Author: Heather A.
To you who labor, doing shift work, constantly changing your sleep schedule, wrecking your health for wages that run out before the month ends. You, working part-time, evenings, and weekends, sacrificing time with family and friends, missing birthdays, holidays, and milestones, only to still fall short on rent. You, trapped in jobs that demand open availability but refuse to give full-time hours, denying you benefits, stability, or a livable income—yet punishing you if you seek a second job. You, who are exhausted but cannot rest, because unpaid bills pile up like shadows in the corner of every room.
To you with no holidays, no vacation, no retirement—just the grinding certainty that one injury, one illness, will leave you destitute. You, whose body is breaking down from years of lifting, bending, standing—only to be discarded the moment you can’t keep up. You, sleeping in your car, on a friend’s couch, in a shelter—because working full-time no longer guarantees a home. You, who have been priced out of love, out of family, out of a future.
To you who worry not just about feeding your children today, but about the E. coli in their food, lead in their water, lead in the paint, and mercury in the soil. You, who see college as a distant dream—not because your child isn’t smart enough, but because you know the weight of student loans will crush them. You, who have given up any hope of having children, not because you don’t want them, but because you can’t afford daycare, healthcare, another mouth to feed or a home with space for another person.
To you, living in mold-filled apartments with broken heat and appliances, afraid to report your landlord, because you’re terrified of retaliation. You who move every year, desperately seeking cheaper rent, as the cost of living goes up while your wages stay the same—a drifter in your hometown. You, drowning in medical debt from a single hospital visit, choosing between medication and groceries.
To you, who are told that you can get ahead if you just work harder while those in the ruling class make more in an hour than you do in a year. You, fighting for overtime pay that never comes, for breaks that are denied, for respect that is never given. You, paying more than half your income to keep a roof overhead, knowing one medical emergency, one missed paycheck, means eviction. You, who are called “essential” but treated as expendable. You, who hear politicians blame immigrants, trans people, the poor, the marginalized, anyone but the bosses stealing your wages. You, who have nothing left to give—but keep giving anyway, because what other choice do you have?
Know that you are not powerless. You are not alone. You are a member of the working class, the class that built the world—that keeps the lights on, the shelves stocked, the sick cared for, the cities running. They need your labor. They fear your solidarity. The boss grinds you down because they know, deep down, that without your hands, your sweat, your silence, it all collapses. So remember: every right you have was fought for; every luxury they hoard was stolen; and every injustice they enforce can be undone. The future is not yet written. You always have power if you are willing to wield it. Organize. Fight back. Demand the impossible. They tell you it can’t be done, because they are afraid you will learn the truth. If we stand together, we cannot be defeated.
