Book Review: Remembering Silme Domingo and Gene Viernes: The Legacy of Filipino American Labor Activism by Ron Chew
Part narrative, part oral history, this slim volume, “Remembering Silme Domingo and Gene Viernes,” knit together from the memories of more than 25 people, holds a compelling record of an almost-forgotten piece of recent Seattle history: “On June 1, 1981, Silme Domingo and Gene Viernes, two young Filipino American officers in Seattle’s Local 37 … were gunned down at their union hall in Pioneer Square.”
David Della, a former Seattle City Councilmember, was supposed to meet with Domingo and Viernes and arrived at the scene a few minutes later: “I was running late from work … caught in traffic … The [union] hall was cordoned off. … I was met by a police officer.” He told Della two people had been shot. Della continues, ”I said, ‘That’s Gene Viernes. He’s my roommate.’” Domingo had been taken to the hospital. “I got up there and he was in surgery … I went back down to the union hall [and] Gene was still there, and we helped clean up and put him in a body bag.”
Filipino-American college students, Domingo and Viernes became activists in the segregated Alaskan canneries of the 1970s, they went on to organize co-workers and take back control of a corrupt union local and they successfully pushed their international union to investigate labor and human rights abuses in the Philippines. They were assassinated by gang members associated with gambling interests, with financial assistance from Ferdinand Marcos, then-president of the Philippines.
The book documents the astonishing level of discrimination practiced in Alaska canneries into the 1980s. White workers were housed in heated, weather-tight dormitories with showers and separate bedrooms, provided with laundry services and fed steaks, fresh fruit and vegetables. Filipino-American workers were segregated in run-down, drafty, unheated bunkhouses, did their own laundry when they had the time on wringer-type manual washers, could only shower occasionally and ate meals that consisted mainly of fish and rice.
Native Eskimos at the canneries were similarly segregated. The discrimination was based on job title, but there was no career ladder from the jobs filled by workers of color into those filled by white workers. These practices, which dated back decades, survived the Civil Rights era intact. The discrimination was maintained with cooperation from the union, which had been purged of militant elements in the 1950s and became closely tied with gambling interests.
The canneries didn’t just ignore civil rights — they sloughed off worker and food safety issues. “Sometimes in the peak of the season … by the time we’re processing [the fish], it stinks, literally stinks.” Bruce Occena, a fellow activist in the canneries, asked, “Can they pack rotten fish?” The reply: “‘Oh, it’s okay … We cook it.’”
For the tight-knit Filipino community in Washington, traveling to work in Alaska was a common rite of passage. The money was good, but the hours were long — up to 18 hours or more a day. “I saw a lot of injuries. People were falling asleep on the job … [and] people’s fingers got cut,” said Emma Catague, another cannery organizer, But for all the manongs [respected Filipino elders] that had been going there for 40, 60 years, she continued, “It’s actually a family.”
The assassinated activists were very different in type: Domingo was a kind of dandy, wearing platform heels and velvet suede pants, and droving a Monte Carlo; Viernes was a farm boy from the Filipino-American farming community in Wapato, very low-key, wearing jeans and not bothering to comb his hair. They got their jobs the way everybody did: by paying off the dispatcher. But it wasn’t long before they helped form the Alaska Cannery Workers Association (acwa), which filed discrimination suits against the canneries. When the union refused to support them, they also set out to reform the union. It was right after winning control of the dispatch system, with the intent to run it strictly according to seniority, that they were murdered.
Ironically, the murders galvanized internal support for the reformers. Eventually, an independent investigation showed that Tony Baruso, the longtime union president, had gotten money from Marcos to facilitate the murders. Baruso went to prison, and there was a monetary judgment against Marcos’ estate.
But the most poignant part of the aftermath was the effect the deaths had on those around them. Domingo’s wife, Terri Mast, talks about taking a leadership role in the union for the first time and finding inspiration in her husband’s voice. Domingo’s daughter, Kalayaan, was a baby at the time: “I’ve never had a father. I think that makes it hard for me to grow attached to people because you’re always afraid they’re going to leave.” Julia Laranang, a former acwa staff member, says, “What I remember most about them doesn’t have to do with politics… There are certain people who are just different. I would have trusted either one of those people with my life.”
The strength of the book is in its multiple voices. That’s also its weakness: While editor Ron Chew provides an overview, many of the most affecting stories and descriptions are from an oral history section called “Remembrances.” It feels like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. Chew provides a strong frame, but the reader has to integrate a lot of pieces to really understand the picture. The story deserves a more fleshed-out narrative. Nevertheless, this is a rich beginning.