 January 12, 2005
Dear Ms. Ehrenreich,
I am one of the working poor that you wrote about in your book, “Nickel and Dimed”. I had just began a battle with my employer because I got hurt on the job, when a friend loaned me your book. Because of reading Nickel and Dimed, I have been inspired to fight for what is rightfully mine. I injured my hand in August and it is now December. Not only have I now been denied my Worker’s Comp benefits, my employer (Publix Supermarket) has no longer put me on the schedule. They said they don’t have “ light work” for me to do. If I don’t work for 30 days I am no longer employed.
Publix was a part-time job for me. I am a Massage Therapist and cannot do massages until I have surgery that is recommended by the hand surgeon. The insurance adjuster would not approve surgery and convinced the surgeon to give me a cortisone shot instead. Before that could take place, though, I was told that my benefits were denied because the date that I put down for date of injury does not coincide with my description of the injury.. The manager didn’t write an injury report the day I showed him my swollen wrist and he back dated his report to what I thought was the correct day since he supposedly looked the date up. I was totally unaware of what I was facing when this happened and since I couldn’t remember the date, I took him at his word. He now denies that he saw my swollen wrist. One of the other managers has mentioned, twice, a scar on my arm and accused me of having previous surgery. I told him twice that it was a burn scar, but he still reported it to risk management and I had to explain it to them as well.
They denied all benefits just last week and they won’t give me the details so I can defend myself. This happens just 6 days shy of me working there for 6 months. (I’m sure there is a reason for that, but it has yet to reveal itself.)
I have been treated as if I am a criminal. I have been investigated for a pre-existing condition. I have been investigated for my primary massage work. I have been sent to physicians that have treated me like dirt and wrote false statements in their report.
My co-workers have accosted me, telling me that I shouldn’t have reported an injury on the job because it comes out of their bonus. They told me they heard I had a pre-existing condition. They heard I was getting a big insurance check every week. etc. etc. I was flabbergasted because none of it is true.
I now have no income at all and am facing eviction from my place of residence. No one will hire me with an injured hand. Voc Rehab says I am unhirable and BRRS (Worker’s Comp Rehab) says that I haven’t reached maximum medical improvement and won’t take my case.
No attorney so far will be my advocate because there isn’t enough money in it for them in comparison to the work it will take to fight my case. It seems that all of the worker’s comp laws changed in Oct 2003 and the insurance company lobbyist have all the statutes in their favor. I have spoken to the Div of Financial Services Employee Assistance, but they say there is nothing they can do but help me fill out forms to file a petition for benefits.
I have written letters to the Bureau Chief, to State Senators, to a State Representative, to the insurance adjuster and even to my employer, to no avail. I am very ignorant of how all of the political powers-that-be work, although I am learning. I am 53 years old and I should know these things, but I don’t. My life has been very “abnormal” compared to others.
I found a website today on how to start a union and want to learn more about that. Also, coincidentally, the movie “Norma Rae” came on last night and as far as I can see, there has only been a slight change in how an employee was treated then as to the way they are treated now. I think the employers have even more power than they had then because they now have knowledge of all the angles and have all of their bases covered. The dishonesty and greed is overwhelming. I started documenting the events taking place everyday since my injury and in doing so, my life history has presented itself as if in segments of a movie. Events of my past have an effect on my responses today. I write and write and write. I am not a “writer”, per se, but I now have dreams that a true writer will assist me who understands what I am trying to convey and can put it into words others can understand. (or be entertained) Thanks for your courage. I found out even more about the extent of your courage when I read your Z-net homepage. You are truly an inspiration and example for all women. I admire your strength.
