Letter To A Friend -- Halloween 2008

Hey Mike-y….

I know I’m in trouble with you by now, seeing as how you’ve called me twice already this week and I’ve yet to return either call as promised. Hope this letter rectifies things a little bit…

My day started weirder than usual, what with me being the only staffer to show up for work today—

Okay, that’s not strictly true. The true part is that I arrived early as usual and was able to get into the building to clock in because our engineer was there. The other staffers scheduled for the day were both running so late for various reasons that we didn’t open on time—in fact we were almost 25 minutes late. Try to imagine the increasingly perplexed and nasty looks I was getting from patrons milling outside the doors, wondering what the f**k was going on now. They peered in at me, their faces hardening; impatient to get to the internet access computers and resume those job searches, tighten those resumes, re-apply for those benefits, surf those porn sites….if I would just come on already and unlock the damn doors. What was my problem, anyway? Couldn’t I see them all standing there? Couldn’t I see a damn clock? Why didn’t I open up the muthaf**kin’ DOOR?!! Frank, bless his heart, went out there a couple of times, to explain the situation.

Me, I was humming with happiness. Not out of disregard for the patrons, whom I really did feel kinda sorry for, most of them. And not about Miss T, who had been suffering back pain all week and hadn’t been able to take off even one day to rest and heal, either because we were (we are) too short-staffed or because there’s been too much going on—school groups and reading groups and the little trick-or-treaters today—that required her presence. She called, having decided to take part of the morning off, but when she asked to talk to Marlena to let her know, only to learn that she hadn’t yet arrived, she was forced to scuttle those plans. Her voice sounded very weary as she assured me she would be in soon.

And I wasn’t smiling about Marley, either, who was this time surely looking at some kind of “official” censure for being so tardy (again), unless, that is, this time she had a truly legitimate reason; something act-of-God and unavoidable, like the morning sun had crashed into the lake and the resultant tsunami had flooded the streets, backing up traffic for miles…

Because the thing is, Mike, I really like Marlena. So does Miss T, actually. She (Marley) is the best, most conscientious worker in the place—aside from your truly ;-)—and everybody knows it and most of us appreciate it. I hate to see her of all people getting into trouble. When I consider the work ethic (or lack thereof) of others, it just seems so damned unfair.

No, I was happy because… um. Because….

Alright, give me a minute. It will come to me.

I walked to work today. I bet you would have too, if only your job was closer to home. It was just such an incredibly gorgeous morning, bright blue skies, golden, sunny, mild temps, and the trees all along the way so beautiful, absolutely ablaze with color. An almost perfect start to whatever the hell my day was going to become.

Then when I arrive at the front doors I can tell immediately that Frank (or somebody) is there because all the lights are up; sure enough he answers my knock right away, as though he’d been waiting for me. So I clock in on time/early and get busy with the morning set-up, listening to my Natalie Goldberg-Julia Cameron tapes (an interesting and sometimes funny conversation about the writing life) as I go, and I’m, I dunno, feeling pretty good, you know?

Then it got closer to time to open and still no one—staff wise—had shown up yet. When Miss T called and cautioned me not to open (at least one senior staffer had to be on the premises per library policy) I felt elated, positively liberated. This may sound odd to you, I realize. But don’t you love it when the ordinary suddenly becomes the unusual, the unforeseen? Something unexpected was going down! Maybe we wouldn’t open until noon! Maybe we wouldn’t open at all! Then I could do with this glorious day whatever I wanted.

And even if not, so what? Even if only momentarily, it was a giddying feeling, that feeling of the routine veering off course and possibly turning into something else, good or bad, didn’t matter. In moments like that, however transitory, however fleeting, you’re reminded of all the myriad, numberless possibilities of a morning, a day, a life. Ach, this probably makes no sense to you. It doesn’t to me, completely.

But while it lasted it was a good feeling.

The Long Goodbye -- Lizzie, Part I

If this workday is going to be anything like yesterday, you can keep it. Too few workers, too many patrons, too many equipment problems.

And my damn cat is beginning to drive me crazy now. She's pooping outside her box now, not every day but once in awhile without warninig, principally on any available carpet (living room) or shag rug (bathroom, during the night, directly in front of sink--surprise!!). And her peeing is becoming a hit and miss affair as well, as often outside her litter box as in it. There's something different about the way she's squatting when she needs to void. And she's so thirsty all the time--she never used to need so much water.

She may be diabetic.

Back to the vet, if I can just find a ride.

