For years, I operated under the implicit assumption that my labor was worth whatever my employer said it was worth, and I should count myself fortunate that it was not valued less. Perhaps my humility stemmed from a warped sense of solidarity with what I viewed as “real” labor — the forests and factories that had for so long employed my closest kin, until the former were clearcut and the latter were outsourced. I was raised in a world in which dirty, dangerous, exhausting jobs were plentiful, and good ones — like my parents had for most of my young life — were rare stones, to be jealously hoarded. So if my workplace had air conditioning, what right did I have to complain about my inability to pay my electric bill at home?
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