Steel mills are usually nightmares.
Early in the morning, orange flames shoot high into the sky from tall fireworks.
The chimney spews out white smoke.
The railroad crosses a desolate, drained land, and the yellow waters of the Cuyahoga River flow into the mouth of Lake Erie.
Many factory buildings stand rusty and soot-covered, their blackness like congealed blood.
Inside these buildings, furnaces roar, machines whir, and cranes squeak under the weight of their loads.
In these buildings, molten iron is transformed into steel.
(…) Wherever you look at the steel mill, it seems like they are shouting this.
This is a place where I can kill you.
This is a place where people die
--- p.11~12

In Rust Belt cities, orange flames aren't just a portent of foul odors and pollution.
It is neither an anachronism nor proof of a lack of innovation.
It might be a baffling presence for people in cities like San Francisco or Boston, but for us it's more than that.
It's jobs and taxes.
It refers to economic growth.
When that flame burns, Cleveland is doing well, the steel workers say.
That flame is part of our history and our identity.
It is a constant reminder that in a world where nothing is made to last, there are things that stand the test of time.
--- p.23

Fire raged from the pit like a devil with a pitchfork, but you hadn't truly seen hell until you saw that furnace.
Bright orange gas emanating from the crucible created visions of rapidly moving, suffering bodies and twisted souls.
Half-peeled faces floated above the molten metal and then disappeared in an instant.
The devil's tail struck the surface and the monsters came up to the surface to breathe.

--- p.73~74

I waited for the right time and let the veteran talk on his own.
He started spouting nonsense about how all women are snakes.

“You women want to be taken care of,” he told me.
“You women only think about money.”
You women, you women.
When he finally stopped talking to catch his breath, I glared and held up my middle finger.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, taking a few steps back in surprise.
“Did you just do it to me?”
"yes."
“To my face?”
"yes.
What should I do? Should I cry or something?”
--- p.105

For as long as I can remember, my life has been a struggle to find my place in relationships with men.
I didn't know how to get my way without seeming difficult.
I didn't know how to express myself without seeming insecure.
I didn't know how to be assertive without seeming like a bitch.
--- p.106

Although there were female workers in the steel mill, they were clearly a minority.
Some men still viewed female workers as quotas that the company had to fill.
At best, they regarded women workers as symbolic figures, and in many cases they did not trust our judgment.
Whenever we offered an idea or opinion, these men would always ask another man to confirm what we had said.
He would often try to mansplain and blurt out things that sounded straight out of the 1950s.

--- p.123

Deaths at the steel mill were commemorated in some of the strangest places.
The bulletin board in one corner of the 'Social Hut' was covered with obituaries of employees.
Funeral notices were placed at the entrance and on the tables, and fundraising activities for the bereaved families of deceased colleagues were also held frequently.
It didn't matter whether the cause of death was heart attack, old age, or cancer.
The staff remembered each deceased colleague passionately as if they were family.
It wasn't that I was using a horrible story as shock therapy.
Those stories were a way of remembering all those who gave their lives for a living.
More importantly, those stories were a way of telling the hard truth that it could happen to anyone, it could happen to me.
--- p.166

When I was a little child driving my father's car past the steel mill, all I saw was disgust.
I saw a fireball and an ominous orange flame.
The steelworks were nothing more than the remains of a declining and dying industry, and the rust that covered the countless factory buildings seemed to be a fitting shadow.
At that time, I didn't know that the steel mill was sacred ground.
It was a monument, a memorial.
For some, it was a place of death.
For many, it was a place of identity.
--- p.166

The flames of the steel mills symbolized the kind of stagnation that characterized the Rust Belt.
We failed to innovate.
Couldn't move forward.
Failing to keep up with the rapidly growing technology industry.
Cleveland was a city built on sad stories.
At least that's what I thought.
At the time, I didn't know that Cleveland was also a city of revival.
(…) We may have lost, but we did what we do best.
We continued to move forward quietly.

--- p.172

Beware of immigrants who rape your women and steal your jobs.
Beware of the minority that will destroy everyone.
Beware of Muslims who will kill you in an instant.
Beware of globalists, feminists, socialists, and Democrats.
Trump seemed to have sensed the Rust Belt's unease and given people there a few targets to blame.
But the actual cause of our anxiety is much more difficult to grasp than we believe.
--- p.178

Dad had already lost so much that he was afraid of losing more.
You've been vulnerable all your life, but you've masked it with angry, far-right political leanings, and you've been harboring the illusion of control by owning a gun.
Dad was waiting for someone like Trump to lend credence to his fears.
Immigrants were at the border, Muslims were at the doorstep, and Hillary Clinton was strangling democracy.
When Trump said another disaster was upon us, Dad was too scared to ignore the message.

