Money. A word that means everything to some, yet nothing at all to others. Money. A joke. They treat us like we’re beneath them, the rich. Strike One. They raise the prices of the newspapers to make more of the green bills that rule their lives. Strike Two. One more Strike. Our Strike. We’re out.

                                              -1899, New York City-

Underneath the hot July sun, patience and hearts wore thin. The tears being held back came out as beads of sweat on our foreheads. Standing in line to grab the usual stack of papers our jaws dropped to the ground. A tax raise of 20 cents may not seem like a lot to Mr. Pulitzer and Hearst but this would change everything. We would have to work extra hard just to earn the same amount as usual. A meal for a family. That´s what is on the line for me. But what does Hearst care? Take out the ‘s’ and you have something that he doesn’t. A heart.
So with our jaws open as wide as the holes in our shoes, a swarm of flies around us, and not a penny to our names, we set out to the dirty streets of New York City. We aren´t going to be pushed around. We may be just a motley crew of guys barely scraping the pavement in terms of riches, but we stand for something. Something stronger than Pompous Pulitzer and Heartless Hearst. Well... thats the way it seems at least.
That night with the dark cape of night surrounding us, we form a plan. Stop buying papers, stop traffic, and stop tyranny over the youth. Child labor has been something poor kids in New York have known since the age of 10, at average. We don’t like it. We don’t like being defenseless against the rich and greedy. So even though that’s all we know, it isn’t how it has to stay.
Throughout the next few days multiple speeches are given. Although, the speech that sticks with me the most is one by Kid Blink. The leader of our campaign. He said with a captivating power, "Friens and feller workers. This is a time which tries de hearts of men. Dis is de time when we'se got to stick together like glue.... We know wot we wants and we'll git it even if we is blind."
So with these words, the violence against the Evening World and Evening Journal has stopped and now we just fight together. As one unit. We have grasped the newsies, but we still have to grasp the people. More the people’s attention. Thankfully we know just the way to do it…..

                                          ********************************************

Early in the morning all 5,000 of us march onto the Brooklyn Bridge. Cars come towards us but we don’t care. We stand as an impermeable wall. Unable to be broken or penetrated by hate, greed, indifference, or prejudice.
Time stands still and so does traffic. Drivers are honking their horns at the massive amount of newsboys blocking their way to work. Men in suits are yelling foul things out their windows. Mothers roll their eyes as the kids in the back seat start to cry. Yet, with all this noise around us we hear nothing but our own protests.
We know that there are news delivery trucks waiting to get onto this very bridge. We now have the power to stop the press today. And we do.
The papers aren’t delivered that day or the next few after that. Soon, not only do we have the attention of Mr. Pulitzer and Mr. Hearst, but we have taken New York by storm. Our cause is now a household subject of conversation. People see how kids can make a difference in not only the lives of themselves… but in the lives of everyone affected by the problem that they just happened to become the face of.
So it’s with the honking, yelling, and eye rolling transformed into cheers of support that we win the battle we have been fighting so hard in. It’s two weeks of our lives that helped us for the better.

Pulitzer and Hearst kept the tax raise of 20 cents but agreed to buy back the papers we didn’t sell. We deemed it fair and went back to work with our heads held high. As would be later written in a musical following our journey, “Wrongs will be righted if we’re united…”.