Now that my curmudgeon credentials have been seriously compromised, I might as well come out and admit it: I love my volunteer work. I like working with the kids I make contact with, and my co-volunteers are cool people dedicated to not only raising Chicago's literacy rates, but making the journey enjoyable for everyone. I speak of Open Books.
I had been curious about Open Books for some time. I'd been working at Borders for several years (and other bookstores years before then), but as years passed, I became increasingly dissatisfied with my career. As the cliché goes, something was missing in my life. I remember wanting to do something besides retail for some time, but as long as I was getting some job satisfaction, it was tolerable. That's the problem with tolerance: if you're even just a tiny bit comfortable with an otherwise intolerable situation, you can endure it for quite some time. By the end of the last holiday season, however, that job satisfaction had rapidly dissapated, as did the tolerance. My final six months at Borders were even more nightmarish than the holiday season: a round of layoffs forced my manager, who I'd held in high esteem, out of the store, and I lost the job I had successfully lobbied for six months earlier and forced back into my old job. Many of my coworkers followed my manager out of the bookstore, and I felt increasingly isolated and helpless.
When Tori and I went on our annual pilgrimage to the Printers' Row Book Fair in early June, I stopped by the Open Books tent and was impressed with both the organization and its participants. I wanted in the worst way to sign up and volunteer with Open Books, but my constantly mutating work schedule prevented my making any sort of long-term commitment.
Making decisions has never been my strong suit, and the decision I had to make was seemingly simple: stay at a job and pick up a paycheck, or drop the job and work for an organization for free. Of course, in the words of a semi-famous cartoon character, "nothing easy is ever simple." What my job offered me was a steady paycheck but demanded more than my labor: now it expected me to endure emotional abuse, zero morale, and a stapled-on smile for my paycheck. Volunteering at Open Books offered me no money whatsoever and only one other thing: an opportunity for me to refill my soul. It was a surprisingly easy choice.
I've been out of work for three months despite my job-hunting efforts. In the Reverend Spork tradition, it looks as if my bad timing has struck again. The job market is wretched; even retail establishments are cutting back on holiday season hiring. But every Wednesday, I spend twenty minutes apiece reading a book with my two kids; on Thursdays, I help teach an entire class to write stories and poems. I know that, if and when I finally manage to land a job, I might have to give them all up. But only for a while. I'll stay involved in some capacity, that's for sure.