The bill passed by the D.C. Council goes into effect in 2020, granting eligible workers eight weeks of paid leave per year for a new child, six weeks toward care for an ill relative, and two weeks to attend to a temporary disability. It is the product of a two-year battle between advocates, who originally proposed 16 weeks of paid leave funded through a payroll tax, and a business lobby that fought for half as much leave with unclear funding mechanisms.

But since the UPLA became law in April—without the signature of Mayor Muriel Bowser, who cited concerns about the tax it imposes and the fact that it creates a new bureaucracy—four Council members have come forward with proposals to overhaul how the program is administered. Although the bills that have gained the most traction don’t reduce the length of paid leave or the wage replacement rate, they introduce new systems that threaten to compromise workers’ ability to actually access their benefits.

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Under the current law, benefits will be funded by a 0.62 percent payroll tax paid by employers. The D.C. government will administer the program in its entirety, meaning that workers will submit paid leave requests to and receive benefits from a government agency instead of negotiating them with their employers. This model is a boon to workers, many of whom have seen requests for paid leave denied by managers.

But, at the behest of business and trade associations, multiple D.C. Council members have introduced alternatives to the UPLA that replace the centralized system in current law with one that gives control to individual employers––in many cases, the same employers who opposed the paid leave bill in the first place. Under the bulk of these proposals—there are five in total—employers pay significantly less in payroll taxes (in some cases a rate of just .1 percent), and instead either pay for paid leave benefits out of pocket or purchase private insurance.

This system—termed the employer mandate—replaces the predictable payroll tax with an unknown, and likely very volatile, cost to employers, who will have to pay for paid leave out of pocket, and can’t predict when employees will need to access their benefits. Because businesses’ profit margins are on the line, it creates a powerful incentive for employers to discriminate against the workers who are most likely to need to take time off from work. Currently, it isn’t uncommon for employers to pay these workers less, fire them, or just not hire them in the first place, rather than provide them paid leave. For low-wage earners, who are more often subject to intimidation by employers, the stakes are especially high.

In the United States, paid family leave is uniquely difficult to come by—unlike in literally every other industrialized country, where it’s guaranteed to workers. Only a handful of states (and now D.C.) have such laws on the books, and the majority of the nation’s employees are faced with untenable decisions between a paycheck and critical time off to care for themselves, a relative, or a newborn. On the flipside, when people have access to paid leave, their labor force participation rates improve, alongside their economic security and their health outcomes.

D.C. workers had been promised one of the nation’s strongest paid leave programs, and a full 82 percent of D.C. residents––who also, after all, live in one of the nation’s most progressive hubs––support it. But under these new proposals, some of the workers who need those benefits the most may never receive them.

Pence’s vote came as no surprise. A week into his tenure as vice president, he addressed thousands of abortion opponents at the 44^th annual March for Life. Days earlier, his administration instituted a particularly draconian version of the Global Gag Rule, which bans NGOs that receive U.S. aid from counseling anyone on abortion, and a week later it announced a nominee to the Supreme Court chosen in no small part because he poses an existential threat to Roe v. Wade.

All in the name of traditional family values.

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Pence has built an entire career on his family values narrative. In 2006, as a Congressman, he supported a constitutional amendment to define marriage as strictly between a man and a woman—same-sex couples, he said, threaten to usher in “societal collapse.” In 2015, as governor of Indiana, he made national news for signing a bill that legalized discrimination against LGBT couples. A year later, he signed a law restricting access to abortion and—as part of his continued quest to make health care as awful as possible for women—requiring that fetal remains from abortions or miscarriages at any stage of pregnancy be buried or cremated.

Plus, there’s that bit of weirdness where he calls his wife “mother,” and won’t dine alone with women or attend events with alcohol unless she’s present.

The irony of these positions, which he insists are in defense of families, is that he is actively undermining them.

For starters, access to reproductive health care, which gives families control over if and when they have children, increases economic security. That makes families less likely to undergo conflict. On the flip side, laws that restrict access to abortion actively endanger families’ financial security. Generally, the birth of a child is a big expense—and if its’s unplanned or mistimed, it’s more likely to cause an economic shock or plunge a family into poverty. Financial stress, in turn, can lead to divorce or relationship dissolution as well as domestic violence.

