A Lesson in Comfort

For about 6 days last month I was so far out of my comfort zone, I felt I could no longer see it.

Which might be a good thing. 

Okay, it probably is a good thing.

The teachers in my former district had authorized a strike over multiple issues. Is a strike ever called over just a single issue?

I remember going on strike in 1989. I remember those difficult decisions of choosing to go without pay for a greater good. I remember those comments on how selfish we were for striking for higher pay by those who didn’t see beyond what we did in the classroom; the countless hours at home preparing lessons, grading papers, calling parents, buying supplies and attending conferences (on our own dime) during our summers off. Or those who didn’t see what else we were striking for; an end to much of the politics that went on behind the scenes in many schools; favoritism/harassment from the principals, restricted use of school equipment, countless non-productive faculty meetings that went on for hours, etc.

I also remember those difficult moments of needing a restroom while picketing and not having one nearby. While I can’t clearly recall how we handled the situation in 1989, I believe my then-principal turned a blind eye and opened a side door for us to use a restroom in the auditorium which technically meant we were crossing the picket line to enter the building and could therefor be subject to disciplinary actions should we return to the line. I heard rumors from my colleagues the current principal was not so sympathetic.

I live in a small gated community across from an elementary school in the same district. While I wanted to support my former colleagues, I didn’t relish the idea of a thirty-five mile commute at 6:30 a.m. again. So, I chose to walk with the teachers across the street. And offer them my home, more specifically, my bathrooms. Well, two of the bathrooms, anyway.

For an introvert, meeting a bunch of new people can be daunting, if not down right intimidating. For an empath, loud noises and others’ unchecked emotions can be draining. And to invite them into my home, if only for a brief but much needed moment or two, was huge. Therefore, picketing with a bunch of new people all chanting, beating drums and other loud implements was overwhelming. But it was still something I wanted to do. Or felt I needed to do, if only to step out of my comfort zone and yes, help out fellow teachers. For an empathic introvert, my reaction to all this would be a true test in self-care.

Prior to the strike, I contacted their union rep, mentioned my offer and found out their schedule. She was very grateful and explained the union wanted a presence at the school when parents dropped off and then picked up their children which meant morning and afternoon picketing while in between those times, there would be marches and rallies in downtown Los Angeles or at the local district offices.

The first day of the strike arrived in pouring rain. Adding the rain to their morning beverages, I soon had a request for a field trip to my house. The first few trips were small groups of about five to six. We made a couple of trips each morning. Due to the rain, the teachers chose to take off their ponchos and shoes, leaving their wet picket signs outside. Bless them. They came in, two at a time, one would use the powder room in the entry way and the other would go upstairs to the guest bath. A couple of times, once a group was heading to my house, it grew so large that a line formed outside my house! I had to quickly head upstairs and tidy up the third bathroom. That must have been a sight for those in my complex. It must have looked like the lines outside a stadium restroom.

Every day, at the end of the picketing, the union rep made sure to thank everyone who came out and also acknowledged me. The group also shared their gratitude for the use of my restrooms.

When the strike was over, the teachers held a post-strike unity party and invited me to join them.

During the party, the union rep made yet another point of thanking me by handing me two gift bags and two greeting cards in envelopes. One bag contained a plastic container with a roll of bathroom paper to replace the ones they had used. Okay, a cute gag gift. The other bag held a nice bottle of red wine. 

Once home, I opened the envelopes to read the cards. They were inscribed with various expressions of gratitude. And there was a gift card inside.

A very generous gift card which I felt was overly generous for just allowing people the simple use of my bathrooms. And, yes, their generosity for this left me a bit uncomfortable.

I have since come to accept the fact that this was how much it meant to them, not what it meant to me and this was their expression of gratitude. What I felt was a simple, though mildly inconvenient, hospitable act, was perceived quite differently.

We never know the effect our actions will have on others.

It is, after all, a matter of perspective.