Five men sit around the table. The oldest of them is in his 50s, the youngest about 30. All are wearing city worker uniforms. They are laborers. The creases of their hands are lined with dirt.
In front of them, a teacher stands by a blackboard. The teacher writes a simple sentence, then asks the men a question.Could any of them pick out the verb?
The men study the sentence closely, several mouthing the words. Then, tentatively, a few hands go up.
Next question: Can anyone spell the word "education?"
A man named Dennis walks to the blackboard to try. He begins to write, then pauses.
"Is it with two D's?" he asks. Patiently, the teacher tells him to keep trying. He goes back to work, then asks a second question: "Is it with a J?" Finally, he gets it right, then smiles as he takes his seat.
"That wasn't easy," he says.
A man grows into adulthood, never learning to read. Year after year, he tells himself it is too late. He will never know the wonder of books, or even of the sports page, and somewhere deep he will always be ashamed, but it's too late. And then one day, he decides he will not allow it to be too late. At the age of 30, or 40, he will find the courage to start what most people start at 5.
Soon, the class is over. I look at Dennis, who is sitting across from me. I tell him I am a journalist who has come to write about literacy training for adults. I'd heard that a group called the Institute for Labor Studies and Research was running such classes in a number of workplaces. This is one.
Would Dennis be willing to let me use his full name?
At first, he looks embarrassed, but then his face changes.
"Sure," he says. "Dennis Farias. It's something to be proud of. I'm trying. I'm improving."
He is 41 and a heavy equipment operator. He does maintenance work in the city's parks. Before that, he worked in a jewelry factory.
I point to one of the words on the class worksheet - "excavation" - and ask Dennis if he can read it.
"Ex . . . Ex-cation," he says. He knits his brow. "Ex . . . ex-cavin. No - excavation." He smiles. "I have to sound it out."
He refers to his illiteracy as a handicap. He spent much of his life trying to hide it.
"I did the best I could to keep it to myself," he tells me. "I guess I was embarrassed."
He did not finish grammar school, although he did get a 6th grade certificate in the service.
"It limited me a lot," he says. "Even if I wanted to go to the movies, I needed someone to help me find what's what."
When the city put job openings on the board, he was unable to understand them. Often he would be hesitant to ask co-workers to read them to him. It was a risk of sorts.
"A lot of people," he explains, "like to humiliate other people."
It made him want to prove them wrong. But he did not think he could do it. He was approaching 40. He was too old.
I ask him what finally made him change his mind.
"I had a child," he says. "I wanted to be able to read stories to her."
One day he discovered the city was offering literacy classes during work hours. He talked about it with other co-workers whom he knew could not read. Many hesitated.
"They told me they were too old to learn," says Dennis.
But others did sign up. That made it easier.
It has not come quickly.
"At first, I had trouble with `it' and `at,' " he says. "There are five vowels and so many different sounds. It can be very confusing. I thought I'd never learn."
But slowly, it has begun to happen.
By now, most of the others have left the room. Dennis and I begin to gather up our things. He tells me he is newly separated and only gets to see his daughter a few hours a week. But when he does, there is one thing he likes to do above all others. He likes to read to her.
"It makes me very proud," he says. "That's what I tell my daughter: Daddy can do anything."