And all those anti-LGBT policies? LGBT people have families, too—and when Pence denies them the right to get married or use the bathroom, he denies them the humanity that he grants families that look more like his own: “Christian, conservative, and Republican—in that order.” And when he opposes legislation that prohibits discrimination against LGBT workers, like he did in 2007 and again in 2015, he also jeopardizes their families’ economic security.

Even Pence’s intense devotion to his wife, which the internet mostly wrote off as eccentric codependency, works to undermine families. When he refuses to eat dinner or attend events with female staffers––allegedly to resist temptation from other women and to uphold the sanctity of his marriage––he denies them a professional opportunity that he makes available to men. One-on-one time with managers can lead to professional capital that makes salaries or promotions possible. Pence’s inability to treat women as professional counterparts, rather than objects of sexual temptation, excludes them from those opportunities for job growth. That brings us back to women’s financial security, and—once again—to their families.

Pence’s intense devotion to “traditional family values,” isn’t wholesome, or pious, or even just weird. It’s radical and dangerous. And less than 100 days into his vice presidency, we haven’t even scratched the surface.

The study revealed that, among black women, there are 10.1 cervical cancer deaths per every 100,000 individuals—versus just 4.7 per 100,000 white women. Previously, these figures were believed to be 5.7 and 3.2, respectively.

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It’s hardly a secret that socioeconomic status and racial discrimination greatly impact patients’ health outcomes in the United States. Low-income patients with diabetes are 10 times more likely to undergo limb amputation than affluent ones, black women are 41% more likely than white women to die from breast cancer, and even though African Americans are more likely to have elevated blood pressure than white Americans, they are 10% less likely to be screened for high cholesterol. The list goes on.

But what makes the recalculated cervical cancer death rates stand out is that the disease is preventable as long as it is detected early and treated appropriately. The low fatality rates among white women by and large reflect that fact. Black women, however, die from cervical cancer at rates comparable to those in sub-Saharan Africa.

One of the factors behind the disparity is that black patients face inferior access to quality detection services and follow-up care (the root cause of which is, of course, racial discrimination). Another recent study of patients with advanced-stage cervical cancer found that a majority received substandard care, and that those patients were more likely to be black and low-income.

As Dr. Otis W. Brawley, the Chief Medical Officer for the American Cancer Society, said in response to the Johns Hopkins study, “When we look at the difference between black and white, and rich and poor, we find the same disparity. The quality of assessment and follow-up treatment can be the difference. The question becomes: How do we get adequate preventive care to all people?”

But unlike the medical community, whose goal is to expand care, Congressional Republicans’ relentless attacks on the Affordable Care Act and Planned Parenthood will dramatically reduce it—and worsen the racial disparities that have killed so many black women.

The Affordable Care Act mandated coverage of cervical cancer detection services—along with all preventive care—at no cost to the patient. But the Republican-controlled Congress and White House have already taken steps to dismantle the ACA, and the fate of preventive care is uncertain as a result. (Conversations between House and Senate Republicans reveal that there is no consensus around how best to replace the healthcare law.) If racial disparities in cervical cancer death rates boil down to unequal access to quality detection services and subsequent treatment, then patients who struggle to afford care are bound to be worse off under repeal.

The proposal to roll back the Medicaid expansion, backed by many Congressional Republicans, threatens to strip coverage—and thereby the ability to obtain detection services and treatment—from the patients who arguably need it the most. Some 11 million low-income individuals will lose access to Medicaid under this proposal, and black women are more likely to be affected. Moreover, the proposal to turn Medicaid into a block grant will cut between 14 million and 20 million patients from the health insurance program.

Furthermore, Congressional Republicans continue to target Planned Parenthood, a core provider of reproductive and sexual health services—cervical cancer detection included. If they defund Planned Parenthood, the health care provider will be stripped of more than one-third of its budget. Low-income women and women of color, who are disproportionately represented among its patients, will likely suffer worse medical outcomes as a result. And if Congressional Republicans follow through with plans to slash Title X—the nation’s only federal source of funds for reproductive health clinics—patients will find cervical cancer detection services (and other vital healthcare) even further out of reach.

Racial disparities in medical outcomes are completely avoidable—particularly when the disease in question is as preventable as cervical cancer. While the medical community rallies to address these differences in mortality rates, efforts to rectify them will only be stymied by Congressional Republicans. But the cost, in this case, is people’s lives.