Oh, man. I see a long, expensive road ahead of me. Back and forth vet visits. Medications. Progressively messier clean-ups. Wakeful, worried nights.

This is the part about pet care that I dread. You bring these creatures into your life and home as adorable, plump little balls of fur. You love them, care for them as best you know how. And in return they bond with you, greet you joyfully at the door each evening, learn to play with you, anticipate your moods, and by their comforting presence ease those moments of loneliness, stress and trauma. Your little buddy. And then, before you know it, you realize they're getting old and starting to get sick and you're faced with preparing for The Decision.

My World... And Welcome To It--Part II

Again—again—watched in dismay today as yet another parent walked into the branch and made a beeline for the nearest Internet access computer, leaving her preschooler pretty much to her own devices for the next hour. Or more likely two. Here we go, I sighed, and nudged at my coworker, who nodded sagely and shrugged a Gallic what are you gonna do-type shrug before turning back to the pile of library card applications in front of her. I headed for the magazine and newspaper display.

The child was a cute chatterbox in a red corduroy jumper, wide-eyed, tentatively friendly, intensely curious about everything going on around her, and generally pleased to find herself in this interesting, strangely quiet place that was crowded with more books than probably she’d ever seen in her entire young life. She wandered over to one of the paperback carousels, poking and prodding at the lower tiers, attempting to make the thing turn. Then, bored with that, she ambled up to the community information table and stood up on her tiptoes straining to get a better view of the stacks and scatterings of leaflets, flyers and shiny, colorful pamphlets. Frustrated, unable to reach even the papers closest to the table’s edge, she abruptly dropped to her hands and knees and began to crawl around under it like a little red mouse, humming softly to herself as she examined the carpet for minute, invisible…somethings. Tiny, Lilliputian somethings only she could see. I couldn't help smiling, watching her.

K-----! Come here, her mother hissed at her. Sit over there. SIT. OVER. THERE. NOW. Now stay there.

Whereupon I calmly rushed over--I know that sounds like a contradiction; it takes practice--hoping to head off disaster. Stupid woman. Was this adorable child, who could not have been more than 4, maybe 5, really expected to sit in a hard flat chair at a large bare table for the next 60 minutes-plus? With absolutely nothing whatsoever to do? What was this stupid woman thinking?

Can I bring her something to read? And maybe some coloring sheets and crayons? I whispered to the mother. I made a point of sounding sympathetic. And I was. For the child.

The mom shrugged; mumbled yeah okay.

I smiled tightly and went looking for kiddie supplies, grabbing a half dozen Sandra Boynton and Eric Carle titles from the “Toddler/New Reader” shelves on my way back. Then I sat the little girl down at one of the reading tables nearest her mother—who did not even bother to look up, nor did I expect her to—and presented her with my offerings, whispering encouragements.

And for a small period of time the little sweetie was content, happily absorbed in her coloring and drawing and “reading.” But the inevitable happened; she lost interest in both the crayons and the cardboard books, became restless, and began to fret, disconcerted at how thoroughly her mom, frowning at the computer screen inches from her face, had zoned out, seeming to forget all about her little girl. She stage-whispered to her mommy to come here and see; Mommy shushed her. She tried to show Mommy one of her coloring pictures and her mother rebuffed her at first, irritably, her gaze never quite leaving the monitor. Finally the mom sighed and pulled Baby Girl into her lap, distractedly bouncing and rocking her to settle her down—but Baby Girl would not be settled. She babbled and prattled incessantly, peppering her mother with questions which her mother ignored almost completely. Ignored, the child’s whining and whimpering increased in volume and intensity until she’d succeeded in twisting herself down and out of her mother’s loosening embrace.

Then, pouting, she marched defiantly back to the carousel where, after some quick, furtive peeps at Mommy (who remained as oblivious as ever), she snatched Richard Wright off the “WR” rack and threw him to the floor. Then she did the same with Courtney Wright, sending Teri Woods sailing right after, and then a misplaced August Wilson, all to the amusement--and here and there the annoyance--of several patrons nearby.

And then, giddy now and balancing precariously forward on her tiny sneakered toes, Baby Girl reached high for Valerie Wilson Wesley and higher still for Alice Walker while Mommy, aroused finally from her long electronic stupor, advanced upon her daughter with murder in her eyes…

It was a long morning. A long, noisy morning.

My World... And Welcome To It--Part I

The Huffington Post is featuring a Chicago Sun-Times story about the rise of library patronage as a response to economic hard times ("Library Circulation Soars"). This is not news to me, friends....

