My name is Douglas Hunter. I am 53 years old. I have a 16-year-old daughter who I’ve been raising on my own since her mother died. I work at McDonald’s in Chicago where I make $9.25 an hour, just a dollar more per hour than I made when I first started working there nearly five years ago. On Thursday, I was one of the thousands of fast-food workers nationwide who went on strike to demand fairer wages. Here’s what my day was like...
They say the recession is over. But ask the fast-food workers of America and we’ll tell you a different story. We struggled before the recession, we struggled during the recession, and now, after the recession, we’re still struggling. That’s why I didn’t show up for my scheduled shift on Thursday.
On Wednesday night, I arrive at the Crowne Plaza hotel in Chicago, where organizers with Fight for $15 had arranged a rally for the fast-food workers planning to take part in Thursday’s strike. I meet workers from McDonald’s, Burger King, Wendy’s, Popeye’s and Taco Bell.
At the rally that night, organizers remind us of the fast-food workers Chicago convention in July, when we voted unanimously to do whatever it takes to win $15 an hour and union rights. They tell us we may have to engage in civil disobedience to draw attention to the cause, and warn us that some of us could be arrested as a result.
I’d been arrested before, but never for doing the right thing. The idea tempted me. I went to bed that night excited.
I receive a wake-up call from the hotel at 4 a.m. local time on Thursday. I dress quickly in my red “Fight for $15” T-shirt and go downstairs to join the others for breakfast. I can feel the camaraderie build as we eat our fill of French toast, bacon, eggs.
Around 6 a.m., we board the bus. I have so many thoughts swirling in my head as I take my seat. My family had told me not to protest. They said it wasn’t worth losing a full day’s pay. I hope my daughter knows I’m doing this for her.
During the ride I listen to some of the other protesters share their stories and financial struggles. I realiae I make more per hour than most, and even so, I find it hard to put food on the table each night. My heart aches for the single moms and the workers with three jobs. Their stories steel my resolve to fight.
As we pull into the location of the first protest, a McDonald’s in Chicago’s Chatham neighborhood, more buses arrive and the protesters start to unload. We fill both sides of the street in front of the McDonald’s restaurant. The organizers rally the crowd, chanting into megaphones. We sing the labor song We Shall Not Be Moved and volley cheers back and forth.
Then a group of protesters break away from the crowd and sit down in the middle of the street. I hesitate for a moment, my heart pounding, before I run out to join them.
As we sit there, the young protesters show me with their phones scenes from other fast-food strikes around the country. It was bigger than I could have imagined.
We sit in the road for what feels like an eternity before the police come and tell us to stand up. They tell us that we’re obstructing traffic and we’ll be arrested if we don’t move. I immediately think of what my daughter will do if I get stuck in jail overnight. So I stand up and rejoin the crowd and the officers start cuffing the sitting protesters.
The handful of people they arrest are loaded into vans and taken to a nearby station. The protest disperses soon after, and we return to the buses to go meet the other strikers at the police station. The officers treat everyone kindly, and they are released quickly. It didn’t seem so bad.
As we eat lunch and prepare for the second protest, I mull the idea of being arrested.
It’s pouring rain by the time the buses arrive at the second McDonald’s location in west suburban Cicero, outside of Chicago. There are so many of us at this protest: fast-food workers, healthcare workers and even community members. Everyone is shouting, cheering and waving their protest signs written in Spanish and English.
Then, same as before, a group of protesters break away from the crowd and sit down in the street. I follow. This time, when the police order us to stand up, I refuse.
An officer lifts me up and leads me to a police van. He handcuffs me and then helps me into the van where I join several other arrestees from the protest. The police are nice to us, and we are buoyed by the loud cheering from the crowd.
The vans pulls away, and takes us to the Cicero police station. Unlike at the first protest, the officers take a very long time to process us. They take our fingerprints and run checks for outstanding warrants.
They release us one by one over the course of several hours. It’s late afternoon by the time they finally release me. There’s a crowd of people stationed outside with tacos and pizza, ready to greet us when we leave.
We sit and eat while waiting for the rest of the protesters to be released. The young protesters again show me photos and videos from the marches, strikes and sit-ins in New York City, Los Angeles and Detroit. I smile to myself. We did good. Really good.
When I get home, my daughter tells me she saw me on TV, and that she thinks I’m well-spoken. She says she’s proud of me. Hearing this makes it all worth it. I don’t regret losing a day’s wages, or the arrest or the “no call, no show” work citation I receive from my manager when I return to work on Friday.
So I will continue the fight for her and for us, the fast food workers of America.
As told to Lauren Gambino.
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