Finally, a library epiphany

When I told people that I would be heading back to Pittsburgh this summer to work in an internship as an Assistant Childrens librarian, I got the same answers over and over again. From strangers and acquaintances I heard, “Oh, how fun!”, which was easy enough to answer. “Yes, I'm really looking forward to it!” Simple as that, and I was driving away from the tollbooth with my change, or continuing down the campus sidewalk. From friends and family, it was more like, “Oh my gosh, that's so perfect for you!” I loved hearing this, of course. Who wouldn't love constant assurance that their career selection is correct? But after hearing it a few times, I realized that I had no idea how to answer. “Yes,” I would say, “I know!” They would wait, expecting me to go on. I had nothing else to say.

I grew up in the library (this specific library, actually). I would come with my dad once or multiple times a week. He would head over to the magazines and I would run full speed, comically oversize glasses slipping off of my face, into to the Childrens Room. It didn't matter that I had already been here three times that week and that I had the shelves memorized – I would pore over every level of every shelf and check every title. I would sit on the floor for the low ones, stand on my tippy toes for the top ones, and keep my head tilted for however long it took. For large portions of my childhood at a time, I had to wear an eye patch over my left eye. This most certainly didn't deter me – it made the process more tedious, but made me even more determined to read every damn title. When I was finished, I would waddle back over to the magazine section and stick a tiny hand out from around a pile of books to claim my dad's library card. I'd hand it to the staff member at the desk and announce proudly that it was mine, despite ROWAN L. MESSHAM printed clearly across the bottom. Bless them, those wonderful people never corrected me. I never left with less than six books. Eight was usually my limit.

So I love libraries. They've always felt like home to me. But there are a lot of people out there who love libraries, and even more that love books. And yet, there are only 57 universities within the United States and Canada that offer Library Information Science degrees accredited by the American Library Association. Each of these programs probably admits between 5-10 students per year. Despite being a card carrying member (literally) of the ALA, I can barely find any statistics on the number of librarians across the US, or the number of students enrolled in MLIS programs from year to year. It is a rare and sort of underground, hush-hush career field. I'm sure that for every library science student you will meet in your lifetime, you'll meet between 15 and 20 business or education majors. For as many book lovers as the US may have, it doesn't have too many librarians.

When I began at the library last month, I didn't know what to expect. Seeing the library from the side of a patron is completely different from working behind the scenes (behind the stacks, if you will); there is blood, sweat, and tears that go into each book binding, each alphabetized genre, each tiny child-sized exhibit in the Childrens Room. I learned almost immediately that all of the little things I tore into and left turned upside down as a kid take a huge exorbitant of effort and love to create, and that the number of young adults and fully-grown citizens that dislike the library is very sad. But still, three weeks in, I didn't know exactly why my friends and family knew that this job was “so perfect” for me. I am very talented with glitter, I have an obsessive-compulsive need to keep books neat and orderly, and I love kids. But that just didn't seem like enough.

The Summer Reading Club officially opened its doors on Monday at 9 AM, and has been a flurry of activity since. Readers and their families have been filtering in and out of the “Reading Reservoir” consistently, registering as either independent readers (ranging from about first grade through teens and young adults; “Bubbly Readers”) or Read-to-Me club members (ranging from those too young to read alone quite yet to toddlers and babies; “Little Squirts”). We have registered over 480 readers since Monday morning. Although this is an impressive and gratifying statistic, it has been incredibly hectic. There is almost always a line stretching from the “Water Table” out into the library. I am sitting at the table trying to condense my speech (explaining the folders, the Splash Pass, the Wet Gazette, the Buoy Book) so as to get to the family waiting in line before their kid uses one of the props to smack someone in the back of the head. I am shouting to compete with crying newborns, the constant SMACK-ing of the stapler, and the drone of the electric bubble machine. I had imagined making heartfelt, life-long connections with these kids, changing their lives through the power of the written word – and I don't even have the time to learn to pronounce their names correctly. All I can do is lamely point to the craft station on the side of the room and hope that I see them again once the water has settled.

After two eight hour shifts of impersonal chaos, I went into work this morning feeling a little bit discouraged. Just as when I was going through my methods for my music degree, it seemed more like crowd control than a role model. I felt like a sheepdog, nipping at heels and herding the little ones in and out of line. But today, torrent of families started to ebb a bit, and I finally had an “ah-hah” moment.

A family walked in to sign up for the reading program and announced that they were new to the area. I handed the mother a couple of cards to fill out the kids' information and showed the three kids around the library, explaining where they could find junior fiction and nonfiction, the differences between the picture book shelves and the chapter book shelves. I gave them their folders, explained our program, and told them to explore. Their mom headed out into the library to get some work done, and they trickled out into the childrens room. I went back to twiddling my thumbs.

But then, something extraordinary happened. Maybe its because the kids were new, so they didn't have any friends to talk to. Maybe they liked my glittery, ridiculous costume. Maybe one of them forgot to pick up their squirty fish. Whatever the reason, they came back in. They lingered by the desk and told me about themselves, about their life. We made fish headbands together and discussed their recent move to Murrysville from North Carolina. The elder brother told me all about how he was learning oragami online, and announced proudly that he could make a balloon and a duck. The youngest had me make him an foam L out of a T and a pair of scissors – I guess L is a popular letter in the foam world - and told me that he wanted to be a policeman. Their sister let me wear one of her bracelets, which, when stretched out, takes the form of a penguin.

I learned their names. They told me their interests, their favorite books, and talked about how they were nervous to start school in the fall. After some time, the eldest brother informed me that their dad was leaving for Iraq in September. His sister looked up at me through watery green eyes asked me to help them find some books about the military so they could know more about what their dad would be doing overseas. “I won't get upset about it until next year because my tenth birthday is in August. So he'll still be home then. He'll miss his birthday though,” she said, pointing to her little brother, who was wearing his headband over his eyes and feeling his way around the craft tables like a miniature blind man who had forgotten his cane.

It was as simple as that. These kids were finding a comfort in the library, a home. They were using books to better understand an event in their lives that was shifting their viewpoint and making them scared. They were reaching out to me as a “librarian” and as a friend, chatting over gluesticks and robot stickers, asking advice and nodding when I told them that their dad must be pretty brave. They sat with me for an hour and wailed when their mom pulled them out of the building.

So screw statistics. I don't care that every single Certified Public Accountant will be making double my salary and working half my hours. I don't care that kids will shut chewed up pieces of bubble gum between pages 56 and 57 of their Artemis Fowl book, and that most of them will only come to the library because their mothers drag them along while they pick up a Jodi Picoult novel for next month's book club. Because this afternoon, that daughter swore that she would come back in a couple of days, and that this time, she would bring me my own bracelet. She promised me pink.