Today, I write to you from a very special place. A physical place. I want to tell you about a particular table and chair.
If you read my first blog, you know that I love being at the office every day. I get to be around my colleagues and some of my biggest supporters away from home. For the past three months, though, there has been no heat in my office. To avoid turning into a block of ice, I’ve been bouncing around the rooms on the floor of my department to find comfortable places to work.
Last year, I spent a number of days working in our department’s lounge. I would pick up my books and move there just for a change of scenery. Spending five hours at my old desk in a room with limited sunlight would certainly bring about a general malaise. So I’d shuffle down the hall with my piles of stuff and set up shop at the table in the lounge. It’s this beautiful wooden table with three wooden chairs. Picture a kitchen table and chairs at a cabin, nestled just inside the door of the lounge. Since I enjoyed sitting there so much last year, I’ve decided to plunk myself down there again. I sit in the same spot everyday—the spot that lets me face the door.
Every 30 minutes or so, someone comes in. They almost always smile and say hello. I’m often mid-email, mid-sentence of an article, or mid-page of a reading, and their presence is a welcome moment of pause. Sometimes they just come in to wash a dish or fill up a water bottle at the sink, and sometimes they sit down with me and tell me stories about their day. Professors tell me about the classes they just had; undergraduate students ask for assistance finding a particular room or join me at the table and tell me about their classes too; graduate students share insights into their research or ask me questions about assignments or applications we’re all working on. The other day, people came in one-by-one and decided to stay, each finding a spot at the table. When the table was full, people started lining the chairs around the room. After an hour, we had a whole crew plugging away at their work, pausing occasionally for a question or joke.
This table and chair have become the kitchen table for so many in my department. Much like the kitchen table at my family home—my favourite place to work, even though my mom gave me my own desk to work at when I come home for weekends—this space has become a community hub. There’s been tears, laughter, good news and bad news, handshakes and hugs, and some of the best conversations I’ve ever had. I’ve helped people through some of their worst days here, and people have helped me through some of my worst too. At this table, I’ve walked people through the mental health resources in the Green Folder, showed them how to book an appointment on the SASS website, helped people prepare for interviews with tips from Career Services, and much, much more. Here, at this table, we look after each other.
Recently, I mentioned to a professor that I hope they fix the heat in my office so that I can use my desk again. They said to me: “I hope you don’t move back.” Shocked, I asked why. They said, “I really like seeing you when I come in. And all the other graduate students too. It’s really nice.”
This is my kitchen table away from home. And it’s home for others too, or at least the feeling of home.
As someone who loves her family home, I found it hard to move out to attend university. Now, thanks to some faulty heating, I have a home away from home in an unexpected place.
In the midst of PSAC 901 strike action, my kitchen table community has needed to disperse for a while. Crossing picket lines is a breach of strike protocol for union members, so if your home away from home is also on campus, you might also be looking for an alternative location for a while. Trust me, I know it’s hard. And the uncertainty of everything—on top of everything else going on in the world—is immensely challenging. But there is a light at the end of the tunnel.
If you’re reading this and feeling nostalgic, I encourage you to start your own kitchen table away from home. It makes a world of difference.
Until next time,
April