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In politics, there are a handful of people whose wealth, connections, and influence are enough to assure that their views will always be taken into account. They have access to those in the White House, the Capitol, and the statehouses across America, regardless of which party is in power. Their calls will be returned, and as governor, I have returned their calls. But if social justice means anything in politics, it means opening up the process to those who have been left out, to hear their voices and return their calls. I ran for governor in part because I saw that so many people had dropped out of the process and had lost faith in their democracy. Sometimes the press calls them the “have-nots,” but I think they have plenty. They just have to be reminded that they have plenty to contribute—they have all the power they need to make the changes they want.

During my first primary campaign, I made a campaign stop at the Local 26 Union Hall in Boston. Local 26 represents about five thousand workers in the hospitality industries in Greater Boston, and all the candidates were invited to one of their rallies. These were the working poor. For many of them, English was not their first language. The room was crowded and hot. They listened intently, but many shifted and murmured to one another. It was by no means clear they were getting my points.

Midway through my speech I stopped, put away my notes, and just looked at them.

“I want to say something else to you,” I said. “I want you to know, I see you.”

The room got quiet.

“I know you work places where people look right past you. They walk right past you. I know that. You take their dirty sheets off. You take away their wet towels. And they pass you in the room, they pass you in halls, and they don’t make eye contact. They pass you as you’re holding the door. They’re on their cell phone. They’re doing their thing, and they don’t see you. Well, I want you to know something.”

I paused, took in the entire crowd, and spoke slowly.

“I … see … you. And I appreciate you.”

It was suddenly a completely different room, and I could feel it.

“The reason I want you to come and vote is that I want your government to see you. And that’s not going to happen unless you claim a stake in that government. And let me tell you something else. I want you to come and vote for me. But if you don’t come and vote for me, that’s okay. I understand. But you have to show up, because this is your claim. So stop leaving it to the pundits and the pollsters to tell us whose turn it is, who’s supposed to be next, and who’s going to win. It’s your turn.”

The place erupted. I don’t think I’ve ever felt a stronger connection with any group as I did with that one.

As it happens, I was back in that same union hall three years later. The circumstances were quite different.

In August 2009, two Hyatt hotels in Boston and one in Cambridge laid off ninety-eight housekeepers. The workers were mostly black and Hispanic women. Some had been cleaning rooms at Hyatts for more than twenty years. They earned about $15 an hour. The severe recession, of course, caused massive job cuts in Massachusetts and around the country, including ones I had to make in state government, but these layoffs were different. The Hyatt hotels didn’t actually reduce staff; they simply replaced the existing housekeepers with lower-paid workers from an employment agency. At my meeting with the housekeepers at the union hall, some of the women had tears in their eyes. They didn’t know how they were going to pay for food, rent, and utilities. I was recovering from hip surgery and was using a cane—hardly an inspiring sight—but I held the hands of the women who were now sharing their grief. They told me that Hyatt had asked them to train the new staff members so they could fill in during vacations and holidays. They had no idea they were training their own replacements—who would be making $8 an hour.

There is a mindset in our country among hard right-wingers and free-market purists that poverty