How I Learned to Read the Room
As a magazine writer, I informed people that volunteer work would make them happier and more fulfilled. Then I tried it.
I stood at a whiteboard in the Time-Life cafeteria, which at 6 p.m. smelled like a mix of disinfectant and slightly spoiled milk. My adult literacy students—the three who had shown up—sat at vinyl-covered lunch tables with their essays.
“Would anyone like to read their piece?” I asked.
All three stared at the floor, still as granite. This week’s topic, “My favorite pastime,” had failed to inspire.
“Ramon?” I said, my voice slightly pleading.
Ramon usually cooperated when called on. But tonight, he jolted, as if suddenly awakened, and shook his head. The other students, two young women I’d never seen before, also declined.
“Okay, how about we write one together,” I suggested. “Who would like to tell us about their favorite pastime?”
More blank stares. I sighed and passed out a worksheet on prepositional phrases. A few minutes later, Ramon placed his head against the wall and began snoring softly.
When I first signed up to be a literacy volunteer, I thought it would make me feel h…