Lives Changed is an OPB series on how individuals’ lives have changed across the Pacific Northwest during the COVID-19 pandemic.
When COVID-19 hit, Vanda Hunter and Ale Gallegos were both were working full-time. Hunter was as a server at the Olive Garden, but they didn’t love it: the days of serving never-ending pasta bowls were wearing on them, and they wanted to do something meaningful and more in line with their values.
Hunter had a plan, though. They’d just cut back their hours at the Olive Garden to start working part-time on the 2020 U.S. Census. But working at the census and serving at a restaurant both require you to be there, in-person — you can’t do either of those things during a rapidly escalating pandemic.
Just like that, Hunter went from having two jobs lined up to having zero. They were panicked — the economy was in free-fall, and even going back to waiting tables was out of the question.
“It was so like, right now!” Hunter says. “Like, I don’t have a job to fall back on; I can’t just keep working at the Olive Garden while I find another job. We have to find something new for me to do ASAP.”
The pandemic pushed Vanda Hunter, left, and Ale Gallegos to make career changes that were more in line with their values. “I think people are getting accustomed to seeing that normal wasn’t working before,” Gallegos says, “so let’s not go back to normal.”
Kristyna Wentz-Graff / OPB
While Hunter was scrambling to find work, Gallegos was struggling to keep their head above water at their environmental justice nonprofit job. It had always been a ton of work, and there were also serious problems with management: sexual harassment, gender discrimination, anti-blackness. They’d just unionized and were fighting for their first contract, but during the pandemic, the hours got longer, and longer.
“I was working more than I ever had, working from home,” Gallegos says. “I used to work maybe like 60 hour weeks and it went drastically to 70-80 hours a week. So literally, that’s basically from the time I wake up at 7 a.m. until I go to bed at midnight, maybe.”
Gallegos was hovering on the edge of burnout with a toxic boss while Hunter continued to look for work. The stress, coupled with worrying about the health and safety of their friends and families was overwhelming.
“Luckily we never had anxiety attacks at the same time,” Gallegos recalls, laughing a bit. “If one of us was having a low moment we were there to hug each other or give each other space when needed. But we would have meltdowns: like big, crying-on-the-floor meltdowns.”
In June of 2020, though, things were looking up for Hunter. After weeks and weeks of sending out resumes and cover letters, they got into a union organizer-in-training program, which led to a full-time job. It was much closer to what they’d dreamed of for themself: working to support other working people.
But what do you do when you get a job, but it’s still not right? When, despite the good work you’re doing, it’s still forcing you to compromise on what you believe in?
The problem was that the union represented correctional facility officers. In other states, the union represented police officers. This was summer of 2020 — protests against police violence and racism were going on every night in downtown Portland, and Hunter found themself working for a union that represents the police.
Hunter tried to talk with their boss about it. They weren’t receptive.
“They’re really big like, ‘but we don’t represent police in this state, so there’s no issues here,’” Hunter says. “I tried to call attention to this but they were, in a lot of ways, unwilling to listen. They were really focused on prioritizing the feelings of white people.”
Hunter is Black; Gallegos is Latinx. This wasn’t about workplace culture, or “wokeness.” It was about a system of racism that they see, and experience every day.
“All these nonprofits and unions all of a sudden are like, ‘oh yeah, Black Lives Matter and how do we perpetuate anti-blackness,’” Gallegos says. “In Portland, which is a predominantly white city, everyone has the lawn sign. Everyone will wear the sticker until it comes to making themselves uncomfortable, actually addressing real issues like how are we personally funding the prison industrial complex. It’s very performative activism here. Vanda and I joke that everywhere we go there’s a BLM sign or a ‘no human is illegal’ sign, but then we go in there and we experience racism!”
Months before, Hunter had been desperate for a job, any job. Now they had one, and it’s still deep in the pandemic — do you just feel thankful for what you have? Or do you keep searching, looking for something that really lets you be your fullest self?
Hunter kept looking. And in March of this year, Hunter finally found it. Today, they work for the nonprofit Freedom to Thrive.
“It’s an all-Black-led organization,” Hunter says. “It’s really focused on immigration, and abolishing immigration systems and carceral-based punishment systems. They’re really focused on how we can imagine and build safety by each other and for each other as opposed to through the state.”
There’s something risky about having a job you love though: the myth of “the good, noble job.” While Hunter was getting settled into their new role, Gallegos was still struggling with theirs in a big way.
All nonprofit workers struggle with this, on some level. It’s how they rationalize working longer hours, for lower pay. But for BIPOC individuals, there’s another layer to it — social justice work can be extremely personal, to a degree that Gallegos says borders on psychological abuse.
“Some of my coworkers had their parents still working in the fields while the fires were happening with no hazard pay, no protection,” Gallegos says. “It’s very, very personal. We had family members get ill, some passed, and yet we’re expected to show up because, you know, it’s ‘good work’ we’re doing.”
“I think what that does is, we internalize it and we don’t give ourselves the time to rest. We don’t give ourselves the time to grieve. We don’t give ourselves the time to even break down.”
Hunter was so there for their partner. They’d been watching Gallegos struggle for months under the weight of this thankless job and their crappy boss.
“We were manifesting,” Hunter laughs, “like, I’m going to get this job, and as soon as I get this job you get to quit, because they were able to support me through bouts of being unemployed in the early days of the pandemic. Now it’s time for a switch. I was like, ‘I want you to be able to have the freedom to find a job that doesn’t suck the life out of you.’”
So, 13 months into the pandemic, Gallegos quit. They convinced a few close friends to quit, too — they went out in their own little blaze of glory. They’re starting a new job now, at New Seasons. No more 80-hour work weeks. Just punching the clock and living by their values. They have no regrets.
“As difficult as that job was,” Gallegos says, “It’s also really hard to leave because you really care about what you’re doing. You’re trying to reconcile and understand that you do deserve better. I think that’s what a lot of workers are going through, like in the food industry, and retail and nonprofits, even people at Intel and Nike. If we didn’t all crash this planet this year and we’re all alive, then we deserve better! Our employers also need to treat us better, because they actually need us more than we need them.”
The pandemic pushed Gallegos and Hunter to the breaking point. Really, it pushed them past their breaking points, and that changed their lives. Gallegos finally ditched the job that wasn’t working for them. They hope more people will find the courage to do the same.
“I think people are getting accustomed to seeing that normal wasn’t working before,” Gallegos says, “so let’s not go back to normal. Like, let’s build back better. It’s really inspiring to me.”
Hunter took a different path — when the bottom fell out, they started pushing for what they really wanted. And they got it.
“I really wish I could tell Vanda back at the end of 2019, going into 2020, you won’t be stuck at the Olive Garden forever,” Hunter laughs. “Like, you won’t be stuck serving endless pasta bowls for much longer.”
Listen to Ale Gallegos and Vanda Hunter’s story using the audio player above.