Sincerely,
Wanda Reagan
April 14, 2005 A True Tale of Survival on nickels and dimes: In 1971, pregnant with 3 other little children, I was abandoned by my husband. I was teaching school, putting him through medical school (singing opera on the side while my career waited for his) --when we discovered I was pregnant. After I refused to abort our child, he left. I finished teaching that semester, took my precious children and meager belongings back to Texas (with $15,000 of debt in my name-- incurred putting him through school--) and started a new life. I couldn't get another teaching job, so I borrowed on student loans (to finish my masters) the lofty sum of $1500, took my piddling teacher retirement out of Missouri ($600) and sold the expensive microscope I had bought my husband (another $600). That gave me $2700 to last me the next six months while I rode a bus (pregnant, very pregnant) 75 miles each day to and from classes. In my local congregation, the ladies gave me a baby shower that topped anything I had ever imagined. My tiny living room was filled with diapers, formula, clothes, bedding--a complete layette. For three months my baby girl wore a new outfit every day. The elders arranged for my handicapped child to have necessary dental surgery at their expense. They wanted to get me a phone, but I refused and managed the deposit myself. My sister lived nearby and let me do my laundry at her house. My mother and my sister baby sat for me while I was in classes. To supplement my income, I taught piano--walking several miles to and from the houses each week-end in order to save gas. When Robin was five weeks old, I returned to work--teaching at an inner city school in Dallas. Given an opportunity to work on my Ph.D, I took the small stipend, borrowed some more and went back to the University, again living in small subsidized apartments and counting the pennies. However, since my ex-husband never paid child support (having been kicked out of medical school for drinking and screaming at hospitalized patients, he fled to Mexico), I had to stop the doctoral studies and take a "real" job writting grants for Dallas County. This was the era of the good ole boys--the Dixiecrats (all Democrats with entrenched racism and anti-feminism running like acid in their veins) in charge of county and city politics. When I discovered co-mingling of funds and took the information to the top man (the County Judge who presided over the commissioner's court), I thought that things would be corrected. Instead, the next morning I returned to work to find myself with a new private office, a supersized desk and swivel leather chair--and a salary increase. I quit immediately and began my job search. I had angered the University officials by giving up my doctoral stipend, so I couldn't cross over that burned bridge. The classified ads promised a career with Metropolitan Life, offering an unheard of salary for 1974: $1250 a month! I got the job because they needed a female, even though my college courses (Chemistry, music, English, neurolinquistics--you name it, I majored in it) had nothing to do with business. However, they taught and trained me--and tried to teach me how to sell, because the "salary" was a 3 month deal, during which time I was supposed to sell life insurance and pile up a reserve to live on when I went off the subsidy. Though I strugged for 3 years with MET, I could never write enough life insurance to cover my bills. Imitating my sister and her husband, my children and I began to throw newspapers. My children and I threw the now extinct Dallas Times Herald on a 55 mile route (race) each morning--beginning at 2:30 am. Then we threw a 12 mile route for the Dallas Morning News--ending in time to get the children to school. In the afternoon, my son and I threw a small 6 mile route for the afternoon edition of the Herald. When the children were in school, I tried to sell insurance, generally unsuccessfully. ( I just couldn't take money from people for something they couldn't afford and could get more cheaply at work. My clientele were not the wealthy people who really did need insurance for estate taxes etc.) Consequently, I formed two little companies, one to sing telegrams and the other to clean houses. (I laughed at your descriptions of how the homeowners left traps to see if you were working and/or stealing.) BUT Metropolitan Life had enabled me not only to get my business knowledge and insurance license, it saw that I was "securities licensed", meaning I was a non-active "stock broker". I became a CFP, got several more securities licenses as the world changed--and eventually built a business that was viable. Finally after 15 years of 18-hour days--helped always by my children, friends, family, and church--I was able to quit the part time jobs and concentrate on my securities business. I never got child support--well, one $100 payment when I threw him in jail when he came to visit his mother--but that turned out to be a blessing from what I saw with other women. I had worked in government and knew that the sympathy was for the dead-beat dads in this chauvinistic environment. He would be given leniency over and over or just run away--and I would pay lawyers, so I said: "To hell with that." We just forgot about him. Occasionally he would show up, needing something--and my children and I would help him. Then he would go away. My story, though hard, has a much happier ending because I started from a higher platform. I was educated, had confidence, had a great family, and was an active member in the Church of Christ that has as a basic proof of Christian discipleship: "Take care of the fatherless and the widows in their affliction and keep yourself unspotted from the world." While reading your book, I kept wanting to call you (in the places where you were then) and tell you to go to the local congregations of churches of Christ and explain your plight. These people will be working people--like Melissa--but with hearts that are open and sweet. They let people live with them (as I have done in the years since my abandonment) for nothing. They will bring food, pay bills, see that medical and dental bills are covered. Of course, the elders will ask questions to be sure that you are not a con-artist (as many people are when asking for help), but they would see the real needs you are describing. Not much is known about us, for we are not vocal. We don't ask for money from non-members. We are not political activists, believing that politics is divisive. We are not into magic or claims of visions, voices and so on. We are, however, practitioners of New Testament Christianity in every way we believe it was lived by Christ and the Apostles. I have shared the contents of your book in my Wednesday night Bible study class. People have asked to read it. I am recommending that it be bought and disseminated among the brotherhood so that we will know where to look for people to help--until they really can help themselves. My observation is that about 25% of people--adults--will never be able to live without a support system underneath them. That means families need to support each other. People need to open their hearts, homes, and pocketbooks. Government is not the answer. Tax papers just get angry and blame others. However, Americans are incredibly helpful. Explain the real needs--outside of a political context--and they will be there to solve the problem and shoulder the load. We are like oxen--wearing yokes--sharing the burdens. Also, you write very well. Your Wal-Mart side thoughts were often hilarious. Thank you for a necessary experiment and the book it generated, Nora Vincent
April 18 , 2005
Dear Barbara:
I just finished your book, Nickled and Dimed on (Not) Getting By in America and I have to say I enjoyed it very much. However, when I stand back and review it again, I have to say that there is one thing missing from your book that would have made a really good book simply real. The thing that is missing is /desperation/. I did not sense a feeling of desperation in you as you navigated across the country, knowing that you would in time return to your "real life" and also knowing that this too would pass. The poor have no such luxury.
