I remember vividly and with great fondness the first time my mother took me to The Library. I was very young, possibly five. I don't remember whether I was able to read yet. I believe I was just beginning to decipher words.
It was housed in a tiny building situated at the edge of Harmon Park in Kernersville. The door was propped open to let air in. It was summertime and this was long before air conditioning graced every indoor space. Crossing the threshold, the well worn wooden floor creaked its greetings to us. The air was thick with heat and the steamy vapor rising off the bodies of perfumed women.
There seemed to be very little space to walk through. The walls were cramped with heavy wooden bookshelves and the bookshelves were loaded with an army of books, all neatly in line. The perfumed women would pull a book off a shelf and flip through it. I remember the sound of the book sliding against the wood as it was pulled off the shelf. I remember the sound of paper pages being turned. I remember the tiny clap a book made as it was shut. I remember the smell of a thousand book soldiers waiting for the delicately scented hands of a lady or the sweaty palms of a child to call them into action.
My mom began talking with a woman who seemed to be in charge. I strolled through the books with my fingers, gently touching their spines, listening to their wisdom. This was also before the time of plastic dust jackets, so the cloth and paper covers had an organic feel. They seemed alive.
My mom appeared as I was gazing in awe at all the books surrounding me. She asked me if I'd picked anything out. I shyly shook my head no and lowered my gaze to the ground. At such a young age, I was already aware of the monetary limitations in our family. I knew not to ask for things.
My mom encouraged me to pick something out. Again, I shook my head no. “Don't you see anything that looks interesting?” I said “Yes. But I don't need anything.” I was beginning to feel embarrassed by this apparent drill. Eventually my mom understood that I believed the books were for sale and that one needed money in order to take one home. She laughed at finally getting it and told me the books were free. I didn't understand this. So she had the librarian come over and explain to me that I could pick out as many books as I like, take them home, read them, and then bring them back. For free. I could not believe this incredible concept! I could take books home, borrow them, for free!?!
I can remember my entire countenance changing. I suddenly felt an expansiveness, a curiosity, a thirst for every word in every book! I very quickly accumulated a small stack of book soldiers to take home with me, which I would call into action by opening their pages and asking for their stories. My mom and the librarian laughed at how I had gone from not needing anything to needing a small army! I looked up at them bewildered and said, “but you said they’re free.”
And so they were. And so I got to take all those books home with me. And pour over them again and again until I took them back and picked out more. And thus began a love affair that continues to this day. A love affair with books and free access to knowledge.
The Library is a source of hope and inspiration. It gives us the most powerful weapon against oppression that exists: knowledge. We, as a society, can become as great as we care to be. Our greatness is at our fingertips. As long as there are pages to turn and a place for these pages to live. All the pages in all the libraries wait for us to call them into service. What are we waiting for?
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