Meet Me at the Picket Line: Unabridged Acknowledgements

Note: Due to word count and page count concerns, the version of the acknowledgements that appears in the finished copies of MMPL is abridged. I’m sharing an earlier, longer draft of the acknowledgements here.

In the four years it took me to write this book, I spent more time daydreaming about writing the acknowledgments than I did writing the book itself. Because writing the acknowledgments would mean that I had written the book, past tense—or past perfect, if we’re being pedantic. I couldn’t imagine a future in which I ever finished a first draft. The most I could do was daydream about a future where I wrote, No one wants to talk about the sophomore slump, and then talked about it for two pages.

Except, now, I don’t want to talk about the sophomore slump, either. I don’t want to talk about pandemic books or writer’s block. I don’t want to say, I didn’t set out to write a book about isolation, but what did I expect? Writing about solidarity wouldn’t mean so much to me if I didn’t know what it was like to go without it.

There were times when writing this book that I felt very much alone. I am profoundly grateful to the people who ensured that I wasn’t and supported this book through every step of its prolonged, arduous journey.

In other words, thank you to everyone who didn’t give up on this book or me.

To Claire Friedman, my agent, for being my first, best champion in this industry. You’ve seen me at my best and worst and most neurotic, and still fought for my weirdest ideas. Thank you for reading my earliest book-two pitches and recognizing that “union book” and “rom commie” were the same book before I did.

To Carolina Mancheno Ortiz, my editor, for devoting such patience and care to this book. Thank you for not laughing the six-hundred-page first draft out of your inbox and then helping me wrangle this unwieldy beast of a story into an actual coherent thought. For the hours-long video calls and marathon word-slashing exchanges. For the record: you were right about Fresno.

To Mabel Hsu, this book’s and my first editor, for believing in me far more than I deserved and giving “rom commie” the benefit of the doubt even when it sounded like a pitch for a Unionizing for Dummies handbook.

To everyone at HarperCollins who has worked on this book and contributed behind the scenes, including Danielle McClelland, Caitlin J. Lonning, Anna Ravenelle, and Jesse Feitel. David L. DeWitt, for making this book beautiful inside and out, and Rommy Torrico, for illustrating the perfect cover and fulfilling Efraín’s destiny as a strapping labor poster model.

Now for the big one: to everyone I’ve ever worked a shitty job with, summer or otherwise. I can’t name names here because there’d be too many, and I don’t want to summon the ghosts of employers past. But if we’ve worked together, whether five years ago or fifteen: This book is for all of you. For every time you went out of your way to do something for a fellow worker because it was right or kind rather than because it was in your job description. Thank you for proving that kindness doesn’t have to be rare.

To my fellow Wobblies in the IWW at large, and the Seattle branch in particular, for teaching me so much more about doing good than I’ve learned anywhere else.

To Jorge Alvarado, Sarah Schelde, and Alex Haupt, for being my true-blue ride or dies. Every time I write about friendship, I’m really just writing lessons I’ve learned from all of you.

To Miel Moreland, the friend I never saw coming, for listening to me ramble about this book; for saving cats, kidnapping dogs, and chasing whole warrens of plot bunnies.

To the Writer’s Collective, for a decade of writerly camaraderie and solidarity.

To Ava and Charlie, for creating the boys’ earliest character art.

To Kate Hume, for keeping me (mostly) sane.

To George A. Egan and his Very Good Friend, for the ninety-year-old atlas inscription that sparked the earliest iteration of this “rom commie.”

To my parents, for your unflagging support. Simply put, this book would not exist if not for you.

To Simon, always. Thank you for only sometimes sleeping on my notes and only scratching the wall next to my plot Post-it murder board. Thank you for ensuring that I am, quite literally, never alone.

To everyone who read The (Un)Popular Vote and found something meaningful in it. Thank you for reading. Thank you to the librarians and teachers who recommended or taught UPV in their schools and communities.

Finally, to queer and trans readers—especially trans teens. Thank you for picking up this book. I hope you’ve found something that resonates for you in these pages. If that something is you didn’t set out to read a book about isolation, but boy do you relate . . . I want you to know: you’re not alone.

No matter how your government and other institutions may malign or abandon you, you’re not alone. Trans people have always existed, but more than that: we’ve always found each other and taken care of each other. Queer communities persist in even the most adverse conditions. We find each other, and we take care of each other. And when we do—when we choose solidarity, love, and kindness—we’re never alone.

In solidarity,
Jasper