My Story: Working the Chain

By Mary McGregor
From Reader's Digest Magazine


I was told to arrive at 6 a.m. on Monday. I'd never worked in an abattoir before but, as a single mum with three kids to support, I couldn't be fussy. Plus, it was the only place I could reach by foot.

It was 1969 and I was to be the first woman to work on "the chain." Whether this was because the person who interviewed me took a dislike to me, hated women, or was an advanced feminist (the latter being extremely far-fetched) I wasn't sure.

The chain was a heavy band of metal with large hooks hanging from it. It extended over three levels with turning points at each end. Seven young men worked on the top level, about four metres above the ground. They were the elite of the chain and would skin the carcasses, chop off the hooves and send the bodies down the chain to the next level.

Here another seven or eight men would cut the beasts into quarters. Huge trays conveyed these pieces down to the third and lowest level, where the innards were separated. This was where I was put to work. I'd been given white overalls, rubber boots and a white cap. I soon discovered I needed them - and more. Opposite me was Mario, a large Italian man whose animosity I felt immediately. He resented a woman coming into an all-male workplace, as did the others. I was terrified - not only at the men's resentment - but also of the chain. It moved insidiously along, nonstop, with loud creaking and clanging noises. Could I keep up?

The chain started. Down came the beasts on great hooks and in no time they got to our section. Mario's job was to cut apart the kidneys, liver and heart. When they came to me, I had to lift each one and put it in its appropriate bucket on the floor. With his animosity showing, Mario tried to humiliate me as much as possible, throwing each item into the tray with great force, covering me in blood. This raised a tremendous laugh along the chain, so he continued to do it. By the time smoko came around I was a mess. But I kept quiet. I needed this job.

Back I went after the smoko and the same thing happened, with Mario receiving encouragement from the top floor. Still I kept quiet, not speaking to anyone. If anyone had spoken to me, I'd have bawled.

But I stuck it out, not telling my children that night of my horrendous day. Instead I made jokes and told them about these great guys on the chain, especially Mario. This continued for days and weeks, until gradually I felt a change. Slowly, subtly at first, I realised Mario wasn't throwing the offal quite so hard. My overalls were not so covered in blood. Lewd jokes came my way. I ignored them, except every now and again when a particularly clever one was yelled and I found it hard not to smile. Then came a day when we were all working as usual, but quieter. I kept my head down and concentrated on separating hearts, livers and kidneys. The silence suddenly got to me and I looked up, meeting the eye of a man on the top floor. He smiled. Quickly I looked down. He couldn't have smiled, could he? I must have imagined it. Something made me look up again. They were all smiling. My God, what do I do now?

Then the chanting started: "Big fat Mario, little skinny Mary-o." I couldn't believe it. They were singing about me. And Mario. I looked at Mario, scared of what I would see. He was laughing. The chant grew louder: "Big fat Mario, little skinny Mary-o." It had taken weeks but finally they had accepted me. They couldn't make me cry when they were nasty but now I struggled to hold back the tears. "Big fat Mario, little skinny Mary-o," they went on. I smiled through my tears. They were softies after all.

Mary McGregor, 72, lives in Padbury, Western Australia, with her husband Len. They have eight adult children between them. Mary has been writing as a pastime for 12 years.
From Reader's Digest Magazine - May 2004