Make Room for Love

Chapter 6

6

The computer science grad lounge was more populated than Mira had hoped. One person was wearing pajama pants and typing on his laptop. Another person was engaged in the instantly recognizable activity of grading student midterms. Two people were talking rather loudly over coffee.

Mira took a deep breath, which did nothing to settle her nerves. She shouldn’t have procrastinated on signing up for a slot. Next time she’d pick more familiar territory, but she had to get through this first.

If she didn’t try her best, nobody would know. But that wasn’t the point. She had a goal to accomplish. Like Isabel had said, she was the union, and she couldn’t wait for someone else to do it.

Who was the most promising person to talk to? Maybe the woman grading the tall stack of exams. She seemed likely to support contractually limiting everyone’s teaching workload.

Mira took another breath and approached the woman. “Hi.”

No response. Mira noticed the earbuds. “Hi,” she said again, more loudly. The guy wearing pajama pants glared at her.

The woman took an earbud out. “Hi,” she said, not seeming pleased to be interrupted.

“Hi,” Mira repeated once more, feeling ridiculous. “Um, my name’s Mira Levin, and I’m with the Graduate Workers’ Union?—”

“I’m an international student.” The woman started to put her earbud back in.

“International students can be union members, too,” Mira said hastily. She sat down in the facing seat. Should she have asked to sit down first? “You can sign a union card and vote in the election, just like anyone else. In fact, we’re especially interested in listening to the concerns of international students. We have a working group for that.” Mira recalled the advice she’d gotten during training, to always end with a question. “So, uh, have you had any issues with the administration when it comes to your student visa?”

The woman put her earbud on the table, which was a good sign. “With my visa, not really. But I couldn’t get into the grad student housing, and I had trouble finding an apartment without a US credit history.”

Mira could commiserate all too well. “Oh, that’s so frustrating.” Would it be a good idea to bring up her own issues? What would Isabel do? Mira had no idea. “Um, I didn’t get into the grad housing either and had to live in an illegal sublet for a while. Anyway, we’re going to demand that the administration increase our stipends so we can actually afford to live in New York City?—”

“Okay, can I look into this later?” the woman said. Had Mira said the wrong thing? “I need to work.”

Mira could point out that it took less than a minute to sign a union card online. But maybe it was a bad idea to push her luck. “Okay,” she said, as the woman put her earbud back in. “Well, thank you for your time.”

The conversation was over. Mira stood up, painfully aware of being an interloper.

She approached the two men talking. Best to get it over with. “Excuse me. I’m Mira, and I’m?—”

“We’re busy,” one of them said.

“I already signed a union card,” the other said.

“Oh.” Maybe Mira ought to talk to the first man, but she had no way to push past his dismissal. “Okay, sorry to bother you. And, um, thanks,” she added for the second man.

He spared her a glance. “Good luck.” The two resumed their conversation.

This was painful. Mira wanted to bolt and hide in her office or go home. She wasn’t cut out for this.

She approached the man in pajama pants. “Hi, I’m?—”

“I heard you,” he said. “You’re the third person who’s tried to talk to me about the union this week. You want to know what the biggest problem I have is as a grad student? It’s that you people keep bothering me when I’m trying to get work done. What the hell do I have to do to make you leave me alone?”

Mira’s face burned. The man’s voice was loud, and people turned to look. What had she done wrong? Mira wanted to say something, anything, but no words came. She was rooted to the spot.

“Some of us have real work to do,” the man continued. “Maybe you should try it sometime.” He turned back to his laptop.

Other people were still staring at her. She was a spectacle. “Sorry,” she managed to say. She ran out of the room, nearly tripping on a chair.

Tears welled up in her eyes. What was wrong with her? The computer science building was all futuristic glass surfaces and open spaces, and Mira ran down the hallway, desperate for privacy. She found a restroom and locked herself in a stall. Nobody else was in here, as far as she could tell, but she still tried to hold back her sobs.

Hot shame bubbled in her chest. She needed to quit the union, or drop out of grad school. Anything to hide from aggressive men shouting at her while she cowered in silence.

Maybe the problem was that she was pathetic. Maybe if she ran away and cried merely because a stranger was rude to her, then she had deserved it. Tears rolled down her face as she drowned in shame.

Isabel wouldn’t have reacted like that. She would have just brushed it off. The story she’d told in her speech had been harrowing. When her boss had found out she was trying to unionize his workers right under his nose, he’d screamed at her and tried to fire her, and she had stood her ground and calmly reminded him that retaliation was illegal and he’d be sued for all he was worth. A grad student being rude to her would be nothing to her.

If anyone was upset with Mira for starting a conversation, that was their problem, Isabel had said. But it felt like Mira’s problem. And Mira did have a problem. She was oversensitive—that was what Dylan had called her. Always overreacting to things. And she was proving him right.

She had been in the bathroom for a while. She reluctantly took out her phone to check the time.

Isabel had texted her half an hour ago. Good luck today. You’ll do great.

A new wave of shame washed over Mira, and she started crying again. They never texted each other unless Mira locked herself out of the apartment or they were out of toilet paper. Isabel had gone out of her way during work to encourage her, and she had failed and let Isabel down.

It was worse than letting down the union. This was personal. Isabel had believed in her—she’d believed that Mira was capable of a fraction of what Isabel herself was capable of, and it turned out that Mira was not.

Some of us have real work to do. That had stung. Mira had work to do, too. She could have spent the afternoon catching up on grading, or preparing for class, or reading articles from the ever-increasing pile of journals that demanded her attention. But she felt too stupid and small to do any of those things now.

She would have to go home. She didn’t want to run into Isabel, but with any luck, she wouldn’t. She could go straight to her tiny room and cry in her bed. At least she wasn’t trapped in Dylan’s apartment anymore.

That was something to be grateful for. Enough that Mira gathered up her strength, dabbed her face with toilet paper, and left the stall so she could head home.