Making Your Bones
by Andrew J. Burton
Hierarchy (2026) - 07
---------------
"Things About Hierarchy" is a thematic series of articles, sponsored by Reality Skimming Press. Pieces in the series run from Jul-Dec 2026. coordinator Lisa Van Gool at info@realityskimming.com. Query us about contributing for $25 CAD a post at https://facebook.com/relskim or by email at info@realityskimming.com
---------------
Thinking about status and hierarchy, most people think of them as a marker of corporate
organizations, government structures, military and professions. They are all that but
there is a complexity and fluidity to hierarchies that can be both a strength and a
weakness. Hierarchies require identifying and communicating a sense of place, where
you belong in the organization and the status that justifies your placement within the
social order, who you defer to, who defers to you. You might think hierarchies clarify
roles and responsibilities; In some cases, they do, but all too often they reinforce an
illusion of authority to maintain a social order and the structure you have the status to
occupy. In an organization there are often stated criteria for positions and channels of
authority. There are also unstated but very real lines of authority and status that, while
very real, are not openly identified or acknowledged. These concepts appear far more
broadly than you might think. We encounter status markers and hierarchies in almost
every aspect of our lives. They show up in families, classrooms, schoolyards, teams
and cohorts of friends.
The first time I really began to understand what a hierarchy was, what status was, came
from living on the street in my teens and from a connection to a motorcycle club.
I had been “on the street” for a while living on” The Drag”, that part of Main Street in
Winnipeg between Bannatyne and Sutherland that was home to booze cans and
derelict hotels pitching cheap draft and “no questions asked” rooms for rent by the hour.
Hierarchies on the Drag had to do with who you were, how you got by and how long you
had been around. Being “the kid” was not a safe thing to be. An old street hand named
Ernie helped me out a bit. “Ya gotta make your bones!” he said, “Ya gotta show people
who ya are or who ya want them to think you are. Look tough, or act tough they’ll leave
ya alone, that’s how the bikers do it.”
I learned the structure and status of the Drag. I watched people, created a persona, an
act, quiet, dark, edgy, dressed like the bikers. I was not violent, but a lot of people
thought I was. Being tough was up there in the hierarchy of the Drag. I remember
getting asked to go along on an ant-nuke protest ‘In case it got violent”. Guess the act
worked.
Survival was another marker. People who had lived on the Drag for a long time had
status and influence. You get to know who’s who. Ernie had an actual job working in a
soup kitchen on Main Street. Word was he’d been a chef before the booze took over.
He was a kind of “welcome wagon” for the newbies. He’d give you tips on street life,
what’s safe and what’s not, who you can trust, who to stay away from.
There were street workers doing outreach. Their place in the order of things was a
mixed bag. Status was high if you’d been there yourself, if you knew the street and the
people. Students getting their hours for a degree got called “Jacks and Jills”. Some got
shined on, told fake stories to see what they really knew. Others got “adopted”. Street
people would watch out for them, making sure they didn’t get hurt. They didn’t get far on
the street.
Money was a thing too. Having enough to get by was okay. Having too much made
you a target. Never show anybody your money. Never keep it all in the same place, a
few bucks in a wallet, some in your boot, some in a pocket. How you made your money
counted.
Making money was a thing. If you’re under age you couldn’t get welfare and work was
hard to come by. Having some money gave you status but best not to let on how much
you have. Making money was always a game on The Drag, especially if you were
young. Under 18 you needed a parental consent form to get hired on most places. That
left panhandling, petty crime, sex trade and “the Lot”, a parking lot where early in the
morning trucks would pick up people for “day labour “. We were chosen from the crowd,
taken to a workplace that had a shit job nobody wanted to do, put to work for the day,
then returned to the lot and paid out in cash. Made enough from mucking out stalls at a
slaughterhouse and cutting up deadfalls after a storm to get by without ID. Working the
Lot could get you respect on the street, if you got picked up “regular”.
It was a Lot job that changed things. Three of us were picked up to unload trucks at a
warehouse for a candy company. Mid August was startup for the “candy season”,
stocking up for Halloween and Christmas. Sarge was a biker working as the shipper and
receiver at the warehouse. He had the look of physical work about him, hard muscle,
faded t-shirt, leather jacket, grimy jeans, engineer boots, the kind favoured by bikers. He
looked us over and set us shifting boxes from a semi into the warehouse, sorting by
label.
