The Interview
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 with "Visitor" in large letters, on which she had written my first name in a lovely, slanted script, as she rattled off a litany of directions to someplace called The Hall of Honors. I caught something about a right and a left turn, smiled and turned to the second set of glass doors, determined to muddle my way up to the specified location. A young black girl in a maroon shirt and hair net holding the glass door open must have noticed the slight confusion on my face.
"Would you like me to guide you?"
"Oh, yes! Thank you" I replied and followed her down the hall to the right. The hall was lined with rows of tan high-school-type lockers, with long slim doors on the bottom and shorter square doors at the top, each decorated with construction paper name tags in puffy paint and glitter: Joan. Bradley. Dorothy. Cora. Not the names of children, despite the colorful presentation.
My guide pushed the button for the elevator and repeated the directions more slowly: On the second floor, turn right and the Hall of Honor is at the end of the hall. I thanked her again and ascended.
As I exited the elevator, strains of Rod Stewart's Maggie May emanated from a room across the hall dubbed the Sunshine Room. Several wing-back armchairs in mauve and green plastic upholstery flanked the door to the Sunshine Room, wherein a half dozen elderly men and women sitting at tables covered in plastic cloths slumped or hummed or turned to smile at me. Two or three young ladies in maroon shirts identical to the one worn by my guide moved about quickly and efficiently, chirping about "making Valentine's cards for Joe." An elderly woman in sweatpants emerged from an adjoining room limping and complaining of arm pain. The maroon-clad aid with her smiled at me as they passed and entered the now empty elevator.
I made my way down the hall, flanked by more lockers with cheery name tags (Doretta, Jeanne, Fran), then walls of faux white pine paneling, to another set of plastic upholstered chairs and a small Queen Anne table in front of a large plaque proclaiming this to be my destination. "CYO Hall of Honor: To those who gave guidance and leadership to the CYO in the early days." The plaque was surrounded by rows of 4x6 black and white photos of men, women, and couples, some reverends or monsignors, others just civilians, each with only a year under his or her name. I settled into one of the chairs and examined the gray indoor/outdoor carpeting until I heard my name called from not very far away.
Mary Kase, tall and thin in a graying pageboy haircut, cream blouse and print sweatervest, strode quickly toward me with her right hand extended. She apologized for making me wait, blaming the new director who was conducting the meeting she had just emerged from. I would hear more about this new director and the changes she was making, not all of which, I gathered, Mary was entirely on board with.
We entered an empty conference room just off the hallway before the lockers and settled across from each other at a cherry wood table.
"Let me start by just explaining how our organization works. Not everyone understands it, especially with all the changes in the last two years," Mary began.
She then spent no less than thirty minutes meticulously outlining, I think more for herself than for me, how Catholic Charities and CYO Community Services merged recently with the Cleveland Diocese, which organization used to do which service programs, who does what now, and who gets money from whom and for what. At least, I think that's it. Sort of. I took notes, but she spoke very quickly and threw around a lot of Pastor This-es and Father Thats and names of people and groups I've never heard of. I nodded periodically, smiled when it seemed appropriate. I hope there's not a test on this stuff, I thought.
"So, why don't you tell me why you want to volunteer, Sharon?"
I suddenly found myself tongue-tied. I had prepared for this moment. I didn't want to tell her that I'm looking for writing subjects; that would sound a little too self-serving. So I answered in a less narcissistic, though still true, way.
"My friends and I have talked for a long time about helping people, about getting more involved in the community, but we never really do it. Some of us give money sometimes, but I just want to actually do something. I decided that, since I have a little free time this semester, I would take the initiative."
She seemed satisfied with that. Then we got down to some nitty-gritty.
"Let me tell you about some of the areas where we need volunteers," she segued; "some of the opportunities we have, and you can see what interests you."
As Mary outlined the Adult Day Care services, hot lunch program, and camps for kids with disabilities, I tried not to get discouraged. I want to work with immigrants, I thought. What about the Hispanic Outreach program? She hit that one last, almost as an afterthought.
"And, of course, Zooey Ramos, who is bilingual, runs the Spanish Enrichment program downtown. She focuses on connecting clients to medical, legal, housing, and educational help. She's kind of a one-woman show down there." What might suit my skills, Mary suggested, would be grant writing, or perhaps some light clerical work. When I looked less than enthusiastic, she hedged, "I'm just suggesting some areas; you don't have to decide right now..."
Then we were on to more special-needs kids, summer camp, and fundraising events, like the Monte Carlo Night.
"That's coming up in March, and we really need volunteers who can get flyers out, make calls to people to purchase tickets, help with the set-up, and actually work the event." She paused a little here, obviously hopeful that I'd jump on this chance to expend my volunteer energies at a gambling night for wealthy donors. Not a chance.
