service

This morning I biked through the rain to downtown Boston. As I smashed through puddles and trucks surged past me I thought, Why am I doing this? It's disgusting out here, and now my butt is soaked. I don't have to do this.

No, I didn't. It's true. But I showed up (with a soggy ass) to tutor refugees in vocational English.

Pretty much on arrival I was left to my own devices with a basic literacy group of 8. I have next to no teaching experience, but the teacher who threw me in said "this is trial by fire."

So we hammered through the days of the week. One initially silent woman lit up when she got the hang of the word Friday. She chirped with joy: FRY DAY. FRY DAY. Another woman covered her face and wept.

Then we pulled out the calendar, and I pointed to squares while the class chorused the day of the week, month, and numerical date for each square. The weeping woman uncovered her face and chimed in. The shy ones mouthed along.

During the last hour, I sat with a woman who spoke and read English well. She was practicing for job interviews. When I asked, Please tell me about your work experience, she took off her glasses, bravely held my eye, and explained that she had been a gynecologist in Afghanistan for 17 years. But she believed that she had the skills to be a good cashier. As she listed her skills and an applied example of each, my heart broke a little.

But a cracked heart is a good thing. It lets more light in. And suddenly something as trivial as a soggy ass doesn't matter a bit.