We got a half hour off at noon. There was a break room where we could make toast and
drink bad coffee. Sarge started in on me, asking where I came from, what part of town
and how old I was. I guess it was pretty obvious I was the youngest of the crew. I
dodged the questions as best I could. On The Drag the less people know about you, the
better. Sarge had a way about him. I probably told him more than I should have. He
sussed things out pretty good. Before we left, he handed me a piece of paper with an
address on it. “Go here.” He said, “They’ll help you with ID.”
A few days later I had a fake driver’s licence that said I was 18. Parlayed that into a
steady job at the warehouse, term position to end of season. Made enough money to
get an “off the books” room above an artificial limb factory and to buy a motorcycle. A
surplus Enfield “crate bike” was essentially a packing crate of parts that could be
assembled into a working ride. Among bikers, “I built it from parts” gave you status and
an Enfield was a British bike which, while not top tier, had status as well.
I saw Sarge again on my way back from a bike run to Thunder Bay with Scotty. We got
back into Manitoba and stopped at The Nest, a diner in Falcon Beach. A row of
motorcycles lined the road. We parked at the south end. Scotty scored us a table while I
ordered some burgers. We could see something was going down. Some young local
guys were trash talking the bikers. The Bikers were flying colors, a one percenter club
out of Winnipeg. Somebody took a shot, not clear who. Looked like an all-out brawl was
ready to break out. The owner of the place pulled out a shot gun and yelled, “Take it
outside!” We were staying put but he figured us for bikers too and waved us out the
door.
Fists were flying as we got out into an open area with a walkway to the next street. We
both took some hits, threw some at the same time, then headed back to our bikes. “Not
our fight,” Scotty said.
I had a cut on my cheek and a couple of sore ribs that said otherwise. I kicked my bike
into gear, swung my helmet by the strap and rode into the middle of the brawl. Scotty
saw what I was doing and followed along. As we rode through, we swung our helmets at
the locals, kicking a few as well, taking more hits along the way. On the far side we took
the side street, then pulled back onto the highway heading west. A few miles down the
road we stopped at a roadside campground, parked in a spot and started some first aid.
We started a fire, cleaned up, using the last of the band aids in my saddlebag. When we
were done, we kicked back and smoked some dope. A little while later the roar of
engines echoed through the trees. The bikers from the fight pulled in, no doubt also
looking to bind some wounds and come down a bit.
About the bikers: To be clear, members referred to it as a club. Most people called it a
gang. In this writing I will not use the name of the club or the actual names of members.
Club members all had “road names” and, in the group, seldom shared their names of
record. Some of these guys are still alive and the club still exists. Best not to out people
or invite problems.
A few of them dropped by to say hello. It turned out the word among their crew was that
riding through the fight was a righteous action. They invited us to come by their main
campsite, which we did. There we met the membership, including the road captain, the
person in charge on road trips and runs. That road captain was Sarge. He remembered
me, letting me know without telling anyone else. They had beer, we had weed. They
had food, (we never got our order at the diner, so that mattered.) By evening we had an
invite to ride with the club. We felt like we belonged.
In the club we were, at first, guests. Invited because of what we had done at the fight.
Holding your own in a fight has status in the biker world. Getting known for it gives you
position. We were allowed to go on runs with the guys, hang around the clubhouse and
party with them. After a while, I was invited to become a “prospect” someone being
considered for membership. One of the deciding factors was that Sarge spoke up for
me, becoming my sponsor. Scotty was invited later on. I learned that a factor in the
decision making was the bikes we rode. I had the Enfield “crate bike”. Scotty rode a
Honda four.
The status of motorcycles was clear. High status bikes. were custom Harley 74s, then
stockers. then Sportsters and 45s. British bikes, like my Enfield, were marginally
acceptable. I got extra credit because I had built it myself out of a crate. Sarge’s bike
was an old Harley knucklehead with a girder front end. tuned exhaust and paint by
Tinker. His was a high-status ride. Later on, Scotty bought an army surplus 45 and
customized it to make the grade.
There seemed to be a clear hierarchy, an order of rank and status in the club. There
were some variations, exceptions that members knew but seldom openly
acknowledged.
Top of the order was Rolly, the club president. He was nominally in charge, spoke for
the group and was the final word on a lot of decisions.
After Rolly was “Fat Freddy”, club vice president, who would take over if Rolly wasn’t
around. Freddy had been around for a long time and had the title more in recognition of
that. For the most part the VP was seldom called upon to do anything.
Next in line was “Chief”, the Sargeant of Arms, looking out for maintaining the rules and
providing security when needed. Sarge had held this role for years before taking a
lesser rank as “Road Captain” being in charge on runs and road trips.
