Meg Lacombe: The Comfort in Discomfort
I did not have a great breakaway, but I had an important one.
The sky was stained with a grey mixture of smog and saturated clouds, and I was fighting to put my umbrella in my $20 purse. My umbrella fell limp as I shoved it down to the depths of my purse, hoping I wouldn’t need it that day. I grabbed the blue lily pot I was to return for my boss and I started on the five-minute walk to the office. On a regular workday I enjoyed this walk, I went the long way around passing St. Johns Church then I rounded the corner at the 231 Bar to be greeted by the familiar yellow doormat of WISH Housing.
Outside of the owners of the local coffee shop, I rarely encountered another being. On this Saturday, my five minutes of peace were distorted by sirens and car horns and my clear sidewalks were met with angry millennials holding signs. Their once pale faces grew crimson as they screamed at the Senate buildings, angry that the marble walls would not allow their yells to go through to the legislators. I hastened my step and bowed my head, avoiding eye contact with the mob, and I took the short route to avoid any conflict. While I understood I chose to be in this environment for the summer, the constant political unrest made me uncomfortable.
Arriving at my office, I was greeted by the slight, balding Sal, who was never supposed to work on Saturdays, yet he was there every Saturday. Sal was a hearty New Yorker, who commonly mocked my southern drawl in his own jarring accent. On a regular day Sal and I were friendly, but today he was in a mood, yelling profanities out the window to me as the mob passed by, gesturing to the distressed student in his office.
“Why the ---- are they in this city if they can’t handle a ------- protest”
Working with Sal, I knew to nod my head in silent agreement, as this would make my job go smoothly. I put down my lily pot, took off my blazer, and waited for him to finish complaining about the current political climate. Eventually Sal stomped back to his key riddled desk so he could return his attention to the complaining resident. With Sal gone, I finally set out to make the welcome packets for the day. I carefully scripted each student’s name in felt tip black ink on the yellow manila envelope filled with their housing information. I received the same envelope when I moved in to my apartment, and my mind drifted to what their jobs would be for their summer adventures. Maybe Sandra from Idaho was working in Congress? Perhaps Brad from California was working for the Department of Defense? When each letter was perfectly arranged, I carefully put each folder in alphabetical order and placed them in the green letter tray.
As if the reception phone had a sense of humor, when the second hand crossed over the large 12 on the face of my watch the phone began to ring. The mother of Maura from apartment 531 in The Congressional Apartments called, very upset, about the fact that her daughter’s air conditioner wouldn’t go below 68 degrees. With a familiar ding from the computer, Maura from apartment 531 emailed me to complain about her air conditioner, and her roommate, and the storage in her room. I could hear Sal yell at the roommate of Maura, in apartment 531, for complaining about Maura. The day began with chaos as I experienced every bump and turn that I could have with customer service. By the end of my third hour I wished I was with the protesters. They were probably nicer than the well-to-do students I was dealing with.
Every summer, interns in too-big suits and in too-short skirts descend on a very suspecting Washington D.C. They are hungry, excited, and ready for the city’s embrace, hopeful to return with stories of their work in Washington. Walking in their sky-high heels, they call their mothers through blue tooth, holding two Starbucks iced coffees to blend into the crowd of affluent yuppies. I too was a D.C. intern, but rather than working for Congress or for a federal department, I worked for them. Every day, sitting at my desk I answered the calls from their mothers, the emails from their fathers, and the maintenance requests from their roommates. I cleaned their empty coffee cups from the back of the reception couch after I printed their resumes while I listened to them vent about their crazy roommates. A large part of my job in D.C. was ensuring that Maura, Maura’s mom, and Maura’s roommate were happy. I was unhappy.
My day grew longer, my patience grew shorter, and I received six phone calls in total from a Maura representative. Sal was cranky, and he finally left me alone to tend to his growing nicotine addiction. Alone in the office, I received a call from Sandra. In a frantic midwestern accent, she notified me that she would be late to pick up her packet and she wanted me to wait for her. I knew this would make my workday longer, but I also knew that if I didn’t give her the envelope, Sal would have to. And, if Sal gave her the envelope, she inevitably would jump on the first plane back to Idaho. I let her know that I would be waiting on her at the office, hoping that guilt would make her rush her transit.
4:30 came and went, and on Sal’s way out, he made sure I remembered not to be nice to people who would only take advantage of my southern hospitality. When 5:30 hit, I regretted letting her know I’d wait for her. I had yet another difficult day of dealing with the upper-class and I was ready to throw Sandra’s key in a mailbox. At 5:45, I turned off the lights, and just as I walked to the back office, I heard the familiar knock on the door. There stood Sandra, soaked, tired, and flustered. Apologizing profusely, Sandra took me through her day and I could feel my frustration vanish. With a tire blowing out, a wrong turn, and a potential roadkill accident, I realized this kid wasn’t out to ruin my day. I gave Sandra her key, the umbrella from the bottom of my purse, and helped her bring her things down the stairs. As she set off on her three-minute journey to her new apartment, she thanked me. “Thanks for making my day better, I don’t think I would have ended up here without you!”
It took me a minute to realize what she meant, as I was in a difficult position. My whole time in D.C. I felt uncomfortable. It was difficult to find myself within a city when I was having difficulty maintaining my identity in a place I was so different from. I disliked my job, I disliked the city, and I disliked the people. But, when Sandra thanked me, I realized something larger about my role there. I welcomed everyone that walked through my door, I gave them their packets, listened to their stories, and helped them with their housing issues. I made them feel like they belonged in a place where I didn’t. We were all uncomfortable together. I like to think that the people who were with me were happy about where they were, I like to think that they belonged in D.C even if I didn't. And that makes me happy.
Meg Lacombe is a Chemistry major with a minor in Business Administration. In the summer of 2017, she worked at Washington Intern Student Housing in Washington D.C. She will graduate from Lander University in May of 2018, and from there she will go where the wind blows her.