I can tell you that at one time, I was a divorced mother of two small boys and I worked in a shoe factory in one of the smallest towns (in more ways that one) in America. I was paid by piece work, not a regular hourly wage, and my living depended entirely on how many socklines I put out in an hour, consistently day after day. If I had a down day, my hourly wage for the week was affected. I pushed and pushed and grabbed work and determined not to take any time off for anything - sickness, fatigue, doctor's appointments, school functions, I mean, nothing. I was married to my wages. I lived in low-income housing. My rent was determined by my hourly wage, which they took the highest hourly wage and computed my rent from that. I applied for and got food stamps for awhile and boy, was that a help! $500 at the first of every month for the three of us! Woo hoo! Trouble was, I couldn't bring myself to use the food stamps in my own town because, as small towns go, once a secret is out, it's no longer a secret and you have to pay. I couldn't afford to lose my self-respect in that town, which would have been ripped from me if the checkers at the local supermarket had seen me with foodstamps.
Therefore, I drove 45 miles away to another town where, my excuse was, there was a discount food store. Sadly, the welfare office kept reducing my food stamp benefits (I made too much money at the factory - not enough money to move out of low income housing, mind you) until it was reduced to $98 per month. Since that was of no help at all, I didn't renew my request for foodstamps the next time the renewal came around. One day I found myself with $4 in my purse. My rent was paid and I suppose my utilities also and I was left with $4 with which to buy groceries. What did I do? I went to the store and found a special on hot dogs (2 packages for $1) and we ate hot dogs like there was no tomorrow until the next paycheck. My sons never owned a pair of Nike tennis shoes. We wore Wal-Mart stuff and they didn't always get a pair when they needed them. I used to lay awake at night and wonder what will happen to us next month? Will we be able to pay the rent? What will it cost to have my car fixed? What if the shoe factory closes? There had been rumors for years. How would I and my boys survive? There was no employment in that town, what would I do? There were no men in sight to take me out of my misery, like a Prince Charming on a white stallion. I was in it alone. I went to church all the time. The church was so sorry it couldn't help me more but well, you know, we ALL have problems. I didn't really expect it but it would have been nice.
Oh, the stories I could tell you. I almost wish you had interviewed someone, maybe me, from my area, which at that time, was small and rural. My sons are now grown. I went back to school when the factory closed and I now work as a paralegal in a prominent family law office. I've bought my own home. I make regular car payments. I can save, I invest every month and I've even found a way to take a vacation every now and then. Now, I am not rolling in money. I guess I've just gotten a little wiser with age. But I remember. I remember exactly where I came from. The poor are always with us, Barbara. They will never go away. I am still poor, technically. But I'm glad to have escaped from there. I hate poverty, I think, more than anything. It's disabling. It's degrading. And it's not right in America. It's simply not right.
Well, I didn't mean to go on as long as I did but the thing, poverty, left a mark on me that's hard to ignore. Your book was really good and I'm glad you put it out there to raise the social conscienceness. I appreciate your doing it.
Sincerely,
Yvonne
Springfield, MO
June 10 , 2005
Nickel and dimed is an interesting book, but with all due respect, I believe you are suffering from cultural ignorance.