--- p.186

Instead of highlighting our resilience, Trump has crushed us and highlighted our worst weaknesses.
He considered industrial workers to be fallen people and made us believe that our only identity was our downfall.
He provided a scapegoat for our anxieties and a target for our anger, blinding us to the fact that he was just another wealthy, powerful man seeking more power.
He inspired us with vengeance and incited our anger.
He has damaged the good in our hearts.
That meant he had absolutely no understanding of the delicate beauty of all that we were fighting to protect.
--- p.190~191

A few days before I started training with Mike, I asked my uncle what would happen if I fell into a zinc barrel.

“If Jesus loves you,” he replied.
“You’re going to leave me there to die.”
The old man told the story of a man who fell into a zinc vat at another steel mill.
Third-degree burns were not the problem.
When he fell into the zinc vat, his lung tissue hardened due to inhaling the liquid metal.
Doctors were unable to remove the liquid metal from his lungs.
The man survived, but it would have been better for him to have died.

--- p.195

“What I’m trying to say is that the female employees don’t really like working in the ‘pot,’” the manager said.
“There are very few female employees who work there for a long time.”
I got upset.
Even though I had applied for a position with a consistent work schedule, the manager was now giving me another reason to accept the position.
He said that women weren't suited for the position, and I wanted to prove him wrong.

“I’ll go there,” I answered without hesitation.

--- p.202

You don't have to wear a seat belt while clearing the trash, but you always have to wear a seat belt when going next to the lobby.
Not only was it difficult to move around in the narrow workbench, but there were no barriers or anything like that around it.
If you slip, you'll fall straight into a zinc barrel.
The confidence that had built up as I cleaned up the mess quickly dwindled.
--- p.224

As I continued to push the lever, I suddenly felt the forklift being pulled forward.
The forklift driver's seat seemed to shake, and then the rear of the vehicle was lifted into the air.
My body slammed into the steering wheel.
My heart pounded wildly, and the warnings I had heard during orientation flashed through my mind.
The forklift may overturn.
You could lose your life in a forklift.
--- p.229

Tony shrugged and turned on the television, but he was already asleep before the opening credits even started.
Factory work made me feel tired like I had never felt before.
I felt like I was walking through mud the whole time because I barely made up for the sleep I lost from working the night shift.
I couldn't fully concentrate on anything.
I forgot to buy chicken at the supermarket.
Even though there was a mountain of laundry, I just left it there.
As I was scrubbing the bathtub hard, I suddenly looked down at it and realized that I had scrubbed it that morning.
My head was dizzy and foggy.
My diet quickly changed from home-cooked meals to energy drinks and takeout food.
It always felt like I was barely breathing.
--- p.230

I always welcome rumors.
This has become a kind of ritual.
Sleepy Bear told me all sorts of stories while he was awake.
It was rarely longer than an hour, but it was the time of day I looked forward to the most.
Even though it had been several months since I started working at the steel mill, I still felt awkward and shy around my coworkers.
Most of them were older than me, and many shared a long history of slang and reminiscences.
I was at a loss as to how to get into them, but Sleepy Bear's backstory helped me get into that world.

--- p.246

“Now that Obama is president, it’s going to be harder to get a license,” Dad explained.
“It’s best to take the class now because it threatens our right to bear arms.
Then we won't have to worry about Obama taking away our freedoms."
Until then, I had no interest in guns whatsoever.
To tell the truth, I was afraid of guns.
I hated carrying a gun, let alone holding one, but my father's warning got to me.
--- p.252

“We did all the fucking cleaning and now Jeremy is yelling at us?”
Sleepy Bear smiled and shook his head.
“Now you know how things work here.”
I threw the note on the floor and frowned.
“I wasn’t going to say that,” I said to Sleepy Bear.

“What, what are you talking about?”
“Jeremy, fuck you.”
When Sleepy Bear laughed, I laughed too.
He was a proud parent watching his child ride a bike without training wheels, and I was a little kid tottering to the end of the driveway.
--- p.261~262

I was furious that Trump was building his platform on the backs of steelworkers.
His hostility and venom were not of the steel mill.
This was a place of history and family, a place of struggle for justice and equality.
This was the place where the veteran worker taught the 'orange hat' tricks.
This was a place where camaraderie was fostered amidst the machines that took workers' lives.
This was a place to boost the morale of union colleagues who were having a hard time.
This is a place where everyone—regardless of race, creed, gender, or orientation—can safely return home after a day of work.
It was a place that protected me from going back.
--- p.269~270

Aaron and Ben were both freshmen.
I had three and a half more years of school ahead of me, and I couldn't let them do the same thing to other girls.
Although it was too late to report the sexual assault to the police, it was possible to pursue justice at the school level.
I felt like I could bring this issue to the attention of the school, but I haven't made up my mind yet.
I was worried that if I reported it to the school, I might face criticism and resentment from the students, and I doubted whether I would have the courage to deal with the fight that would follow.

