A Closed Door Policy

I have become accustomed to some of the bureaucracy one must deal with when working for agencies funded by government entities—such as using terms like "government entities." The six-weeks-on/two-weeks-off class schedules, the ridiculously low pay, the cramped and ill-equipped classrooms: all of these I am used to now. But it seems that whenever I get a teensy bit comfortable with how things work, another curve ball comes whizzing out of the blue to knock me on the head.

I went bouncing on down the stairs to the Project Learn offices at the main public library Thursday evening, excited to meet my small class of advanced ESOL students. I knew it would be a small class this week; three students had emailed to say they couldn’t make it for various reasons. But one young woman was sure to be there, and Elizabeth had told me a new student would be attending this week, as well. I had a loose lesson plan and a good coffee buzz; I was ready and enthusiastic about the crazy conversations that happen organically with this class.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs to the library's lower level, however, the light-colored wooden double doors to the office hallway were closed. They are usually propped open so that Project Learn employees and clients can come and go freely. And there is usually a Project Learn employee at the L-shaped desk just in front of those doors, ready to greet clients and give directions. The desk was vacant.

I tried the doors; they were locked. I peeked through the crack between them, but saw no movement in the hallway beyond. Then I noticed the people sitting in chairs in the waiting area on the other side of the L-shaped desk. A woman in her early fifties was reading a paperback; a man in probably his early twenties sat next to her with his arms crossed and a sour look on his face. Next to them sat Ving, the woman I had expected to attend my class tonight. Ving is from Vietnam and has lived in the US for twenty years. She's a math teacher at the university, and her English is quite good, though she feels she needs help with grammar.

"Hi, Ving," I said. "Have you been waiting long?"

I was about five minutes late, which is unusual for me. She said she'd only been there a few minutes, and that no one had been at the desk when she arrived.

"I wonder what's going on," I said.

I asked the bookish woman whether they had an appointment today.

"Yes," she said. "He's supposed to take his test tonight for the GED."

She indicated the young man, most likely her son, with her elbow when she spoke. Her face was plain and plump but very quick to smile. Her son looked as though he never smiled.

I took out my phone and started going through my contacts to see if I had a number for anyone who might be able to help us. I knew that Elizabeth usually taught on Thursday evenings, but I only had her email address, not a phone number. I sent her a quick message.

"Well," I said to the three, "I've sent a message but I don't have anyone's phone number. I don't quite know what to do."

The young man twisted his mouth a little, as if he had just been told he had to pay extra taxes this year, and gave us his two cents.

"We could wait here a little longer," he said, "then if nobody comes, we can leave."

He did not uncross his arms. I smiled at him broadly, as if he were a small child who had just said something mildly inappropriate. I sat down next to Ving.

"So how was your week?"

Ving and I chatted about her search for a full-time job and her frustrations with writing cover letters while not getting all of the grammar correct. After a few minutes, the mother and son duo got up and left.

We worked on a few grammar points—Ving is particularly vexed by which verb tense to use in if/then clauses—then we left as well.

Honestly, I was not too upset about a very short class that allowed me to go back out into a most perfectly beautiful evening, one I had been loathe to abandon in the first place. But what is up with locking those doors? I can certainly understand that something unexpected might have happened: whoever was supposed to be working might have become ill and had to leave suddenly, or there may have been some kind of training that all the employees had to attend, leaving the office empty for the evening. But couldn't an email have been sent? Or at least a note posted on the door?

When I first started volunteering at the International Institute, there was a day when I and the entire class showed up only to find the door to our basement classroom had been painted shut from the inside. The painters had left through another door, and no one had given this door any thought until we all tried to open it for our class. On that day, I laughed with all the others and felt lucky to have extra time for my errands and other activities.

This week's locked-door incident feels different, exclusionary, insulting. I still have not received any answer to yesterday's emails, so I still have no idea what’s going on. I don’t know how long I can tolerate the level of uncertainty and disorganization Project Learn seems to thrive on. I'll keep you posted.