The majority of voters are still unlikely to face issues on Election Day, but the new burdens fall disproportionately on a select cohort of Americans. Here are the groups of people who will face some of the steepest battles to cast their vote.

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People of color

African-Americans had the highest voter turnout rates in 2012, but new obstacles could keep many black voters from the ballot box this year. Laws that require voters to present photo ID at the polls—which have cropped up in eight states since 2013, bringing the total to 34 states—disproportionately impact African-Americans. That’s because people of color are less likely than whites to have the specific forms of required photo ID, and because these laws are more common in  Southern states (where African-Americans are concentrated).

In addition to obstructive voter ID laws, Latinos, Asian-Americans, and Native Americans are often plagued by language barriers. While the Voting Rights Act contains protections for language-minority voters, poll workers are not always aware of them (so they might not honor these voters’ rights, for example, to have someone assist them at the polls).

People of color often have to take more time and travel further distances in order to vote. In 2012, black and Latino voters waited nearly twice as long as white voters to cast their ballots, likely due in part to state decisions to restrict early voting. And this year, Native Americans in northern Nevada will have to travel nearly 100 miles round-trip to cast their ballot in November.

Homeless people

First, the good news: in recent years, court decisions and new laws at both the state and federal level have eliminated formal bans on voters who do not live in a “traditional dwelling.” As a result, homeless people are now formally able to register and vote in every state.

But homeless adults—of whom there are at least 400,000 nationally—still face a variety of informal barriers. Some states require voters to provide a mailing address when they register. Other states require voters to prove how long they have lived in a voting district, a task that is understandably difficult for homeless people. And again, stricter voter restriction laws—like photo ID requirements—fall particularly hard on the homeless community, who are less likely to have a driver’s license or other forms of acceptable identification.

People with criminal records

Americans with criminal records, especially those with felony convictions, face some of the steepest—and most convoluted—barriers to the ballot box. In fact, a new study found that a record 6.1 million people are barred from voting this year because of felony convictions.

Because voting for people with felony convictions has not been federally regulated, those seeking to register face a patchwork of state voting laws that range from no restrictions (in Maine and Vermont) to a lifetime of disenfranchisement (in 10 states). Ten states also restrict voting for people with misdemeanors. These restrictions disproportionately impact people of color. In Florida, felony disenfranchisement bars 23% of African Americans from voting, and four other states also suppress the votes of 1 in 5 black citizens.

Unfortunately, the confusion and misinformation around state laws can even discourage eligible Americans with criminal records from voting. According to the American Civil Liberties Union, “Many people with past criminal records mistakenly believe they are ineligible to vote.” As a result, many end up staying home unnecessarily on Election Day.

Women

Even though women made up a majority of voters in 2012, voter ID laws are creating new obstacles for them, too. Thirty-four states require voters to present some kind of identification. Roughly 90% of women change their last names when they get married (and often change their names back following a divorce), and many may not realize their voter registration does not match the name on their ID until it comes time to vote. What’s more, women are also more likely to belong to other groups who face barriers at the polls—low-wage workers, seniors, students, and the poor.

Low-wage workers

More than 23 million people—disproportionately women and people of color—work in low-wage jobs. These workers are especially likely to have volatile and erratic schedules, which makes it hard for them to plan to get to the polls. Additionally, only 30 states require employers to give workers time off to vote—and even among states that do provide workers leave to vote, that time off is not always paid.

For workers who subsist on very low wages, the decision to take time off to cast a ballot can result in a difficult financial loss. That may explain the 30-point gap in voter participation along income lines: Less than half of people earning under $30,000 a year voted in the 2012 election, while over 80% of people earning over $150,000 voted. As a point of comparison, 99% of the wealthiest 1 percent of Americans voted.

Transgender people

Transgender citizens have become a vocal voting bloc this election cycle, but stringent photo ID laws threaten their ability to cast a ballot. An estimated 27% of trans people lack identification that accurately reflects their gender, in large part because they face uphill legal and financial battles to update their ID documents. For example, in at least 15 states, trans people are required to show proof of a gender reassignment surgery—a task that is simply not possible for those who are unable or choose not to have the surgery.

