Volunteer Explorer

Susan has me doing small group work with some of the students in the second half of our class time during this fall session. She picks out four or five students who have the most difficulty producing words and sentences on their own, students who consistently depend on a neighbor to prompt them with the words in English or Nepali before they speak. My job is to go extra slow with these students, to have them repeat simple questions and answers over and over, so they can build some confidence in their own speaking capabilities rather than just repeat the sounds others make. I am also correcting small mistakes in syntax and pronunciation to help them form better foundational habits in their rudimentary English and avoid long-term linguistic problems. Here's what that looks like: Burka is Saraswati's husband. Saraswati is really sharp, and rather proficient in her English skills. When we worked with counting coins, she was the quickest in the class, both with the nam...

New Class, Same as the Old Class The summer ESOL class ended in August, and we took two weeks off. In that interim, I resumed classes and my assistantship at the university, observed Labor Day, and had the first of many nervous break-downs about my thesis project. On September 9th, my eighteenth wedding anniversary, we began the fall session of Basic Life Skills. The traffic outside the International Institute was a little more hectic than it had been over the summer; yellow school zone lights flashed in front of Findley Elementary school, slowing my progress up the hill of Tallmadge Avenue. It was a mild summer, but now humid air lies thick and heavy over Akron, swelling wooden door frames, frizzing hair, and shortening people's fuzes. My walk down the basement stairs of the Institute today is a welcome descent into chilled, curry-scented respite. We have twenty students today from our summer class, and I remember all but one of their names--Ratna did not come ev...

At the beginning of each ESOL class, Susan, our instructor, writes her name and my name on the white board under the heading 'teachers.' She then writes the words 'speaking, listening, writing, reading' in a list.  "My name is Susan Woodworth. First name Susan; last name Woodworth," she says, pointing to the words with her finger. Then she'll do the same with my name. "We are teachers," she says, pointing out the pluralizing s . "There are two teachers in the classroom today." The students seem to be fascinated by my last name. I'll be standing there, off to the side of the three rows of folding tables, attention fixed on the white board, and I'll hear it.  Cebula. Cebula. se-BOO-lah . SEH-boo-leh . Cebulacebulacebulacebula. I'll look around and three or four of the students will be looking at the white board, or at Susan, fairly expressionless, just repeating the sounds of my last name, qu...

Today, Yadhap and I made paper airplanes and tossed them around during class. Well, I mostly paid attention and helped the other students while Yadhap threw paper airplanes at me, though occasionally I couldn't help but throw one back at him. I have never been good at making paper airplanes. Mine usually take an immediate nose-dive into the ground, smacking down with remarkable force and crumpling into an unrecognizable clump. But for some reason, today's effort was successful. Maybe it was because I didn't give it much thought. Yadhap was already laboring over his when I arrived, forcing way too many folds into a damp, limp ball of smashed paper. I suggested we each start with fresh paper. As I folded my sheet length-wise, Yadhap immediately began criticizing my work. "You're doing it wrong." I folded one corner into the fold. "That's not going to work." I brought the opposite corner into the fold, mirroring the first and creating...

ESOL class was cancelled today, and I bet you'll never guess why. Give up? Well, here's why: When I arrived, just a minute or two late, which is very unusual for me, the narrow stairwell to the basement of the building where the classroom is located was fairly jammed with dark-haired people in brightly-colored clothes milling about and conversing in rhythmic tones I could not understand. Many of them said hello to me, or at least hello waved to me, as I made my way down some of the stairs; I remembered some of their names: Tanka, Lakshme, Bishnu. One Caucasian lady stood in their midst. She and I made eye contact and she told me what had happened. "Painters were here over the weekend. The door is locked from the inside, and there is no key." She spoke in a measured tone with zero judgement in her voice, but a slight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Her light green eyes sparkled ever so slightly beneath her messy graying pony tail. I liked her immediately....

I have had very few occasions to feel like a rock star in my life. I did a little community theater in my youth, which is maybe the polar opposite of being a rock star, but still affords a bit of adulation, if only from relatives and senior citizens.  When I dropped off my application to volunteer at International Institute, however, I had a bona fide Rock Star Moment. Pam, the receptionist, was expecting me because I had called ahead. She had told me there was an immediate opening for a classroom assistant in an ESOL (English for Speakers of Other Languages) class on Mondays and Wednesdays, starting in just a few weeks, so I wanted to get my paperwork in and complete the background check as soon as possible. The summer was going to be my opportunity to generate material for the upcoming, and much-dreaded, Thesis Hours of fall semester. Interacting with lots of immigrants at the Institute seemed the perfect activity to spark page after page of interesting content. I fel...

What was I so worried about? No law suit has befallen me; no legal notices have arrived in my mailbox. In fact, Zully arranged for me to accompany her to another client's doctor visit this week. I really need to calm down and stop being so paranoid. Though I still haven't heard a peep out of Mary, so there could still be another shoe hovering over my head. In the meantime, however, Zully and I are business as usual. Zully and Carlita, Kieletta's mom (not their real names), talk softly in Spanish while Kieletta and I make faces at each other. Kieletta is thirteen and has Downs Syndrome. She and her parents moved to Akron from Puerto Rico about two years ago, seeking better treatment for complications that had arisen from Kieletta's condition. Puerto Rican doctors had said she had Multiple Sclerosis, but the physician here said it's something called Downs Syndrome Dementia. To me, however, Kieletta seems like a pretty normal Downs kid: a little shy, but warm an...