"Well, I'm a little more interested in the Spanish program at St. Bernard's"
"Oh, yes, with your interest in other languages and all," she recovered quickly, something I believe she is used to doing. "You know, at The Visitation of Mary, what used to be St. Martha's on Tallmadge Avenue, Father Joe works with a group of, now I don't know if this is the right word for them, but I'm going to call them Asians, who need a little more outreach to get the services they need..."
This perks up my attention a bit. "I worked with Gary and Patricia Wyatt a little bit at the North Hill Community Center up there; I believe most of the Asians in that neighborhood or Karen, an ethnic minority from Burma."
Mary is surprised and quite delighted by my input. She takes notes, says she will contact Gary and Patricia, and she will find out if Father Joe needs any help. She will also talk to Zooey, to see if I can "help watch the children while she works with the mothers" at St. Bernard'S. That's not quite what I had in mind, but I'll let it go for now.
We move on to the background check. Across the hall, in a room marked "Administrative offices" that opens to another corridor lined with cubicles, we both sit at a small metal desk. Mary taps a password into the computer, gets it wrong and has to check it twice before getting it right on the third try. I read a paper she hands me, listing lots of nefarious criminal activity (everything from murder and forced prostitution to mail fraud) that I must attest to never having been convicted of. I attest to my non-criminal status. Then we need some fingerprints.
A small plastic box, about the size of a credit card machine, stands on the desk, blinking a green, phosphorous light. The top is clear plastic, with small outlines of characterless hands on it. Mary specifies that my fingers must be inside the red box on the computer screen, but not too high inside it, and that she must press on my fingers for the image to register. I get a green check-mark on my right fingers on the first try. This delights Mary. The left hand takes two tries; the thumbs are perfect right away. Inside,I hope this doesn't make it seem like I'm some kind of pro at getting finger-printed.
"Well, you win the prize today!" Mary exclaims. "Others have taken a half hour or more to get this right!" We both laugh.
Back out in the hallway, we shake hands and agree to speak again next week. In the meantime, Mary will investigate the two immigrant-related programs for me, and I will decide which program I would like to try first.
Downstairs, I sign out on the clipboard at the glassed-in reception desk and bid a good-day to the kind gray-haired lady.
As I get into my car and start the engine, a man in a leather cowboy hat and thick gray mustache is wheeling a cart full of equipment from his van toward the entryway: long, flat rectangle of a keyboard case, small amplifier, folded black metal stand. Looks like the seniors are getting a musical afternoon!
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 with "Visitor" in large letters, on which she had written my first name in a lovely, slanted script, as she rattled off a litany of directions to someplace called The Hall of Honors. I caught something about a right and a left turn, smiled and turned to the second set of glass doors, determined to muddle my way up to the specified location. A young black girl in a maroon shirt and hair net holding the glass door open must have noticed the slight confusion on my face.
"Would you like me to guide you?"
"Oh, yes! Thank you" I replied and followed her down the hall to the right. The hall was lined with rows of tan high-school-type lockers, with long slim doors on the bottom and shorter square doors at the top, each decorated with construction paper name tags in puffy paint and glitter: Joan. Bradley. Dorothy. Cora. Not the names of children, despite the colorful presentation.
My guide pushed the button for the elevator and repeated the directions more slowly: On the second floor, turn right and the Hall of Honor is at the end of the hall. I thanked her again and ascended.
As I exited the elevator, strains of Rod Stewart's Maggie May emanated from a room across the hall dubbed the Sunshine Room. Several wing-back armchairs in mauve and green plastic upholstery flanked the door to the Sunshine Room, wherein a half dozen elderly men and women sitting at tables covered in plastic cloths slumped or hummed or turned to smile at me. Two or three young ladies in maroon shirts identical to the one worn by my guide moved about quickly and efficiently, chirping about "making Valentine's cards for Joe." An elderly woman in sweatpants emerged from an adjoining room limping and complaining of arm pain. The maroon-clad aid with her smiled at me as they passed and entered the now empty elevator.
I made my way down the hall, flanked by more lockers with cheery name tags (Doretta, Jeanne, Fran), then walls of faux white pine paneling, to another set of plastic upholstered chairs and a small Queen Anne table in front of a large plaque proclaiming this to be my destination. "CYO Hall of Honor: To those who gave guidance and leadership to the CYO in the early days." The plaque was surrounded by rows of 4x6 black and white photos of men, women, and couples, some reverends or monsignors, others just civilians, each with only a year under his or her name. I settled into one of the chairs and examined the gray indoor/outdoor carpeting until I heard my name called from not very far away.
Mary Kase, tall and thin in a graying pageboy haircut, cream blouse and print sweatervest, strode quickly toward me with her right hand extended. She apologized for making me wait, blaming the new director who was conducting the meeting she had just emerged from. I would hear more about this new director and the changes she was making, not all of which, I gathered, Mary was entirely on board with.