People with disabilities

People with disabilities face a wide range of voting obstacles, but chief among them are transportation, lack of accommodations at the polls, and poll workers who are ill-equipped to offer help. A full 30% of people with disabilities are unable to drive, which makes it hard to get to the polls in the first place—particularly for those voters who live alone or in rural areas. Even if they manage to make it to their polling location, a lack of ramps or curb cuts and limited support for voters with vision impairments make it difficult for people with disabilities to vote—even though laws like the Help America Vote Act of 2002 and the Americans with Disabilities Act were designed to improve ballot access. These barriers help explain why turnout rates among voters with disabilities—especially those with cognitive disabilities—tend to be lower than voters without disabilities. In fact, it can be difficult for people with disabilities to even register to vote, since most online voter registrations are not accessible for people with vision-related or cognitive disabilities. All told, these barriers to access could account for as many as 3 million votes.

None of these barriers are inevitable. Most are the consequences of policy decisions, some of which were made with the deliberate intent of disenfranchisement. Election Day gives Americans the opportunity to reverse these laws, and to elect policymakers who will work on behalf of those who don’t always have a voice.

For seven straight years the United States’ economy has been in an expansion—one of the longest on record. Even better, data released earlier this month by the Census Bureau showed that middle class and low-income Americans have finally started to benefit.

Still, a huge number of Americans live paycheck to paycheck. Almost half of all Americans—a full 46%—say they would not be able to come up with $400 in the event of an emergency. Unfortunately, many will turn to payday loans to make ends meet.

What are payday loans?

Payday loans are advertised as quick and easy loans that borrowers can repay when their next paycheck comes around. There’s a catch, though. The interest rates are so high—often 400% and above, compared to about 16% on the average credit card—that borrowers simply cannot afford to pay back the loan and cover basic expenses at the same time. Instead, the vast majority of loans—80%—are rolled over or followed by an additional loan within just two weeks. The result is that borrowers wind up in debt—the median borrower for more than six months in a given year.

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Why do borrowers use them?

It’s fairly common knowledge that payday loans are a trap. So why do borrowers—let alone 12 million annually—even bother?

First of all, most payday loan borrowers—who are disproportionately people of color—have low or moderate incomes and struggle to obtain credit from mainstream sources like a credit card company or banks mostly because they have low credit scores. As a result, payday loans often appear to be the most accessible option.

Most of these borrowers take out payday loans cover everyday expenses (it’s a common misperception that payday loans are used as stop-gaps for unexpected financial setbacks). Since the cost of basic necessities, like rent and child care, has surged in recent years—at the same time that wages have stagnated—many low-income Americans have been left without an adequate and reliable cash flow.

How bad are they?

All told, the median borrower will pay $458 in fees on a typical $350 two-week payday loan. Many borrowers, however, will pay an even steeper price. Small payday loans often balloon into thousands of dollars in debt, and the effects of default are severe. If loans aren’t repaid quickly enough, payday lenders have the right to seize borrowers’ bank accounts to make sure that they are prioritized for payment above all other bills—no matter how urgent or essential. Borrowers can also end up saddled with insufficient fund fees from banks when lenders try to draw too much money from borrowers’ accounts. Even worse, an indebted borrower is more likely to have her bank account closed against her will, which pushes many consumers further out of the financial mainstream and forces them to use expensive alternative financial services—like check cashers and pawn shops—that carry higher fees and risk.

These problems affect entire families. Low-income families with access to payday loans are also more likely to struggle with bills like the mortgage, rent, and utilities. This can lead to foreclosure or eviction, which can devastate families in the short- and long-term. Payday loans are also linked with delinquency on child support payments, which deprives families of needed income and carries severe consequences for the parent unable to make payments, from a suspended drivers’ license to incarceration.

On some level, the entire nation is paying for this practice. Each year, payday loans drain more than $4 billion in interest and fees from the economy—and that’s just the direct cost.  It doesn’t include the costs associated with homelessness (like emergency shelter) for families who lose their homes, or increased enrollment in public assistance programs to cope with the debt trap.

How can we protect borrowers?

State-level efforts to cap interest rates and fees to 36% or below—as 14 states and the District of Columbia have done—are key. But attempts to regulate predatory lenders otherwise have, by and large, proven to be exercises in futility. For example, after 64% of Ohio voters elected to ban the practice in 2008, loan sharks obtained licenses as mortgage lenders and continued to peddle payday loans under that guise. Predatory lenders in Texas acted similarly. In states where payday loans have been banned altogether, lenders have lured borrowers through online channels that can operate nationwide.

