Nothing to See Here
826CHI dwells behind the Boring Store, a store advertising approximately nothing, boasting a complete lack of customers, and stating that it might carry apertures, openings, perforations, pits, cavities and punctures, holes and hollows. Within, one can find (if one looks hard), all the supplies a secret agent could possibly need in the big city: underwater voice amplifiers, glasses with cameras installed, and of course, the signature 826CHI mustache on a stick, an essential insta-disguise for anyone hoping to remain undetected. The Boring Store and its important merchandise provide much-needed funds for a non-profit offering free services to any school aged children in Chicago, but the real magic happens in the back room.
On this particular Thursday I watch a hoard of fidgety 4th graders peering through the window that divides the Boring Store from the “publishing house.” Straight ahead they glimpse a closet, chained shut and plastered with signs proclaiming “KEEP OUT By Order Of ADMIRAL MOODY.” “NO TRESPASSING ALLOWED!” “PELIGRO! NO TRASPASAR!” The students look nervous.
The other volunteers and I look nervous too. We explain to the students coming in the door that we work for a publishing house with the meanest boss alive. This could be our last day; we may, in fact, be fired if things don’t work out. Admiral Moody insists that we publish at least one good story a day, and refuses to accept anything with violence or unhappy endings. We desperately need the help of a 4th grade class to achieve this goal, and so we quickly herd them in front of the photographer (who snaps their “author photo”, complete with the requisite serious face and serious looking mustache on a stick that all authors of course wear) and then seat them on a rug to await orders.
Horrors! Admiral Moody radios in, and he is sounding nasty today. He demands his story within the next two hours, and once our storyteller has sufficiently pacified him, we set to work. She outlines the basic elements of a good story with the students, and begins fielding suggestions for characters (We want a flying jellyfish named Regina? Fine!), settings (She lives in a mansion in an apple tree? Sure!), and plot (She and her best friend the vegetarian zombie are going to a Trilobite festival? Fabulous!) I, the volunteer typist, try to jot it all down while the illustrator interprets the vegetarian zombie and flying jellyfish into a five minute drawing that children and teachers alike are impressed by. The rest of the “publishers” are frantically printing author photos, formatting covers for the books, and copying the pages of the story as fast as I can type them.
Let’s digress. 826CHI has over 600 volunteers. Other 826 locations around the country range from 200 volunteers to over 1400. Even the lowest number here seems like a staggering amount of free help for a little non-profit that tries to help kids with reading and writing, but the more I come, the more I understand why people keep showing up.
Every Thursday I am here for these storytelling/bookmaking field trips, sometimes financially backed by Nau (who are so enthused about volunteer work that they’ll pay employees to do a certain amount), but mostly not. Volunteers are here every afternoon for tutoring sessions with whatever kids show up. Field trips are run Wednesday through Friday, and on weekends volunteers lead workshops based on any skills they possess enough of to share with children. The fact is, none of this feels like work. It is a massive privilege to be hired into Admiral Moody’s staff, and if I’m helping 4th graders create the next fictional work of genius, lucky me! I’m merely assisting with the writing of a story – wait – did the Admiral just say he wants 23 stories?! How will we finish 23 stories in time!? What’s that? You say there are 23 of you here today? You could each write one? Or better yet, each write an ending to the one we’ve all started together? Brilliant! Admiral Moody will be thrilled!
Frantic now, students race to explain how exactly the jellyfish and the zombie escape from evil monkeys at the Trilobite festival. Publishers bind books as quickly as students finish them, providing an “about the author” page (including a mustached author photo), where students describe their background and how they became such accomplished writers. Completed books are whisked away to the Admiral’s dark and mysterious closet, and we sit, nervously, waiting to see if our work was acceptable or utterly in vain.
The radio crackles.
“Shaniqua!” growls the Admiral. “Shaniqua… I love how your book ended with the two friends discovering the secret to happiness! That IS a happy ending. Your book is approved!” We cheer at her luck. “Lisette! I love how the jellyfish in your ending saves all the fish in the sea! What a brave character! Approved!” Hurrah! “Kyle! I love how the jellyfish and the zombie in your story go home and drink Kool-aid! How did you know Kool-aid was my favorite?! Your book is APPROVED!”
One by one the books come back, each bearing a gold stamp stating “Moody Publications” on its cover. And then – miracle of miracles! All 23 books have been approved! We will not lose our publishing house jobs today! This is the smartest and luckiest class in the world!
As the group collects their coats and line up, I sit down, exhausted, but filled with a sense of accomplishment that has little to do with not being fired by an imaginary Admiral from my volunteer job. Siara wanders over to me and says, with that heartfelt certainty that we are somehow less and less likely to feel after 4th grade, “I love this place.” “But you’ve only been here two hours!” I want to say. “How do you know?”
Instead I concede that some things are so great that you only have to hear about them, read about them, experience them for two hours to know that they are truly and utterly wonderful. “I love it too,” I say. I wave goodbye and hold a mustache on a stick in front of my face because we definitely did not just have “a moment” here, and I am absolutely not, just a little bit, crying. Definitely not. We’re just having another typical, blah, humdrum day at the Boring Store.
Holiday shoppers in Chicago who want to support 826CHI can pick up a grappling hook or “heated stakeout gloves” at The Boring Store this weekend–if you can find it. (Hint: it’s located at in front of 826CHI at 1331 N Milwaukee Ave., Chicago, IL 60622.)
This entry was posted on Saturday, November 24th, 2007 at 10:51 am and is filed under Partnerships, Who We Are, Positive Change. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.