The Painted Door
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. "We would have been able to enter the classroom from the donation room," which abuts the classroom on the other side of the basement by one doorway, "but it seems they painted over the door and it will not open."
I'm not sure if she was physically restraining herself from laughing at this absurdity, but I didn't even try. I let iut rip. It was the funniest thing I'd heard in some time. They painted over the doorway!
"Won't that be a fire hazard?" I asked once I could contain myself again. Some of the female students standing near me had been laughing with me--or at me, I don't really care which.
"Well, yes," she responded, "and we'll probably have to deal with that eventually..."
By this time, we were all ascending the stairs and exiting the building. The bulk of the students went with the nice white lady that had filled me in on the painting fiasco; I watched them wait for the light then cross the busy intersection before I turned to Lynn, the receptionist.
"Do things just kind of crumble here every morning and then you spend the rest of the day putting everthing back together again?" I asked her, only half joking.
"Well," she said, looking past me at the group of brown folks still milling about in the foyer unsure of what to do with themselves without their ESOL class, "not every day..."
I am feeling more and more at home at the International Institute, getting familiar with the not-quite-structured structure of the place. All the people I have met are very friendly and warm, genuine and definitely not intimidating. For all the shabbiness of the building and furnishings, I feel a strong sense of hope there. I tend to be cynical and sarcastic, to look at politics and the economy with something of a jaundiced eye. But at the Institute, there is possibility. It is a place of beginnings.
Except for today. Today was about allowing the absurd to overtake us for a moment. How's that for a possibility?
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. "We would have been able to enter the classroom from the donation room," which abuts the classroom on the other side of the basement by one doorway, "but it seems they painted over the door and it will not open."
I'm not sure if she was physically restraining herself from laughing at this absurdity, but I didn't even try. I let iut rip. It was the funniest thing I'd heard in some time. They painted over the doorway!
"Won't that be a fire hazard?" I asked once I could contain myself again. Some of the female students standing near me had been laughing with me--or at me, I don't really care which.
"Well, yes," she responded, "and we'll probably have to deal with that eventually..."
By this time, we were all ascending the stairs and exiting the building. The bulk of the students went with the nice white lady that had filled me in on the painting fiasco; I watched them wait for the light then cross the busy intersection before I turned to Lynn, the receptionist.
"Do things just kind of crumble here every morning and then you spend the rest of the day putting everthing back together again?" I asked her, only half joking.
"Well," she said, looking past me at the group of brown folks still milling about in the foyer unsure of what to do with themselves without their ESOL class, "not every day..."
I am feeling more and more at home at the International Institute, getting familiar with the not-quite-structured structure of the place. All the people I have met are very friendly and warm, genuine and definitely not intimidating. For all the shabbiness of the building and furnishings, I feel a strong sense of hope there. I tend to be cynical and sarcastic, to look at politics and the economy with something of a jaundiced eye. But at the Institute, there is possibility. It is a place of beginnings.
Except for today. Today was about allowing the absurd to overtake us for a moment. How's that for a possibility?
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