The UPS jobs controversy hit me square in the chest this morning while I was scraping burnt toast and listening to trucks rumble past my window. Not the fancy kind of rumble—more like a diesel cough that rattles the cheap blinds. I’m in Chicago, it’s November, it’s wet, and somehow this whole UPS union strikes thing feels like it’s parked right outside my door. I mean, I never drove for them, but I did that warehouse stint back in ’19 where I smelled like tape and despair for three months straight. So yeah, when the Teamsters start talking fair wages, my ears perk up and my stomach knots.
How I Tripped Into the UPS Jobs Controversy (Literally)
I remember the day I almost joined a picket line. Almost. I was walking past the depot on my way to grab a burrito—greasy, foil-wrapped salvation—and there they were: twenty, thirty drivers in brown, signs bobbing like angry buoys. One guy had a megaphone that looked older than my car. I stood there, mouth full of rice, thinking, “Should I…?” Then my phone buzzed—fantasy football trade—and I shuffled off like a coward. Classic me. But that image stuck: the way the wind whipped those signs, the smell of wet cardboard, the guy yelling “NO JUSTICE, NO PACKAGES” like it was poetry. That’s the UPS jobs controversy in real life—not a headline, but a dude with cracked hands and a mortgage.
The political maneuvering? Don’t get me started. Or do—too late. I was doom-scrolling last week, half-drunk on gas station coffee, and saw some senator tweeting about “supporting American workers” while his top donor is, yep, a logistics PAC. I laughed so hard I snorted. Then I got mad. Then I wrote a draft email to my rep that started with “yo” and ended with a typo-riddled rant. Deleted it. Sent nothing. Progress?
The Strikes That Almost Broke My Amazon Habit
Back in ’23 when the strike was this close to happening, I panicked. Not for the workers—okay, yes for them—but also for my dumb little Prime addiction. I had a package coming. A lamp. Who needs a lamp that bad? Me, apparently. I refreshed the tracking page like a psycho. Then I read about part-timers making $15 an hour to lift 70-pound boxes in 110-degree trailers and felt like the world’s biggest ass. The UPS union strikes weren’t just noise—they were people. People who probably hate lamps as much as I do now.
Here’s the thing nobody says out loud: I want them to win, but I also want my crap delivered tomorrow. I’m a walking contradiction in sweaty socks. Sue me.
The Fair Wages Fight and My Own Paycheck PTSD
The fair wages battle in the UPS jobs controversy? That’s the raw nerve. I pulled a double shift once—16 hours—and got paid for 14 because “lunch was unpaid.” I ate a granola bar in the bathroom. That’s not a story I tell at parties. But when I see UPS drivers demanding $25, $30 an hour to start, I think: damn, they’re not wrong. My old boss would’ve laughed. He drove a BMW. I drove a ’98 Civic with a duct-taped mirror.
Last month I drove past another rally. Rain was coming down sideways, smearing the windshield into abstract art. One driver stood under a sagging umbrella, sign drooping but still readable: “I JUST WANT TO BUY GROCERIES.” I slowed down. Honked once. He looked up—tired, soaked, but he nodded. I nodded back. Then I cried in a Wendy’s parking lot. Not full sob—just that leaky-eye thing you blame on allergies.
What I Learned (And Still Screw Up)
- Track your hours. I use a stupid notebook now. Looks like a serial killer’s diary, but it works.
- Talk to people. I finally asked the UPS guy who delivers my neighbor’s cat food how he’s holding up. He said, “Tired, man. Just tired.” That’s it. No speech. Just truth.
- Vote. Or at least don’t vote for the guy who says “thoughts and prayers” to strikers.
Check this Reuters piece if you want the clean version. I’m giving you the stained, crumpled one.
Look, the UPS jobs controversy isn’t going away. It’s in the air with the diesel fumes and the wet leaves stuck to my boots. I’m not fixed. I still refresh tracking pages. I still chicken out sometimes. But I’m paying attention now. And if you’re reading this while waiting for a package that’s “out for delivery” for the third day, maybe you are too.
So yeah—comment your story. Yell at me. Tell me I’m wrong. Just don’t ghost. Hit reply, hit share, hit the damn subscribe if you want more of this unpolished mess. We’re all just trying to get paid enough to eat something that isn’t instant noodles.
Peace. Or whatever.
