It had rained earlier that day, and the storm clouds still dotted the sky, heavy with more rain and unwilling to depart. In the air clung a dank mist that had been kicked up by the cars and footsteps of hurried workers eager to escape the falling drizzle. The day was bleak, but it was a Monday, and a Monday during the 40 Days of Action at that. The rain and the passing storm would not deter the campaign.

Huddled under umbrellas and thin plastic ponchos, the protestors listened as the speakers testified on a host of social issues spanning from education to income to housing. The damp air did not dull their enthusiasm as they cheered and rallied with the speakers.

A single father raising a boy aged no more than nine took the podium. Grabbing the microphone, his eyes peered out from under his damp white fedora. They were powerful and enflamed, speaking to a different kind of life than from his damp, worn, old clothes and the damp choking world. He spoke to share his story, about how he did his best, day in and day out. For near minimum wage, those eight dollars and fifteen cents, he worked to feed him and his son, cloth them, and house them.

His red shirt cut the grey cityscape. Fight for fifteen it read in bold black letters with white outline.

The boy clung to his father, holding on tightly to his right pantleg as he faced the crowd. Smiles welcomed him, and he was not afraid. Smiles from friends he did not know who were far older and far wise than he. The crowd understood the everyday toil that his father faced.

They knew that a minimum wage ought to be a living wage so that a father working ten hours or more each day wouldn’t need to struggle to stay afloat. So that holding a full-time job could mean food on the table for every meal, and clothes that hadn’t passed through a dozen hands before ending up on a son.

“That ain’t right”

It echoed through the crowd and through the square. It was a crime. Something had to be done.

With 2000 feet of yellow crime scene tape, the Campaign would show the world. There they stood, outside the office of the Ohio Attorney General. With 2000 feet of yellow crime scene tape, the Campaign encircled the entryway to the building. Yellow tape tumbled in the wind.

CRIME SCENE: DO NOT CROSS

Justice is what they demanded for the injustices committed against the poor. Fairness, equitability, or equality would all have described it. It was a demand. The chanting began. Hands flung up in the air and the beating of drums reached a crescendo.

UP! UP! WITH LIBERATION!

DOWN! DOWN! WITH EXPLOITATION!

People were in the air and stooping to their knees. They were jumping, leaping with their whole bodies beset with determination and spirit. The roar of the chants was impressive. Passing cars honked, their drivers yelling through open windows with smiles on their faces. Justice would be won!

And hardly anyone noticed the rain anymore.

Posted by Kevin Tang