On Labor Day

My mother, the daughter of a farmer (later to become auto worker) and a housewife, both Lithuanian immigrants, was born on Labor Day, 1929.  As she tells it, her parents were to attend a Labor Day picnic that day, but had to cancel due to "unexpected company."   My family growing up was always working class.  Dad worked as a Union stagehand/lighting technician, and Mom worked as a librarian, and later, as a police dispatcher.  My Dad died when I was 8, and his Social Security Survivor's Benefits meant the difference between hunger and starvation, between housing and homelessness.  Paul Ryan and Eric Cantor and anyone else who means to disparage the worth of either Unions or essential social programs are cordially invited to kiss my big, white, working class ass.