It has been one full week since I sent Mary the message detailing my plan to write about Zully. It has been more than a full week since I talked to Zully about it. Not a word from anyone. The silence is deafening. I feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. This is a lot like the time I told my parents I was spending the night at a girlfriend's house, then went to stay with the family of my boyfriend, who was spending the night in county lock-up for amassing unpaid parking fines. How could I have known that my mother would get sick and call my girlfriend's house to ask me to pick her up? My mother never got sick! Once I knew that she knew, I had to wait several hours before confronting the situation, because I had to attend graduation exercises at the high school and do some other stuff. The waiting and worrying was much worse than the actual confrontation, ensuing argument, and punishment. I don't remember the fight: it was one of many that final year in ...

"I agree to keep confidentiality regarding the clients and family members of CCCS/SC (Catholic Charities Community Services of Summit County) programs. I understand that discussion among staff members regarding client's (sic) needs is a necessity for quality care, but I agree to keep discussion to staff/members of CCCS/SC only. I understand that a violation of this Confidentiality Agreement will result in immediate termination of volunteer experience." Sheesh. Talk about a kill-joy. So what do I do now? I talked with my mentor, who has a healthy amount of experience in journalism prior to entering academia. He counseled me to take down my most recent blog post, which contained sensitive medical and personal information of a client whose real name did not appear in the blog, and to stop writing publicly about anyone whose permission I do not explicitly have. Good advice. I removed the post this morning. He also suggested I talk with my volunteer supervisor as soon as...

I texted Zully yesterday because I wasn't sure if maybe I had forgotten an appointment I had to meet with her. A third of the way through the semester, I'm beginning to feel my obligations becoming unwieldy, even though deadlines are still weeks or months away. Zully didn't text back, but she called me today. I will meet her Friday morning at St. Bernard's and accompany her to a client's appointment at a health clinic! When I offered to drive the client home afterward, since Zully has another appointment and the client was going to get a taxi, Zully said she has to check with Mary to see if that is allowed. Such bureaucracy! But then, what does one expect from the Catholic Church--the original too-big-to-fail corporation!

"I-38." "Bingo!" Some lucky senior just won a Bingo game and a round of applause from her companions. That is such a nice way to be serenaded as I walk down the hall of the Biruta Street offices for the second time. The lockers are still decked out in colorful paper and paint, but this time I do not need an escort to find the elevator or the Hall of Honor. The second-floor hallway is void of people when I emerge from the slowest elevator in Summit County. As I approach the little table and chairs in front of the wall of plaques, however, Mary Case comes out of a door marked Administrative Offices. She is buttoned into her long wool coat and carrying a paper shopping bag. "Hello, Mary!" "Hi, Sharon! Let me find Zully; I think she's in here..." We shake hands, even though Mary seems distracted and rushed. As we walk into another office, she mumbles about having to go to a doctor's appointment this afternoon with her si...

 I know where a lot of things are in Akron, but I'd never heard of Biruta Street, so I made a trial run on Sunday. Turns out, it's only about ten minutes from my home!  Heavy clouds threatened more snow as I pulled into the parking lot next to Catholic Charities Services, a former elementary school building on a quiet street not far from the expressway. A tiny car repair shop stood sentry at the far end of the street; a row of tidy wood-frame houses of one and two stories faced the building, their small yards and steep roofs blanketed in white. An arched red awning stretched from the double glass entryway doors to the sidewalk, orange plastic mesh lashed to both sides. Inside the doors, a tiny gray-haired woman with a pleasant but guarded expression greeted me from behind a glassed-in reception desk. I told her my name and whom I was meeting as I wrote the same information on the sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. She handed me a blue and white name tag, imprinted wit...

I've got an interview! Next Tuesday I will meet with Mary, the volunteer coordinator for Catholic Charities, for my interview as a volunteer. She promises she will keep the process to an hour. That's good, because what would we have to talk about for more than an hour? I pitched this idea to my workshop group Monday evening and they really liked it. All the others in my group are writing memoir--the Christmas when a boy's dad ran over a bunch of deer in Pennsylvania and he thought he had killed Santa Clause; a Gen-Xer delaying adulthood as long as possible by contemplating buying the house of an ex-serial killer; a collage of micro-essays about the musical backdrop of one girl's coming-of-age. I have nothing against memoir narratives; in fact they can have a lot of value as literature and as entertainment, not to mention the psychic catharsis of confronting and examining memories. But Creative Nonfiction is so much more than just memoir. Besides, writing about other p...

How does a white girl from the suburbs infiltrate the Hispanic community in her own town?  I have been doing some writing about immigrants in Akron for a while, but it's been hit or miss: A mutual friend introduces me to someone who is from a different country; we talk and I learn about their journey; then I write a story about it. This serendipitous method has worked to a point, but now I'm stuck and need to do something new. Recent census data indicates that Hispanics and Latinos have out-paced blacks as the largest minor i ty in the country for the first time. I've noticed more Latino faces around town, but I can't seem to initiate the right conversations or contacts to get a story cooking. So I'll do something different! Yesterday, I mailed an application to Catholic Charities Services to apply for volunteer work with their Hispanic Outreach program. This volunteer work will do several things for me--and for Akron: 1. It will allow me to reach out to member...