Literacy
At the boarding gate in the Sioux Falls airport I noticed an older Mexican man with a massive cowboy hat who was having some trouble finding his boarding pass as the announcement was made to board the aircraft. After a few feigned attempts at discerning between the cards he had been given when checking in with the ticket counter, he handed them to the gate agent as people lined up behind him, murmuring their displeasure audibly. The gate agent, slightly annoyed with the distraction, flipped through, plucked out his boarding pass, and unceremoniously pointed to the door through which we were to board the plane.
My seating assignment was next to the man who, it turned out, also had the same destination: San Antonio.
"You eh-going San Antonio?" His morning breath was rancid; I could tell that he smoked.
I choked my response back, trying not to inhale the foul remnant of his breath which seemed, impossibly, to hang in the air. He was ecstatic that we were both going to San Antonio. He designated me his flight companion.
Ismael (what a strange name for a Mexican) works at Schwanns in Marshall, Minnesota. He makes microwavable frozen dinners in a medium sized processing plant. He was heading somewhere near Mexico but evaded my questions about why he was going. I had thought at first that his children had sent for him but it didn't seem to be the reason. His jokes were coarse (drinking tequilla when it's too hot, women, etc...) and I gathered that his life had probably always been on the proverbial "wrong side of the tracks."
What I found sad about Ismael was that he was illiterate. Not only was he unable to read his boarding pass or ticket, even in Denver he couldn't put together the logic of boarding gates as we walked from gate B49, where we landed, to gate B19, our departing gate for San Antonio. He just followed me and complained in a good natured way that at 59 he was having a hard time walking as far (it was nearly a mile in the terminal).
During the course of the flight my reading seemed to mystify him. Every few moments he'd look over and try to discern what must have been a jumbling of words on the page to him. After a while he'd sigh and lean back, cradling his cowboy hat, and try to fall asleep.
So much of being functional revolves around basic literacy: ordering food at a restaurant, getting directions on a map, filling out a form, or even signing one's own name. Written words are so important in every day life that it is difficult to even imagine how we would think or process living without them.
I know I shouldn't feel sorry for him and yet I did. When we finally got to San Antonio he thanked me so emphatically I was embarrassed.
"You good person, Dafid."
And as he walked away I couldn't help but think that the world must be a such a hard place for him. My response came only as a thought: good luck Ismael, may you always find someone to take care of you.
3:48:37 PM 
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