--- p.298

“Trump saw women as objects to be used as he pleased.
Rich, privileged men have the right to be rude to women.
That's the male-privileged mindset that drives the culture of sexual assault and sexual harassment.
“It’s surprising that someone who calls himself a Christian would advocate such values.”
“So, what about Bill Clinton?” my dad asked, practically spitting out the words at me.
“I think Clinton was pretty rude to women, wasn’t he?”
--- p.327

I was so lost in the pain of my illness for months that I didn't even notice that I had changed.
The fear was gone, and in its place the steelworker remained.

--- p.363

Some people have 'Love Trumps Hate' written on their heads.
They held up signs that read "Donald Trump, the slogan of Trump's opponents, inspired by Donald Trump's last name, which means "I will win," and a sacred power seemed to flow through the crowd.
It was not a righteous force demanding judgment, nor was it a force so strong that it could not be resisted, nor was it confined to political ideology or artificial institutions.
It was like a whisper, a distant promise of something better, and it reminded me of a voice I had heard in church when I was nine.
Perhaps, after that long period of darkness, the prayer I offered in the chapel—let me learn to love myself as a woman—had finally been answered.

--- p.373~376

“Just a moment,” I said firmly, as if I were refuting the term “racing feminist.”
“Women face a lot of criticism and condemnation when they come forward about sexual violence.
It's not a problem to be taken lightly.
It's unfair that so many women feel shamed for raising their voices.
I was sexually assaulted when I was a college student.
I raised the issue publicly, but no one believed me.
They said it was all my fault.
“People’s reactions are as wrong as sexual assault.”
--- p.383

All the clichés I had heard as a child suddenly came to mind.
If you dream it, you can achieve it! You are a special flower with limitless potential! That's true, but that's not all.
Perhaps as a culture we've become so captivated by this damned sense of specialness that we've blinded ourselves to the toxicity of individualism that has consumed our nation.
We wanted to cling to ideology blindfolded, bound by self-righteousness, arrogance, personal pleasure, personal narrative, personal belief, and personal pride.
We preferred a space where we didn't have to look deeply into ourselves.
I preferred a space where I didn't have to respect the complexities of people I couldn't understand, where I didn't have to form a community with people who disagreed with me, and where I could eliminate and ignore anything that complicated or denied our reality.
Instead of community, they pursued train wrecks, disasters, and scandals.
I crave anything that stimulates the secretion of adrenaline.
Because entertainment was easier than facing our true selves—sometimes confusing and boring.
(…) Perhaps in that dream, I was trying so hard to separate myself from the world, even though I really needed to be more connected to it.

--- p.399~400

We were a product of an unexpected economic downturn.
Just before the long-awaited adulthood arrives, the carpet is pulled from under your feet.
Now that it was cleared away, we humbled ourselves and walked silently, enduring the hardship.
Before making policy, we had to serve sandwiches.
I had to pour a latte before I could speak out in society.
I needed to tie my knot before I could commit to anything meaningful, but Ocasio-Cortez's election was a sign.
It was a rainbow after heavy rain.
It was a sign that the water level was receding, and evidence that good things could happen after the heavy rain.
After a long period of minimum wages, underemployment, and terrible frustration, our generation is finally starting to show its strength.

--- p.412~413

I wasn't afraid.
Instead, I imagined all the lights there dimming, as they do just before a power outage, and I looked at each person as a flickering light in the dark steel mill.
I could see across the hot rolling mill past the end of the finishing line and into the blast furnace beyond.
We were tiny sparks of consciousness burning among the machines—all of us, made of one substance, a pulse pulsing in the darkness—and together we were the beating heart of the world.
--- p.415

The flame was proof of what we could create, transform, and refine.
As the pink sky finally faded and the horizon disappeared, the flame flicked its bright tongue into the darkness, burning away memories of soot and grime and rust, and illuminating the night for the lives that had been born and then perished beneath it.
If you look closely, the flames are breathtaking.
In that light, the steel mill looked almost sacred.

--- p.417