I have lived in Jackson, Wyoming 7 months of each of the last 4 years, during which I drive trucks for the only complete construction company in the county. They lay me off every November, and I go visiting and wind up in Arizona. I have lived pretty much full time in a van for over 10 years. When it gets cold enough to freeze water, I move into a hotel until layoff comes. My father was a farmboy who joined the cavalry and got sucked into the Air Force in WW2, subsequently having a career in retail administration. My mother was a hospital-trained RN who became a housewife when my sister arrived and never went back full-time.
My sister, who is 8 years older than me, went to college and got an MBA. She is a middle manager in a Kansas state government department. She says that if she had had kids she would have suggested they get a vocational rather than college education.
I took a year off after high school to decide whether to go onto college and never did. I've worked a variety of blue collar jobs in several fields. I consider myself lucky to be a competant performer in a field with a severe shortage of personnel.
I have found that it is much easier to lower one's cost of living than to increases one's income. Since real incomes have been dropping since WW2, due to carefully managed inflation, this approach has served me well. You didn't stay in one job in one place long enough to really develop an understanding for the situation your subjects were in. You never allowed yourself to become a part of their reality.
I believe that the problem is not so much that the people on the bottom are underpayed, as it is that the elite really don't understand them as people but as fungible assets, and won't pay anymore than they need to to maintain a steady supply.
The working poor do themselves a disservice by trying to emulate those with lifestyles beyond their reach. There are distinct advantages to living a life of what I call planned penury. If you are interested, I'd be happy to clarify, socratically.
Bill Fargo
June 15, 2005
Dear Dr. Ehrenreich:
I was genuinely surprised by how much I enjoyed your book, Nickel and Dimed. As yet another school assignment, I thought it would be boring, monotonous, and lacking any real personal meaning. What I found was a book that not only voiced my own opinions, but articulated those of the working poor in general. The subject that most specifically spoke to me, was that of your experience in the retail industry in the form of Wal-Mart.
As a high-school aged student, my options in employment are limited to those of entry-level work. The first and only place I ever applied for a job, Fred Meyer, I was immediately hired. I had no particular interest in working there, I simply happened to be turning 16 very soon, and on an average grocery trip to Fred Meyer, I decided to grab an application. Surprisingly, at least to me, I was hired right away.
There were a few things that seemed to be not quite 'right' about my employment. First of all, my job as a grocery clerk was listed as an occupation that required 18 years of life on this Earth to qualify. Next up, during my orientation, I was given a list with a number of items on it. This was the list of things I was not allowed to do, or machinery I was not allowed to use because I was under the age of 18. Ironically, I use almost every single thing on that list on a daily basis at my job. Using a box-cutter, operating garbage compactors, going into refrigeration coolers, and using pallet-jacks were among the things outlawed by my under-aged-ness. As essential job functions, there is literally no way for me to competently do my job without doing these things. Also, I was pressured to work late nights, sometimes until midnight on school nights, though the "legal" limit is 10:00pm. Also, as a minor my "legal" limit for working hours is 20 per week. I have worked up to 42 hours in a single week, during school and everything. This was also from added pressure. I have been at Fred Meyer during every hour of the day, though I usually do not get there until 3pm.
It seems to me that employers, at least in my experience, will break whatever rules they can with you. You mention this in your experiences with Wal-Mart, saying that you should be good at what you do, but never too good. This seems to be my downfall, as the best worker out of all the other clerks, I get "used and abused" more than anyone else, just as you mentioned. Partly, I think the problem is underemployment within the stores. If we had enough people on staff, then getting all the work done would be simple, and overtime and rule-bending wouldn't be necessary.
I also believe that social hierarchy comes into play with this as well. Yes, you can always say no when pressured to work extra, come in early, or break rules, but you risk your reputation when you do it. People will call you lazy, weak, or just a plain old asshole for breaking these "norms". Out of fear of being accepted and of having work not be a living hell, many people really are forced into doing these things. I think that these "norms" need to be shifted into what the rules really are. Employers need to stop being so thrifty when "shopping" for employees, and actually employ enough people so that this will not be a problem.
Again, thank you for your book, and its very real approach to the retail industry. I enjoyed your humorous and intelligent comments. I hope to see these issues changed, though I do not expect it within the remaining time I will be working in this industry. I do hope, however, that it can change for the benefit of those who choose it as a career.
Sincerely,
Mark Fitzgerald
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