Sarge loved to ride and taking to the highway for long periods of time. He also had a
way of helping people in practical ways. Sarge had a level of status beyond his Road
Captain rank, because of who he was.
There were the “Full Patch” members who did not have a specific rank or role but were
able to access resources and take part in events.
As prospects Scotty and I were at the low end of the hierarchy. We were expected to
do a lot of the “grunt work” in the club, run errands for members and take care of tasks
as assigned by officers of the club.
Note: Biker Clubs in the 1960s were notoriously misogynistic. Membership was men
only. However, this club had two female members:
Susy acted as Secretary/Treasurer for the club, managing accounts and records. She
was also a gifted seamstress. For many years I rode in jeans Susie embroidered with
dragons on each leg. Word in the club was she knew too much and was too good at her
job for anyone to dare mess with her.
Cynthia was a talented tattoo artist and Susy’s best friend. Her artwork was sought after
and having her as a member gained the club status with other biker groups.
Other women often around the club were wives, girlfriends, partners of club members.
They were not considered members but had status based on the club member they
were connected to. There were also, “hangers”, women who hung around the
clubhouse or attended events without being connected.
The hierarchy of the club can seem clear to the uninitiated. It is, like most systems, not
always as it seems. Hierarchies and status structures depend on the beliefs and actions
of individuals within it. The structure of this motorcycle club can seem ordinary and as
capable as any other. However, individual members can warp the rules and the attitudes
and values in fundamental ways. As a prospect, I was expected to “run errands’ for
members. One member asked me to do so quite a bit.
Gypsy did not have a role in the structure of the club. He did hold a lot of “unofficial”
status. His status was built on his past actions and what people were afraid he might do.
Word was Gypsy was a source for “substances” for the club and had a name for being
“off the hook” violent. Because of that first role, people were tolerant of the second.
Gypsy asked me to run an errand for him. I was to go to an address in the North End,
deliver an envelope to a guy and pick up a package to bring back to Gypsy. I ran the
errand as expected. What was in the envelope and in the package, I wasn’t told and
didn’t ask. After a few similar errands it became clear I was working as a drug mule for
Gypsy. I asked around about Gypsy and his errands. “Don’t mess with Gypsy.” Was the
clearest answer. I was told about a member that refused a “favour” Gypsy asked for.
One night on the perimeter highway a car pulled up beside him and a piece of 2by4 was
thrown into his front wheel. No certainty of things was there but the warning was clear.
The favours I was asked to do grew in range and scope. Some things I didn’t mind
doing, but others were not cool. I decided that it was time to get out. I did get some help
from inside the club on the down low and was able to leave town and resettle in another
part of the country.
I found out later that all the time after I left Winnipeg, members of the club knew where I
was and what I was doing. When I went back to Winnipeg a few years later, a club
member showed up at my door trying to draw me back in to the life. (He did not
succeed.)
The basic idea is that a hierarchal structure provides ways to streamline decision
making and chains of command so that an organization can function efficiently and
effectively. Status within the organization makes it clear who is where in the
management structure. In some organizations hierarchies and status structures can
function in such a way. However, structures can easily be perverted by people from
within. Where attaining a particular level within a hierarchy and with specific status
markers carries with it desirable perks, such as membership in the hierarchy, power and
financial remuneration, attaining and maintaining a position can become more important
than the services that the organization is designed to provide. People may achieve
position and status due to social connections and willingness to go along with actions
that serve the agendas of people in specific positions. Corrupt and self-serving
hierarchies perpetuate themselves. That corruption becomes an infection that spreads
throughout the system. People of lower status may buy in to the patterns of behaviour
and be co-opted by the system in order to achieve an advantageous position for
themselves, may give up in the face of a bleak system doing the minimum, or may leave
the system entirely.
So what does this say about hierarchies? For me, based on my life experiences,
hierarchies and systems of status are always subject to some level of suspicion. It might
be easy to say that the hierarchy and functioning of a motorcycle gang cannot be
expected to work in a good way. While that may be true, I have also worked in corporate
and government structures where the same levels of corruption and criminalisation
exist. Hierarchical procedures can be effective and valuable but require people and
organizations built around ethical and moral principles and beliefs to really work as we
hope that they will and consistent vigilance to examine policies and procedures in place
to ensure that they do. It has been said that where corruption exists it is
incumbent on all who see it to actively oppose it. Failing to do so implies complicity.
What will you choose to do?
References: N/A
Comments