And That Means Everyone
Name’s Philip Randolph Wright.
Mister Wright if we are doing buisiness.
This country owes the working class. That’s not politics. That’s a ledger.
Every road, rail, factory, port, school, power plant, and hospital didn’t appear by accident.
They were built by people who showed up day after day, took risks with their bodies and their time, and trusted that the country they were building would remember them when the work was done.
Too often, it didn’t.
And when I say working class, I mean everyone who carried part of that load — including the folks who can’t work anymore, and the folks who never could, because the sacrifices were already made on their behalf.
You don’t get industrial wealth without wear and tear. You don’t get prosperity without injury, exhaustion, and loss. Some people paid with their backs. Some with their lungs. Some with their nerves. Some with years they never got back. And some paid before they were even born, into families already carrying the cost.
A decent society doesn’t discard people once they’ve paid in full.
There’s a lie that gets told — that only current output counts. That if you’re not producing right now, you’re a burden. That kind of thinking forgets how we got here. It forgets that modern comfort rests on generations of effort stacked one on top of another.
You don’t erase that debt by pretending it’s inconvenient.
A nation that benefits from labor owes care in return. Healthcare that doesn’t bankrupt you. Housing you can count on. Food that’s reliable. Education that opens doors instead of closing them. And dignity — especially for those whose bodies gave out before their spirit did.
My father carried bags so other people could travel light. He never asked for praise. Just fairness. A chance to live without fear once the work slowed down. That’s not special treatment. That’s honoring the contract.
A. Philip Randolph understood this when he fought not just for wages, but for security — the right to grow old without being treated like excess inventory. He knew freedom meant more than a paycheck. It meant knowing you wouldn’t be abandoned once the job took its toll.
This country owes the working class the truth: that their lives mattered then, matter now, and matter after the shift ends.
And that includes the injured. The disabled. The elderly. The caregivers. The ones whose work was never counted because it didn’t come with a punch clock.
Everyone.
That’s not generosity. That’s responsibility.
Pay your debts. Take care of your people. And remember where your wealth came from before you decide who deserves a share of it.
Now you know, Jack.
