May 26, 2008

I was already at school and reading before I heard about this new-fangled idea called a library. I did not hear about it at school. I heard about it being discussed at the kitchen table. My father was embroiled in a fight with city hall to get us a library. He read the letters that he drafted to my mother and the replies that came with all those fancy seals, stamps, and big words that meant "No!" Later I would learn that the campaign lasted two years.

What I do recall at the time is that when we were told that my father had finally forced the City of Cape Town to give us a library, we should all go to the park on a Tuesday after school. I was waiting in line at the park for this library to arrive. I didn't really know what to expect, but I knew that if it was important enough for my father to fight for, it was important enough for me to be there.

It was a blue mobile library in a van. The van pulled up with a driver and a librarian. Maybe they were both librarians, I don't recall. We had to stand in line and give our names to get two library cards, then file in through the rows of books and choose two. We could take them home for two weeks. It was a slow process because only a few kids could board at a time, but the rest were excitedly waiting their turn.

Soon this became a regular ritual. The line became smaller as the novelty wore off, but I was a regular. This was my father's library. He said knowledge was power. He read voraciously and maybe I just wanted to be like him. I used to watch his eyes. They were like darting, dancing, and blackbirds flying across the page, seemingly filled with urgency, racing to absorb the next line. I had heard of his own childhood, how he had to steal reading moments, and it showed.

Reading became an easy habit to me. Soon I spent more and more time looking for books in the mobile library amongst all the books I had already read. I do recall reading and rereading books simply because the collection was not being updated quickly enough and I did not stop going to my father's library, like I'm sure many others did. A few years later, the city council found a reason to cut the library. I never understood why, but I was informed that on a certain day, the library would come by for the last time.

My father was busy with some union strike or other and probably, sadly watched his library go. We were told about alternative libraries, which were far away, just as small, and with pretty much the same selection. I was a regular library user but was not as regular as before since the walk was quite a distance and the new books few and far between.

One day somebody told me there was another library half-hour walk in the opposite direction, so I went to check it out. I knew the area but had never known about the library because it was a white library. I went in and found a larger selection than I had ever seen before. I loved it. The shelves were plentiful and filled. The books were new looking and had recent publishing dates, but when I took my book selections to the desk I was told I could not have them because my city library cards were not good in the white city library.

I went back though, thinking I could read a title or a few pages, browsing the aisles. One day the librarian came to me and told me to leave. This was a white's only library. I left. But I went back, hiding between the shelves, absorbing what I could until they found me. I have blocked out most of those experiences but I think they would throw me out whenever somebody complained. Some patrons would tell me to leave but I would just find another bookcase to hide behind.

Somewhere between primary school and high school, the library did become integrated because I was allowed to have three library cards. I spent most of my after school hours at the library, read every book on every shelf. I could spot a new one in a minute, and had already perfected the read-the-book-in-the-library technique. So I turned my attention to the reference books where I soon became a regular fixture. I got to know the librarians. Of course we only spoke when I checked in or checked out my books since the library is a no-speaking environment. Mostly I would request new books. One day I was told that this particular branch could no longer request new books because the fines brought in were low and the books requested were high. I've always believed that I contributed greatly to cause that unfortunate situation to occur, and that might have contributed to my loss of interest in becoming librarian. This was the second library I had read, but it would not be the last.

© 2006 by Oliver Lawrence, Ph.D.

Published in the Pilgrim, 2008.