This “legislative Whack-a-Mole” at the state level has made it clear that the country needs federal reform to effectively protect borrowers.

Fortunately, the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau proposed new rules in June that target some of the most egregious practices in the industry. Under the new rules, loan sharks will have to determine whether prospective borrowers are actually able to repay a loan before they take one out (in most cases). The rules will also prohibit the repeated loans that trap borrowers in debt: Lenders will not be permitted to directly roll over loans or loan to those who seek to re-borrow within 30 days, unless those borrowers can prove that they will be in a better position financially. It will also place important limitations on lenders’ ability to seize borrowers’ bank accounts.

But here’s another idea: Eliminate the need altogether. If borrowers use payday loans to address chronic shortfalls, then economic insecurity has to be addressed as well through wage hikes and improvements to public assistance programs. These can go a long way to protect against cash shortages that lead families to take out loans with such insidious costs.

In theory, apps like Tinder offer us the chance to expand our networks beyond our campuses, workplaces, and wherever else we meet people who are socioeconomically similar. But in practice, not so much. In fact, it becomes quickly obvious that, regardless of the app or website in question, users pair off within social strata—myself included.

On most of these apps, users swipe through a series of profiles that often consist of no more than a few photos and, importantly, a workplace and alma mater. (Notably, Tinder did not always feature the second set of details, unlike its competitors. It introduced this section in November to allow users to make more “informed decisions.”) In the absence of any meaningful information about a potential partner, users have a tendency to substitute employment and education—both signifiers of social status—for, say, mutual interests and compatibility. Racial biases also determine how we select matches. Among straight OkCupid users, the data show that women across the board favor men of the same race or ethnicity, while black women face discrimination on the website—a phenomenon that online daters have masterfully detailed online.

The result is that people couple up along socioeconomic lines. Case in point: of the three people I met up with from Tinder, each was white and had the social and economic capital to build enviable resumes and graduate from some of the most elite institutions in the country.

Of course, none of this is new exactly. Over the past fifty years, the likelihood that two people with a college diploma will marry each other has risen markedly. This may seem perfectly innocuous, but the fact is that this behavior, known as “assortative mating,” has reinforced the growth of income inequality in this country. In a labor market as polarized as the one we face today, wage increases have mostly accrued to college graduates. And given the tendency to marry someone with similar education levels, a pair of well-educated breadwinners can pool those incomes to form a stable financial bedrock for a marriage. Among this demographic, marriage rates have actually risen over the past few decades, while divorce rates have fallen.

The opposite is true for Americans with less education. Wages have stagnated over the past half-century as globalization has driven factory work overseas. Employer hostility coupled with changes in labor law have hacked away at union strongholds. Blue-collar jobs, which once paid wages that allowed a single breadwinner to support a family, have been replaced by low-wage work in the service sector. And so, while a steady income and job stability are hard to come by for many Americans, they remain a prerequisite for marriage, as was the case in the post-war era. The result is that Americans with lower education levels are less likely to get hitched. And if they do get married, financial strain has made them more likely to divorce. As sociologist Andrew Cherlin once said, “I think that a college degree is the closest thing we have to a social class boundary.”

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It is in this era of social stratification that a marriage gap has emerged—a gap that apps are certainly not equipped to remedy. Never mind exclusive apps like the League, which puts a premium on prestigious college degrees and high-income careers. Hinge, for example, is much more democratic—anyone can join. But it sorts users based on social networks, which means that a college graduate whose Facebook friends also have a four-year degree is far more likely to match with someone with similar levels of education.

To add to these disparities, these apps are simply used in greater frequency by the relatively affluent. While 46 percent of college-educated Americans know someone who met a long-term partner or spouse online, only 18 percent of those with high school degrees can say the same. Moreover, a full 58 percent of college graduates know someone who has dated online, versus just 25 percent of high school graduates.

Why is this the case? One intuitive theory is that low-income people simply cannot foot the bill for all of the coffees and cocktails often associated with dates. With unpredictable work schedules, which are all too common among low-wage workers, it may also be logistically difficult to make plans. And young adults with lower incomes also are more likely to live with parents and even grandparents, which makes it even harder to date.

