FACTS & ARGUMENTS: THE ESSAY

Warmth in the cold of a strike
Marching up and down the snowy sidewalk, one-dimensional beetle people became layered individuals

CARLA GUNN
February 13, 2008

I am an educator. But during the entire month of January, I spent several hours each day on the receiving end of a lesson.
Each morning, I would put on layers upon layers of clothes. When I was done, my body would be as rigid as a beetle's. God help me if I fell onto my back.

I would then plop stiffly into my car - arms and legs sticking straight out - and drive to a place where other upright beetle people congregated. There I would drape a sign around my neck and join the procession. Hordes of beetles marching up and down, down and up the slippery, snowy, salty sidewalk all locked out of St. Thomas University in New Brunswick.

On that picket line, I learned about the depths of cold. My lips would turn blue to match my eyes, which in turn would run to resemble my nose. I looked like I was crying, which I was - on the inside. I learned how long it takes for your nose to freeze.

The warm spots came with the hot coffee and delicious soups, and through those who waved and honked their support.
There were times, however - especially after the lockout became a strike - that people yelled at us and gave us the finger. Letters declaring us greedy liars and whiny crybabies poured into and out of radio shows, newspapers and online meeting places. In a province where anti-union sentiment is too often palpable, solidarity is especially vital. And so we marched on. And on and on.

Now, strike is an interesting word. Here it means work stoppage. But it also refers to a blow or a planned attack. Certainly, this strike, which followed the first pre-emptive lockout of faculty at a Canadian university, was a blow. And what followed over the course of five weeks looked very much like a deliberate plan of attack, engineered to strike cold fear into us all.

It worked to a certain extent. We were indeed cold, but the kind that could be remedied by lying in a patch of sunlight on a rug next to the heater with a cat on your chest. In reality, the strike mostly solidified us. Other unions, along with some of our students, braved the cold to join us on the picket line. A colleague playfully played the sax. Through laughing and sharing we felt much more the warmth of friendship than the cold of fear.

For me, the best part was that the shadowy figures I had passed in the hallways assumed shapes. I learned my colleagues' names and heard about their disciplines and interests. I saw elements of my own life reflected in their narratives, diverse stories but with similar themes, such as struggling to balance work and home.

I discovered that in their "free" time, some of my colleagues were writers, poets, musicians and filmmakers. I was privy to the endearing idiosyncrasies of a bologna aficionado, several martial artists, a Klingon and a stock shark. They were academics, but they didn't live their lives trapped in the pages of their books.

On the outside of those gates, I had never felt more inside.

But as the dispute dragged on, it took a toll. Money was tight. Our union was repeatedly condemned internally and in the media. The spinners spun their tangled webs and public support dipped. Some of our members allied with the employer. We started drawing lines in the sand. It got ugly - fist in the pit of your stomach, Lord of the Flies ugly.

Then a few days into February, the strike ended. A compromise, of sorts, was struck.
Now, back in the classroom, I have mixed feelings. I enjoy my students and am grateful for the friendships forged on the picket line, but I'm still angry about what I know now and wish I didn't.

I feel uneasy around some of my colleagues. What to do when you meet at the photocopier? Look intently at your course outline like you've never laid eyes on anything so utterly fascinating?

This strike has left me stricken, wishing for healing - or an exorcism. But it would be wrong to banish my picket-line memories. I should keep them at the forefront of my mind. For it was there that I was privy to the many narratives that transformed one-dimensional people into layered individuals. Rumours may circle like soul-sucking Dementors, but nothing and no one is as simple as they may at first appear.

Just as I know that I cannot be defined by my position on a single issue, I know that each of my colleagues, regardless of his or her views about all that happened during that cold, cold month, is layered too.

And although I may never agree with some views about this strike, in a liberal arts community, agreement is rarely the goal. It's about fostering free and critical thinking and respecting differences.

In moving forward we can add layers to create stiff, protective beetle shells or we can - through dialogue - peel and reveal as a means of moving us all to the inside, out of the cold.

Strike (v.): to strike up a conversation; to strike off in a new direction.

Carla Gunn is a part-time faculty member at St. Thomas University in Fredericton, where she lives