We entered an empty conference room just off the hallway before the lockers and settled across from each other at a cherry wood table.
"Let me start by just explaining how our organization works. Not everyone understands it, especially with all the changes in the last two years," Mary began.
She then spent no less than thirty minutes meticulously outlining, I think more for herself than for me, how Catholic Charities and CYO Community Services merged recently with the Cleveland Diocese, which organization used to do which service programs, who does what now, and who gets money from whom and for what. At least, I think that's it. Sort of. I took notes, but she spoke very quickly and threw around a lot of Pastor This-es and Father Thats and names of people and groups I've never heard of. I nodded periodically, smiled when it seemed appropriate. I hope there's not a test on this stuff, I thought.
"So, why don't you tell me why you want to volunteer, Sharon?"
I suddenly found myself tongue-tied. I had prepared for this moment. I didn't want to tell her that I'm looking for writing subjects; that would sound a little too self-serving. So I answered in a less narcissistic, though still true, way.
"My friends and I have talked for a long time about helping people, about getting more involved in the community, but we never really do it. Some of us give money sometimes, but I just want to actually do something. I decided that, since I have a little free time this semester, I would take the initiative."
She seemed satisfied with that. Then we got down to some nitty-gritty.
"Let me tell you about some of the areas where we need volunteers," she segued; "some of the opportunities we have, and you can see what interests you."
As Mary outlined the Adult Day Care services, hot lunch program, and camps for kids with disabilities, I tried not to get discouraged. I want to work with immigrants, I thought. What about the Hispanic Outreach program? She hit that one last, almost as an afterthought.
"And, of course, Zooey Ramos, who is bilingual, runs the Spanish Enrichment program downtown. She focuses on connecting clients to medical, legal, housing, and educational help. She's kind of a one-woman show down there." What might suit my skills, Mary suggested, would be grant writing, or perhaps some light clerical work. When I looked less than enthusiastic, she hedged, "I'm just suggesting some areas; you don't have to decide right now..."
Then we were on to more special-needs kids, summer camp, and fundraising events, like the Monte Carlo Night.
"That's coming up in March, and we really need volunteers who can get flyers out, make calls to people to purchase tickets, help with the set-up, and actually work the event." She paused a little here, obviously hopeful that I'd jump on this chance to expend my volunteer energies at a gambling night for wealthy donors. Not a chance.
"Well, I'm a little more interested in the Spanish program at St. Bernard's"
"Oh, yes, with your interest in other languages and all," she recovered quickly, something I believe she is used to doing. "You know, at The Visitation of Mary, what used to be St. Martha's on Tallmadge Avenue, Father Joe works with a group of, now I don't know if this is the right word for them, but I'm going to call them Asians, who need a little more outreach to get the services they need..."
This perks up my attention a bit. "I worked with Gary and Patricia Wyatt a little bit at the North Hill Community Center up there; I believe most of the Asians in that neighborhood or Karen, an ethnic minority from Burma."
Mary is surprised and quite delighted by my input. She takes notes, says she will contact Gary and Patricia, and she will find out if Father Joe needs any help. She will also talk to Zooey, to see if I can "help watch the children while she works with the mothers" at St. Bernard'S. That's not quite what I had in mind, but I'll let it go for now.
We move on to the background check. Across the hall, in a room marked "Administrative offices" that opens to another corridor lined with cubicles, we both sit at a small metal desk. Mary taps a password into the computer, gets it wrong and has to check it twice before getting it right on the third try. I read a paper she hands me, listing lots of nefarious criminal activity (everything from murder and forced prostitution to mail fraud) that I must attest to never having been convicted of. I attest to my non-criminal status. Then we need some fingerprints.
A small plastic box, about the size of a credit card machine, stands on the desk, blinking a green, phosphorous light. The top is clear plastic, with small outlines of characterless hands on it. Mary specifies that my fingers must be inside the red box on the computer screen, but not too high inside it, and that she must press on my fingers for the image to register. I get a green check-mark on my right fingers on the first try. This delights Mary. The left hand takes two tries; the thumbs are perfect right away. Inside,I hope this doesn't make it seem like I'm some kind of pro at getting finger-printed.
"Well, you win the prize today!" Mary exclaims. "Others have taken a half hour or more to get this right!" We both laugh.
Back out in the hallway, we shake hands and agree to speak again next week. In the meantime, Mary will investigate the two immigrant-related programs for me, and I will decide which program I would like to try first.
Downstairs, I sign out on the clipboard at the glassed-in reception desk and bid a good-day to the kind gray-haired lady.
As I get into my car and start the engine, a man in a leather cowboy hat and thick gray mustache is wheeling a cart full of equipment from his van toward the entryway: long, flat rectangle of a keyboard case, small amplifier, folded black metal stand. Looks like the seniors are getting a musical afternoon!
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