"I want you and you want me. Nothing else matters."
Four years ago, Rachel Evans was destroyed by the only boy she ever loved. Ever since then, she has tried to rebuild her life, but when her safety net--her boyfriend, job, friends, and family--di...
"Hi, you must be Rachel!" A petite pale-skinned redhead greets me when I enter the cabin converted into a classroom at Josh's camp.
Tonight is my first time as a literacy tutor and I'm all anticipation. I had dinner with Josh, his mom, and Ellie beforehand, and I couldn't stop talking about tonight. I just hope that for once something lives up to my expectations.
"Yeah, Rachel Evans." I smile at her. "You must be Genevieve."
"I am, it's a pleasure to meet you." She shakes my hand, a soft smile on her round, freckled face. "We have a few minutes before the students arrive. Let me show you our curriculum."
"Curriculum?" I ask. For some reason, I expected this to involve singing the ABC's and writing vocabulary words ten times.
"Of course. The National Literacy Council has developed a beginning literacy course for both non-literate English Language Learners. We'd like to expand and create a curriculum for those with literacy skills too advanced for this class, but we're not quite to that point yet." It takes me a few minutes to decode everything she said, and she smiles at my overwhelmed expression. "Here, take a look at this book. We'll be doing lesson eight tonight, so when we break into small groups, feel free to jump in!" I take a seat at one of the desk chairs and flip through a few pages. The book starts with exercises I hadn't even thought of: how to hold a pencil, the differences between sentences, words, and letters, and then letters versus numbers. It goes on to introduce the letters, starting first with consonants and then vowels. Lesson 9 introduces basic sets of words with the same vowel, a, and different consonants. Bat, hat, cat. Sad, mad, bad. Then students complete fill-in-the-blank sentences about how to buy groceries.
While I explore the lesson, Genevieve passes out mini whiteboards, markers, copies of the lesson, and pencils. Other volunteers start to trickle in, people from all ages and walks of life. Mrs. Santarelli tells me how her mother moved here from Italy and only knew two words in English: yes and please. Now, Mrs. Santarelli runs a bakery--which I promise to visit--and volunteers here every week. Harry Finch is a middle-aged balding man in a worn suit with too many wrinkles for his age. He works as a defense attorney and a client from Mexico inspired him to volunteer. He's joined by his wife and 13 year old daughter. I meet a guy from Ohio State who tutors here after his Wednesday classes and a mother and her three year old son who tutor after closing their laundromat for the day.
Are they here because they want some higher purpose in their lives like I do? Are they trying to imbue their lives with meaning as well? It's strange how happiness and selflessness go hand in hand.
A few minutes before seven, the students start to come in. Rather than sitting in groups by themselves, they intersperse with the tutors and start conversations. Some of the conversations are in fluent English, some are in Spanish, and some are in a combination of broken English and hand gestures. Some of the refugees, like I expected, are Somali, but there are also people from all different ethnic backgrounds and economic classes. It's like a stained glass window, all of us different but drawn together for a common purpose. I sit next to Mrs. Santarelli, and not just because she brought shortbread, as a group of young Somali women join us.
"Sidee tahay?" Mrs. Santarelli says, and I soon gather that while they've been learning English, she's picked up a little Somali as well.
The girls laugh at the Somali words mixed with her thick Italian accent. "We are good, Mrs. Santa."
"Have you met Rachel yet?" she asks, and I introduce myself and try to commit their names to memory.
I scan the warm chatter of the room--there are already 40 people here with a few still trickling in from the back. How did this program grow so fast? Is there this much need for literacy education, even in an urban Midwest city like Columbus? Apparently so.
Genevieve calls everyone's attention to the front. First, we review the alphabet and everyone writes it out on their whiteboard. The tutors check their work and make suggestions, and the students laugh over their mistakes. There's no shame or judgment here, and I wonder how many public school classrooms can claim the same.
After the review, Genevieve gives a lesson on the short "a" sound. She shows a video with pictures of things with the short "a" sound and then has us all practice. We open our mouths wide and exaggerate the sound.
"Caaaaaaat."
"Saaaaaaad."
"Raaaaaaag."
Genevieve gestures to the copies from the book and Mrs. Santarelli and her students start to review it. I watch with a growing smile on my face as they navigate the complexities of the English language, at some points laughing and at others furrowing their brows, squeezing their pencils, and struggling through the exercises.
This reminds me how much I love the power of education. I love the act of learning or helping someone else learn something new, and I love the feeling when someone finally grasps a difficult concept. The fact that this literacy class is offered free of charge to these people makes it even better, and everyone is a volunteer besides Genevieve. It's perfect.
After the class, the students are given homework to complete before next week and they leave with the tutors, hugging and laughing as they go. There is no inequality here, no knowers and learners. There are only people helping other people. It's a safe place.
I help Genevieve tidy up the room and gather the supplies. "So, what did you think?" she asks me.
"When can you train me?" I ask with a smile. "This is incredible. I want to help." Genevieve's smile is knowing and soft. "We can complete the training before next week's lesson. Can you be here at 6:00?"
"Yes, absolutely!"
"Rachel, I just want to make something clear." She hesitates, tucking a stray strand of frizzy red hair behind her ear. "This is a weekly commitment. I understand you work at the Post full-time, but we do ask that once you start tutoring an individual or a small group, you stay with us at least through the end of the year. I understand this is a commitment, but we don't think it's fair to have tutors who are only here part of the time. The reason these students are so comfortable with us is because they've developed relationships with their tutors, making this a safe place to learn for them."
"I'll be here every week," I say. I don't care if Mr. Fitzpatrick fires me for not working late once a week.
She smiles at me, her emerald eyes sparkling. "Then I'll see you next week."
~~~~~
Have you ever volunteered somewhere and experienced that feeling of supporting the greater good?
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