In the aftermath of 3-1/2 months of striking, people slowly begin to get their lives back in order. For some, it takes a little bit of time to adjust to the concept of not walking around in circles for three hours every day. Within the next few weeks, there will no doubt be carpets throughout Los Angeles with worn-out oval paths in them.
It's not officially over yet, of course. There still is the matter of approving the contract. It's a 10-day process, a blink by strike standards, but long enough. Arguments of all views will be made, we do know that -- these are writers after all, they argue views the way fish get wet. In a matter of days, though, it should all be done. But just the mere thought forces a person to look at what got us here -- regardless of where "here" is at the moment. And for me, one thought leaps out.
The strike captains.
Throughout this process, I have been in awe of the strike captains. To be sure there have been others who have been inexpressibly impressive and deserved the height of appreciation, notably those taking the slings and bludgeons. But I still reserve my awe for the strike captains.
The Guild staff, people loading vans, picketers marching endlessly, absolutely. Fans bringing food (God love fans bringing food!), showrunners, the negotiating committee, Guild leadership, old-time veteran writers diving in daily even though they'll likely never benefit from the strike. Admiration and thanks are plentiful. But I still reserve my awe for the strike captains.
These are maniacal grunts who a year ago made the selfless decision to not only give up much of their lives should a strike occur, but agreed to become professional noodges. All because there was a cause they believed was far more worthy of the headaches and lack of sleep that would result. And most of the time, while doing this, they would be invisible. Just one more person blended into the picket line, or at least blended in when they weren't going to meetings at the Guild or performing some other tireless duty.
(Lest it not be clear, I include as well in this menagerie the strike captain coordinators. The "tutti di tutti capos," as I assume they call themselves, at least when no one's listening.)
What all others did during the strike is invaluable in ways impossible to calculate. But any strike falls apart when people are left uninformed or feeling alone. Being on strike is a helpless enough feeling -- out of work, out of income, out of purpose. But to add the emptiness of not knowing what is going on is like treading water in the middle of the widest, deepest ocean in the darkest night. Strike captains filled that void and kept people daily, regularly up to date, up to speed and -- ultimately -- united. And in the end, it's being united which is the only thing which allows a strike to succeed.
Keeping members daily informed would be admirable enough, but at times it seemed to be hourly. I can only speak for my strike captain, John Binder, but there were days (maaaaannny days) when half a dozen of his emails would pour in to my computer. At times, I felt I had to keep a careful watch that my software wouldn't determine him to be spam and block the poor fellow. His encouragements to his team and his endearing rants of exhortation to those -- how shall we put it politely? -- to those not meeting his standards would have made Emma Goldman's blood stir. In John Binder, the spirit of Eugene V. Debs lives. I dreamed I saw Joe Hill every night, hourly, in email.
And the regular updates sent around by another strike captain, Ashley Gable, to her beloved Team Foxians did the near-impossible: they made you look forward to reading strike reports for the pure aesthetic value. The richness, whimsy, puns and sheer craft and joy of effort made what should have been tedium into something involving. Unifying. And little in a strike is more important than unifying. They were so wonderful that you'd just look at them and think, wow, this person should be a writer.
(My advice to people: if you're going to be in a position where you're ever on strike, do it with writers. It will help make passing the time so much better. But also form an alliance with actors. A few unfairly-attractive people in the picket line helps make the time seem to go more quickly. And you get more TV coverage.)
No doubt others have stories of their own about email reports from their strike captains. I would never say Team Fox's were the best. But I consider myself lucky to think precisely that in private. You all go have your own private thoughts.
But in the end, all those private thoughts will have one thing in common. Strike captains. Majestically hard-working, critically vital, profoundly selfless, unrelenting, uplifting and the little-regarded caboose that pushes the entire train over the hill.
I reserve my awe for the strike captains.
May I not have to see or hear from them again.
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
- Walt Whitman
Read more about the strike on the Huffington Post's writers' strike page.