The digital divide may also account for some differences in use. Even as smartphone ownership increases among Americans, only half of all adults with annual incomes below $30,000 possess smartphones, versus 84 percent of those who earn more than $75,000. In the more extreme cases, when people struggle to make ends meet at the end of the month, the cell phone bill is often the first to go. A full 23 percent of smartphone owners have had to shut off service due to financial constraints.

Today, 5 percent of Americans who are in committed relationships or marriages met online. I suspect this number will only climb as these apps grow in popularity. But as income inequality widens—fueled in part by our tendency to gravitate towards those who are similar to us—apps can do very little to stymie this very behavior. They very well may accelerate it.

Minnesota, ranked as the largest slaughterer of turkeys in the nation, has long been an epicenter of the American meatpacking industry. The state is home to 33 major meatpacking plants, and, with just over 12,000 workers in the sector, boasts the highest concentration of jobs in the industry nationwide. But over the past few decades, as plants began to crop up in rural areas and small cities far removed from the influence of urban unions, these jobs have grown less secure. Today, a mere nine plants in the state are organized.

It is clear that the rest stand to benefit from collective bargaining. The industry ranks as one of the most dangerous in the country, recording almost 39,800 nonfatal injuries nationwide—or 7.5 cases per every 100 full-time workers in 2008. Workers can also be exposed to toxic levels of pathogens and chemicals, like ammonia.

Minnesota factories are no exception to these safety hazards. At a plant operated by turkey giant Jennie-O in Melrose—a small city 100 miles northwest of Minneapolis—injuries are not uncommon. In 2006, for example, an employee was crushed to death while cleaning out a machine. Other workers report being harmed by excessive speeds on production lines, says Ahmed Ali, who advocates for employees at the Melrose plant as a Lead Staff Organizer at the Greater Minnesota Worker Center. According to Ali, lines often run at speeds that are double the industry averages, which can lead to repetitive motion injuries like carpal tunnel syndrome. Through a spokesperson, Hormel—Jennie-O’s parent company—says that line speeds at the Melrose plant comply with government standards.

But Omer Hassan, a former worker at the Melrose plant, claims that excessive line speeds led him to develop a musculoskeletal injury that rendered his right hand inoperative. According to Hassan, he still suffers “severe pain” on his right side. Following the injury, he took time off to see a doctor and says he was denied pay for missing work. He was subsequently fired in August 2015, which has jeopardized his ability to provide for himself and his mother. As he told TalkPoverty, “It has been difficult for me and for my mom. I have always had a job and brought home a paycheck. That’s all gone for now.” Hormel did not comment on this specific case, but said that in the event of an injury, employees are given “suitable alternative duties” while they recuperate.

These poor labor conditions extend beyond Melrose. Barbara, whose name has been changed to protect anonymity, is an employee of the Gold’N Plump chicken plant in St. Cloud. She says the production line there is like a “flowing, raging river.” Workers who cannot keep up are asked to sign a warning letter or are even terminated on the spot. According to Barbara, those who request to use the restroom more than three times a month are also asked to sign a warning letter—a practice that would run contrary to state law, which requires an option for a bathroom break every four consecutive hours of work. Through a spokesperson, Gold’N Plump said that the company provides regularly scheduled breaks for workers and recognizes that “each person is unique, which may mean accommodating additional restroom breaks” for some. However, the company did not deny that it issues warning letters for additional bathroom use.

On top of these alleged abuses in the industry, wages are low. According to the Minnesota Department of Employment and Economic Development, in Kandiyohi, Meeker, Renville, and McLeod counties, annual median wages for slaughterers and meatpackers amount to $27,909, which is just above the federal poverty line for a family of four. By contrast, Hormel CEO Jeffrey Ettinger reportedly took home more than $13 million in total compensation in 2014.

Given these conditions, the need for stronger protections for workers is clear. In Watonwan County, workers at the Butterfield Foods chicken slaughter plant are represented by United Food and Commercial Workers (UFCW) Local 1161. According to Darin Rehnelt, a representative for the union, UCFW Local 1161 has successfully negotiated grievance procedures to protect workers against unlawful termination, as well as nine paid holidays a year, time-and-a-half after eight hours, and double-time on Sundays. Rehnelt says that collective bargaining has also allowed workers to set up internal structures to increase safety. Union stewards monitor line speeds and labor conditions, and workers can share concerns with a health and safety committee. If laborers are injured, they have recourse to a union-provided attorney who specializes in workers’ compensation law.

