The Strike, the Stress, and the Friends We Made Along the Way

On Friday, February 6th, I got the email.

We were officially going on strike on Monday. We knew it was coming. We just didn’t know when. It had been hanging in the air for weeks — conversations in hallways, union updates, side-eye glances at inbox notifications. But seeing it solidiified in writing made it real. We were instructed to inform students and families, take personal belongings home, leave work devices locked up on campus, and to take out any perishables because we didn’t know how long we’d be out.

It felt heavy.

Tensions were high. I was anxious. I’m already dealing with my own personal, job-related stress (who isn’t?) and this just added another layer. The kids had questions. I didn’t have answers. I just had to get through the day. Teach like normal. Smile when I could. Stay steady. Before the day was over, I talked with some colleagues and that helped. There was relief in knowing I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t the only one feeling unsure. The last time our district went on strike was in 1979 — almost 50 years ago — and that one lasted six weeks. That fact sat in the back of my mind all weekend.

Before I knew it, the weekend came and went in a blur.

Then suddenly it was Monday.

We weren’t walking through those doors to prep lessons or greet sleepy middle schoolers. We were getting ready to make history. Together. Our superintendent closed the schools, so we weren’t picketing directly in our students’ and families’ faces. Instead, we marched down to the street. Where the public could see us. Where the city could see us. All week, we picketed at our school sites, neighboring schools, and across different parts of San Francisco. While we marched, our union bargaining team was negotiating a contract that could get us back into our classrooms.

The first few days felt grim. Uncertain. We didn’t know what was going to happen.

But one thing that did happen was our camaraderie.

We bonded with coworkers we barely see during a normal school day. We shared meals. Car rides. Snacks. Stories. We stood shoulder to shoulder for hours. I met educators from other schools. I made friends — real ones — in a city where I moved knowing very few people.

And that part caught me off guard.

I think it’s safe to say I’m not the only one who sees my colleagues differently now.

On what would’ve been Day 5, I woke up to chat messages and emails saying the strike was over, We Won! My knee was killing me. I was already trying to mentally calculate how I was going to physically survive another day of marching. So naturally, I felt instant relief.

But I was also emotional.

Being on strike is hard. You don’t get paid. People call you greedy for demanding fair wages because they refuse to learn about anything else you’re fighting for. You see the ugly side of public opinion. It’s exhausting in ways I didn’t expect.

But my emotions weren’t really about the politics or the pay.

They were about the people.

I moved to San Francisco not knowing many people. I’ve always struggled with getting close to new ones. I knew my colleagues were amazing before and I knew they had my back professionally. This strike proved they have it personally, too.

We took something that could have been completely tumultuous and — in true teacher fashion — made it fun. There was music. There were inside jokes. There were shared coffees and borrowed sunscreen and “see you tomorrow” texts. And somehow, it all wrapped up just in time for our scheduled four-day weekend.

I’m glad I made the move to San Francisco. I’m glad I landed where I did. I’m glad I met these people. They inspire me every day in the classroom. And now I know they’re people I can call on outside of it, too.

We made history. But more than that — we made community.