I felt ashamed about my own class privilege, everything I took for granted. My closest brush with manual labor was breaking down cardboard boxes in the basement of an independent bookstore. I retrieved additional seltzer waters for us, tangerine flavor. We made uneasy jokes about what a tech workers’ union would strike for: ergonomic keyboards, a more inclusive office dog policy. I couldn’t elevate the mood. Neither of us could let it go. “People need unions to feel safe,” the engineer said. “What would a union protect any of us from? Uncomfortable conversations?”
