Paid Sick Leave Matters: Confessions of a Recovered Waitress
by Madeline Shepherd, NCJW Legislative Aide
The year after I graduated from college I waited tables and worked in retail, just like my parents always hoped I would. Kidding! Truth be told, I had always envisioned going to law school but hesitated once it came time to send in a deposit. I hadn’t given much thought to the other options I had, and the commitment of so much time and money made me think twice. So after graduating Phi Beta Kappa, I donned an apron and slip-resistant shoes and got down to work.
I learned a great deal over the next few months working at a restaurant. My coworkers had mostly grown up in the area and still carried their high school rivalries. Some had gone to college and were waiting tables to subsidize their income from another job; others bounced from cook line to cook line in the area’s restaurant district and talked about going back to school. All of them were used to hardship, and faced it on a daily basis as they balanced taking care of family members, paying their bills, and seizing every opportunity to work a shift at our restaurant.





Different ages, different places. What unites them is how they died: by a gun.
For me and my husband, $11,000 would be a tremendous help. I am a recent law school graduate and barred attorney in Massachusetts with my DC bar pending. Shortly after I passed the bar, my husband, an auditor, was offered a position in Washington, DC. We made the decision to move even though I had not secured a job in the area. Although I am currently volunteering, my job search continues, and the thought of being denied equal pay because of my gender in 2013 is almost impossible to comprehend.
Imagine a room filled with advocates and members of Congress — so many the bill signing had to be moved from the White House to an auditorium nearby at the Department of the Interior. The audience hooted and hollered when the Vice President spoke about working with Representative John Conyers (D-MI) almost 20 years ago, when they envisioned and passed the original Violence Against Women Act in 1994.

When I was a senior in college, the reality of domestic violence—and specifically teen dating violence—hit closer to home than any study or statistic ever could. I was preparing to graduate when another student killed his girlfriend, who was a sophomore at the time. Shock and sadness of indescribable depth enveloped our campus, a small community where you knew most of the faces you passed on the sidewalk. Overnight, we were pitched into a national debate about dating violence and mental health. Reporters roamed the grounds and snapped pictures of the candles and photographs assembled to honor the victim. We mourned as best we could, while the story was splashed across major news networks. Our paths have diverged, but every student present that day carries the memory we wish we didn’t share.