Lessons in Solidarity from the Service Industry

Wage work is simultaneously dull and dangerous, boring and tragic. Long before I ended up working in journalism, I was a put-upon counter girl standing for hours and hours on my feet, taking orders for takeout at an ancient Mom & Pop in Omaha, Nebraska. I stood behind that counter every night after school and on the weekends, rushing my way through the shift without so much as a thought about a meal, or a break. The back kitchen was full of undocumented immigrants grinding away their days for cash that they sent home to family or put away in a shoebox under the bed to pay for the absurdly expensive and humiliating path to citizenship that this country offers. 

At least twice a week, the waitress on shift would count her tips at the end of the night and find herself in a standoff with the manager, reminding him aggressively that he needed to pay her minimum wage (the tips never added up to a decent take-home, it wasn't that kind of place) or he'd be breaking the law. He would hem and haw until he reduced her to tears, and then with a small smile of satisfaction at her smeared makeup, acquiesce. Roll the tape back, play again, week after week.

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