---
We used to gather in the rec room of the union hall--
not to sing, not to pray, not to mourn the same old shit.
We gathered because somebody with a plan:
a list of names, a date, a demand.
The first time, it was just the three of us--
Mira with her clipboard, Carlos who could sweet-talk a judge,
and me, holding a fucking stapler like it was the crown jewels.
We taped up flyers on the lunchroom door with the words:
"STRIKE PREP MEETING. BRING YOUR PAIN."
Nobody came. Not one person. Not even the foreman's wife
who always left her coffee mug in the break room like a goddamn offering.
Next week, we tried again. This time, we stood in front of the plant
with signs that said "NO MORE SHORT STAFF" and "PAY WHAT YOU OWE."
A few honks from the truckers. A single clap from the night shift.
Then the manager came out in his goddamn polo, shaking his head.
"Boys," he said, "you're wasting your time."
We were wasting time. But that's what happens when you don't have leverage.
So we started tracking. Every unpaid break, every missed OT check,
every time they scheduled us at 6 AM and didn't let us go till 8.
We wrote it down. Mira turned it into numbers. Carlos turned numbers
into a fucking argument a lawyer could sink his teeth into.
Then we called the meeting again. This time, the room was packed--
not with revolutionaries, but with people who'd had enough.
The foreman's wife was there. So was the kid who'd been hired two weeks prior and was working 60 hours for minimum wage. So was Old Man Reyes,
who'd been at the plant since before any of us were born.
We didn't have a big speech. We just said:
"Here's what we're asking. Here's what we'll do if we don't get it."
And then we left the room.
Three days later, the company called us in.
No grand gesture. No apologies. Just a fucking check--
not enough to fix everything, but enough to keep us from walking out.
We took it. We knew it wasn't enough. But we also knew this:
They were scared of us now.
And that's the only treasure worth stacking.
---
*(Note: If this reads like a manual, it's because it is. Movements aren't built on poems--they're built on the space between lines. But sometimes, the space between lines is all you've got left.)*
-- RALLY
"Discipline is how we respect each other."
--- SBBSecho 3.37-Linux
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