Libraries—a Love Story

 

*Trigger Warning* there are accounts of domestic violence and child abuse. If these topics harm you, move along in peace with my greatest respect.

"Libraries store the energy that fuels the imagination. They open up windows to the world and inspire us to explore and achieve, and contribute to improving our quality of life."

-Sidney Sheldon 

From my earliest memories, libraries have been places of refuge and renewal. In early childhood, I could forget the illnesses that plagued me by sitting at a hard-worn table in a straight-back chair with a copy of “The Mouse and the Motorcycle,” or any volume of The Chronicles of Narnia. As I grew older and physical illness gave way to more insidious sickness libraries became even more important.

Like many, (most?) kids my age, my parents fought, a lot. Unlike many/most kids my stepfather was a violent ex-con. My mom had an undiagnosed/untreated personality disorder. Obviously, they lacked the skills to discuss issues and vent emotions rationally or constructively. 

Books sustained me through the worst of if. My sister took me to the library until I became old enough to catch the bus on my own. Then the library became a weekly destination. Like another form of devotion.

But then we moved out of the city and into the sticks. There were no buses. If there was a library I never knew where it was. The school library was little more than an activity room with books I had already read. 

Fast forward five hard years and my folks had split, we had lost everything and my mom was attempting a start over in a new town. The only problem was that my strong, resilient mother, who managed restaurants and bars, still “needed” a man. So she found one even worse than my stepfather. 

Still, the 80's weren’t as bad for me as some of my classmates. Among the few kids I talked to, there were those who lost parents to prison. One kid’s father committed suicide when he couldn’t find work to save the family home. Some turned to substance abuse others turned self-destructive. Two girls in my sixth-grade class were pregnant by the end of the school year.

My mom quickly tired of my "teen attitude" and complaints about the consistent lack of food and highly inconsistent utility service. She told a restaurant owner I was sixteen-years old, and suddenly I had a job to buy my own food and electricity. I worked from 7PM until 3AM, napped for a few hours, and then went to school. Most days. But I lived for days off and the clean, warm, safe library.

After too many scuffles with Mom’s boyfriend and too much administrative attention, (they tend to notice black eyes and split lips on 7th graders) I dropped out of school. In truth, after too many long shifts, I was tired of teachers and kids and routines that looked more like life on television than the lives me and others like me lived.

A benefit of not going to school was the freedom to work all night, doing prep work and working the line when the cooks screwed off or called in sick. Another upside, the upside that got me through that little patch of hell, was even more time at the SPLENDID Denton, Texas library. 

As my reading appetite expanded from comic books, Ms. Jewel, the nice librarian I had a crush on, helped me find everything from epic poems to science fiction to the classics. It was there that I discovered Dune. As I read more, I thought more. Daydreams about the Millennium Falcon and Pam Greir, (not exactly in that order) became daydreams about getting away.

Between the kitchen and the library, the bed and back to the kitchen, I dreamed of escaping. I wanted away from the fights, the burns, and always being cold and hungry. Mostly, I wanted away from the damned misery. Victor Hugo gave me the confidence, the near-relidious belief that anything is possible. Frank Herbert and Octavia Butler taught me to take those daydreams apart, to ask, “but how would I really do it?” More than just dream, I began to plan. 

I finally left Denton with a few dollars in my pocket, a pack for crossing the country on foot, and provisions for my dog. The plan was courtesy of the library. I learned most of how to travel lean from reading books by the beats and the hippies. I planned my route home from a map in the reference section. 

When I got home to Houston, I knew where I would stay, who I would contact for a job, and how I would get my own place. I started at the Houston Public Library. The childhood sanctuary became an adult resource. I started my prep for the General Equivalency Diploma exam, (GED, or substitute high school diploma) at the library. 

Years later, when I returned to school I spent long days at the library for a quiet place to study, access to computers, (then still rare on college campuses) and librarians who seemed to live for books as much, if not more, than I did. Sometimes, the library was simply a place of peace when my life was in chaos. 

Libraries are still sacred to me. I still go every chance I get. If you haven’t been in a while, visit your local library. You might just find religion. You’ll most definitely find salvation.

The photo at the top, Jesse H. Jones Central Library Building is by WhisperToMe and is in the public domain.