Picket Lines

This is a follow-up to yesterday’s column expressing solidarity with Scranton’s teachers. I’m grateful to all my paid subscribers, including the many who’ve signed on since yesterday. You’re the ones who enable me to do this.

It was cold this morning. Below freezing at 7am, when Scranton teachers gathered on various picket lines. Bundled. Nursing coffee to ward off the chill. Suddenly without health insurance, but they’d worry about that another time. Surely they were wondering if the passing car horn-blasts were in solidarity, or meant as middle-fingers. I stumbled out of bed a few hours after 7, warm under a newly installed winter comforter. I only knew it was cold by looking at the weather app on my phone. I never actually went outside. I didn't have to. Hell, even my dog is pad-trained for mornings like this. I've been working from home since the pandemic took hold. My commute is a walk down a dozen steps to a basement office. My cat hangs out down there. She's my office partner. If I make a mistake at my job, I might get an angry email, or a flurry of instant messages. But lives aren't potentially altered. Maybe spreadsheets, but not lives.

In comparison, my job is trivial.

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