

Really, you don’t have to know much to get started unionizing.

It is simple: listen to your coworkers in true confidence; tell your story with brave vulnerability, and witness another’s struggle.

 We know how to do that.