In December of 2013, I was unemployed, unhappy, and desperately trying to figure out what to do about both. I needed to find a new job, and yet I was hesitant to chase after any job that was too much like my old one, because it had been a major supplier of misery and anxiety for me. I wanted something new and I was up for anything, so when my dad said I should apply for an apprenticeship for the union he is retired out of, I did.
Long before I knew I was a feminist, I was a worker’s rights activist. Somewhere in the depths of my house, there is a picture of me, nine years old, in a IBEW tee shirt that came down to my knees, marching in support of strike workers at the Detroit News and Free Press. Read More Let’s Hear it for the Union Maids
“She is more dangerous than a thousand rioters…” – The Chicago Police Department description of Lucy Parsons