I have a problem with American toilets.
In Israel, privacy is a non-issue. When you walk into a store there is
always a security guard who rummages through your purse or backpack looking for
a bomb; people are not too shy to ask how much money you make or why you got
divorced, and they even feel they have the right to look over your shoulder
when you withdraw money from the ATM. But when you are in the toilet, no one
knows what you’re up to.
Meanwhile in America, where people would kill or die to defend their privacy,
you can’t find privacy in the toilet.
Let me explain: The women's bathrooms in my workplace don’t have real walls
between them. They have plastic planks that neither reach the ceiling nor touch
the floor, and the gaps surrounding the doors are wide enough to allow innocent
bystanders to get a glimpse of what is happening inside. I have seen this
abomination countless times around the country, restaurants, airports, movie
theaters, schools and the list goes on and on.
I once wondered why privacy does not exist in American public bathrooms and
found out that the goal was to prevent sexual activity in the toilet stalls.
But as the famous case of the disgraced Senator Larry Craig has shown, it was precisely
the space in the stall partitions that allowed for unmentionable shenanigans to
occur.
So I was still at a loss. But since there was nothing I could do to change
this architectural atrocity, I had learned to live with it. But there is a
limit to the indignities I can endure and remain silent.
One day, while I was using the toilets at work, I noticed that the toilet
paper dispensers had been replaced by new dispensers that sported a loose metal
flap that covered the paper roll. I didn’t give it much thought until the
moment I actually had to use toilet paper and realized that it entailed a
struggle. The metal flap kept slapping my hand, every time I tried pulling on
the roll. The next time I went to the bathroom, again I found myself fighting that
metal flap, trying to outsmart it for an extra square of paper.
Now, had I encountered this ungodly dispenser in a movie theater or
restaurant, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. We women suffer many indignities
and this would be just another gift to reminds us of our place in society. But it
was happening at my workplace, where I spend most of my waking hours… So I
decided to take action.
First, I made some inquiries, and this is what I found out:
1. The new dispensers, which also included a different type of paper roll,
were installed by the company who made them. They did not cost my employer a
penny.
2. The new dispensers were installed to save time for the janitors. They were
built for larger rolls so the janitors would not have to replace them as often.
I beg to differ on this point since more than once I was stranded there without
anything resembling toilet paper, but that’s beside the point. And yes, I
accept your sympathy.
2. The new dispensers were installed to save time for the janitors. They were
built for larger rolls so the janitors would not have to replace them as often.
I beg to differ on this point since more than once I was stranded there without
anything resembling toilet paper, but that’s beside the point. And yes, I
accept your sympathy.
3. There were already a few complaints regarding these new dispensers. Apparently,
people had to touch them to get the paper, and touching anything in a communal
bathroom is icky.
4. I could email someone and express my concern and this someone could
forward my email to someone else who may or may not do something about it.
Ah, the good old American way. Send an email up the chain, express concern –
preferably without curse words, and remember to document everything and be
ready to provide proof upon request – and then hope for the best.
This way of doing things may sound acceptable and may even be efficient if
you were born into a system that respects rules and etiquette and you happened
to internalize it. But not if deep inside you are still a raging Israeli. I was
not going to fall into the email trap. One email here and there would get me
nowhere in this bureaucratic labyrinth. I had to approach this problem with
ingenuity.
I decided to circulate a petition among my female colleagues. It started
with “We want our old toilet paper dispensers back,” and ended with a short
list of “challenges” these dispensers posed. You may be aware that “problem” is
a dirty word in American English. Here we only have “challenges” and “concerns.”
The response to my petition was overwhelmingly positive. Only two women didn’t
sign it. One said she never signed petitions, and the other had no problem with
the new contraption, bless her agreeable soul. All the other women were more
than happy to sign and share their toilet paper horror stories. One woman
described how the metal flap had torn her pants. Another not only confirmed
that the new rolls were narrower than the old ones, but pointed out that they
were also of a poorer quality. She then described an ingenious way in which one
unidentified bathroom visitor rearranged the toilet paper in such a way that
fighting to get it out would be less harrowing.
After I collected enough signatures to fill a page, I scanned my petition
and emailed it up the chain along with some chosen anecdotes, encapsulated by
positive thoughts and female righteousness.
That night I was sleepless with anxiety. Will I get fired for organizing a workplace
toilet paper mutiny? Did I go too far with my demands? Would I be better off if
I had kept my mouth shut? Was I creating new enemies?
At work the next morning, a stranger came into my office, asking for Galia.
He was holding my petition. I didn’t know who he was and I was not sure how to
respond. He was standing at the door looking at me. I wanted to duck under my
desk. My knees were shaking.
I confessed that I was the person who sent the petition and begged for
mercy. I was prepared to apologize, beg for forgiveness. Just don’t fire me.
I’m a single mom, an immigrant. I’m saving for retirement. Please.
To my utter surprise, the man told me he was the building operations manager
and that he had decided to bring back the old toilet paper dispensers. He said
that the offending contraption had created unpleasantness and complaints
throughout the building. He then promised me that the problem would be resolved
in no time.
“So I am not in trouble for organizing a toilet paper mutiny?” I asked,
feebly.
“This is a free country,” he shrugged. “You
can say whatever you want.”
