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  • After a really long and frustrating commute, I'm out with my camera trying to tease the blood cells to reintroduce themselves to my legs and my butt. I shoot a couple of random trees and then spot the roofers walking the picket line outside the Cambridgeside Galleria Mall near my office. They take turns walking, holding up the signs, and then going off to work. They are protesting the conditions, salary and benefits of the roofer who employs them. They're laughing holding their coffee and cigarettes in a sort of joyful camaraderie, an all-in-it-togetherness .
  • My first real job was cashier at the local supermarket, the First National, Finast, the Firsty. The week I turned 16, I presented myself ready and available to start work. I filled out an application but since my older sister already worked there, the manager, Frank Hannafin told me that he would call me when he had an opening. I thanked him and skipped home to plan how to dress for the first day of work.
  • Several days a week after school, I went to check on my start date. After 4 weeks of pestering him, Frank opened a drawer and gave me a smock. "Start training tomorrow." I joined the union and paid my dues, literally and figuratively. Worked the crappy shifts, Friday and Saturday nights, and got the sticky cash registers. Life is like that.... paying your dues. That phrase is part of our vernacular because men and women risked life and job to establish unions for us, all of us. I was entitled to overtime and sick pay and disability, although I never needed it, because of those who came and risked before me. I waved at the guys across the street in solidarity. Fist Pump!
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