The striking contrast between the plants demonstrates some of the immediate benefits of unionization, such as increased wages and benefits. But on a broader level, unions are also key to ensuring economic and social mobility. According to the Center for American Progress, low-income children are more upwardly mobile in areas with higher rates of union membership. And unions also play a central role in combating income inequality; lower rates of unionization are associated with an increased share of income going to the wealthiest Americans.

Our poultry need not be consumed at the cost of workers’ dignity. By building a strong labor movement at the company, state, and federal level, progressives can change a status quo predicated on giving workers a raw deal.

One such product hit the shelves last year when oil behemoth Baker Hughes—which specializes in hydraulic fracturing, or “fracking”—joined forces with breast cancer foundation Susan G. Komen to produce pink drill bits. Fracking, a procedure by which oil is extracted from the ground, is highly toxic. More than a quarter of the chemicals used are known carcinogens, and some are linked to breast cancer. On top of that, fracking is more likely to occur in impoverished areas, where medical care—let alone care for breast cancer—is already difficult to come by.

A few years prior, Susan G. Komen teamed up with an unlikely ally: Kentucky Fried Chicken. The fast-food chain packaged its signature dish in pink and pledged a donation to its partner for each “Bucket for the Cure” sold. The campaign stirred a fair deal of controversy—and rightly so, as fried meats are associated with breast cancer. In addition, the campaign marketed its product—with all of its adverse health implications—primarily to the poor in a dubious effort to access hard-to-reach populations. The fast-food chain is found largely in low-income neighborhoods, where healthier food options are often out of reach for most residents.

To be sure, not all campaigns against breast cancer have raised so many eyebrows. Some 67 percent of women at high-risk ages have received mammograms within the past two years, a statistic that, while far from perfect, attests to the success of many awareness campaigns. Billions of dollars are poured into breast cancer research annually, which is surely another part of the reason that breast cancer patients now enjoy a five-year survival rate of close to 90 percent, up from about 75 percent in 1980.

But a closer examination of the numbers reveals a much more grim reality. Gains from the war on breast cancer have by and large sidestepped women of color and low-income women, and instead have accrued largely to more privileged patients. Prior to 1980, such shameful disparities did not exist. Black women and white women faced nearly identical mortality rates of about 33 deaths per 100,000. But today, black women are most likely to die from the disease. Researchers say that biological differences do not account for differences in survival.

A 2015 study found that black women were between 40 and 70 percent more likely to have a late diagnosis, when they are already in the advanced stages of breast cancer. Hispanic women were 30 to 40 percent more likely to be diagnosed in advanced stages. Late detection, of course, so often translates to higher costs of care and lower survival rates.

Race even impacts the quality of treatment that breast cancer patients receive. The same 2015 study concluded that black women were between 30 and 60 percent more likely than white women to undergo inappropriate treatment for the disease, and Hispanic women were 20 to 40 percent more likely.

Research cannot fully explain these disparities, but poverty is a clear factor, facilitated by woeful public policies and institutionalized racism. Women in low-wage jobs without paid sick leave—disproportionately women of color—are less likely to receive the preventive care necessary to detect breast cancer in its early stages. As a result, these women are more likely to die from the disease. One study found that, while 63 percent of women with paid sick leave had received a mammogram within the past year, only 52 percent of women without paid sick leave had gotten one. And it makes sense. The 40 million workers who toil without paid sick leave risk reductions in precious income or even the job itself for time away. Preventive care cannot be a luxury only afforded to those in comfortable jobs.

While breast cancer has no cure just yet, solutions to health disparities like these do exist. Paid sick leave is among them. Clinics funded through Title X—the federal grant program that is constantly under threat—offer mammograms to low-income women and serve as a lifeline for those otherwise on the margins of care. Medicaid, too, has proven an invaluable source to those in poverty, but 19 states have refused to expand the insurance program under the Affordable Care Act. This policy choice has dire consequences. It is in some of these states—like Alabama, Kansas, and Oklahoma—where women are most likely to die from breast cancer.

When black patients die from breast cancer three years before white patients, and low-income women face impossible choices between the care they need to survive and their livelihoods, we need to embrace policies—not pink drill bits—to curb our unjust health disparities.