I am the one that works the minimum wage jobs. I am the working poor, the lower middle class, the one that lives from paycheck to paycheck. I am the one that serves you coffee. I am the one that makes your burgers, the one that sweeps up after you, the one that picks up the trash that you threw out your car window. I am the one that you pretend that you don’t see when I ask to check your receipt. I am the one that has no choice, the one with no transferrable skills, the one with no chance to make his way up the corporate ladder. I am the one whose legally mandated education left with only the skills to follow directions in a tightly regimented factory setting where the working day is scheduled around the ringing of a bell. I am the one whose mind is numb with the repetitive tasks that wear away the cartilage in my joints, the one who can’t afford the prescription necessary to temporarily relieve the chronic pain. I am the one who slips through the cracks of The Affordable Care Act because I can’t afford care on my salary. I am the one that never gets asked to see my high school diploma when I start a new job because my employer does not want to feel guilty for paying me the same wage that he gives to the undocumented workers who make up the public face of the modern day’s indentured servants.