When I was a kid, I loved public libraries. A perfect day--at least as an alternative to sitting in classrooms all morning and afternoon, staring out windows--was a day spent in the big main center downtown, floating like a visiting princess up and down its ornate, curving stairwells, and sprawling in lazy contentment in overstuffed chairs in large, sunny, elegant reading rooms. There was just no better place to be, and even the dinky little neighborhood branches were good in a pinch. I loved especially the hushed, cathedral quiet of libraries, and the feeling of sanctuary. When I wasn't actually reading I could just sit and think and dream.

But libraries are not quiet spaces any longer, at least the branch in which I work certainly is not. Thirty-five years on, the world is different, the culture is coarser, and people are anxious, more easily frustrated and often less accommodating of one another. The addition of Internet access computers in libraries has been a mixed blessing, offering patrons who can least afford the purchase of home pcs and monthly internet fees more resources for employment, health updates and educational searches. This is a good thing.

On the other hand...

Bad Moon On The Rise?

Not a good sign that these posts have been getting farther and farther apart. It's not like I've had nothing on my mind, after all.

Creeping tension as the days--just 8 days at this writing--tick down toward election day. Will Barack Obama be elected? And by what margin? Will he squeak by so narrowly that we'll be forced to revisit the Recount of 2000? What if he loses narrowly? Can we safely assume vote tampering? (how could we not?) I am trying to maintain, as I'm sure you are. It is not easy.

There is the fear factor once again at the revelation of a plot--is this for real? and should I be using the word "alleged"? --by 2 white supremacists to go on an African-American killing spree meant to culminate in an assassination attempt on Obama. According to federal authorities the would-be assassins, a 20 year-old high school dropout from Tennessee and an 18 year-old from Arkansas who met on the Internet through a shared interest in all things white power (and why are none of these details a surprise to me), were planning to target first an African-American school--though exactly which particular school apparently isn't yet known--killing 88 of its students, 14 by decapitation, or so revealed documents unsealed in a Jackson, Tenn. U.S. District Court. Why 88? And why 14 by beheading? God, I don't know. Something or other about those being magic numbers in the skinhead culture, according to the Associated Press. Yeah. Okay. Whatever. And--oh yes--according to the same report the two had been shooting at the windows of a black church (no injuries or casualties, thank goodness) in Brownsville, Tenn. on the day they were arrested.

A real class act, both of these sons of dixie.

Also (also?? did you hear what I just said?) I can't fight off the worry that, despite reported leads in all the battleground states, Obama could still lose--we could still lose--this election, undone as much by our own hubris or complacency as by GOP hanky-panky. Early voting is taking place but not, apparently, in the numbers expected or hoped for in key states; too many people seem content to chance the long lines and unexpected glitches of November 4th. I had this discussion--let's go ahead and call it a "discussion"--just this weekend with several fellow residents over the folding table in the laundry room, who smiled indulgently at my growing exasperation.

And--oh, what the fresh hell???--are we now at war in Syria? Because the news reports I'm watching tonight sure seem to be suggesting that...

George W. Bush. You just never want to stop slapping him. (I may be repeating myself)

November, Part II

I am so depressed.

The general consensus seems to be that Obama won last night's debate. If substance means anything anymore I think he did too. But guys, 19 days. So much can happen in 19 days. Everything can happen in 19 days, including the unthinkable, the untenable. Ask Al Gore.

So fucking depressed.

November

They’re gonna kill him. You know they’re gonna get him—these white folks ain't gonna let no black man be President of their country—girl, puh-lease!

There’s one line in the ethics report from the Alaskan State Legislature, the bi-partisan (partial) censure of Governor Sarah Palin for abuse of power regarding her attempted ousting of her former brother-in-law as a state trooper, one sentence that offers Palin (and of course, McCain) a tiny ray of hope--you just know Rick Davis and company are going to leap on it and ride it for all its worth every freaking day 'til election day to put as positive a spin on this otherwise unpleasant news as possible--and I can't at this moment remember what that single line is, because...

...because I am still slowly shaking my head at the televised images of a flustered John McCain trying to calm down these angry, ignorant numbskulls--his beloved base--yelling death-to-the-infidel type insults about Obama The Terrorist Candidate (aka Obama The Terrorist Sympathizer Candidate), insults McCain himself—with mindless, eager assists from Governor Palin—has been stoking and fueling and encouraging with his bizarre, relentless, obsessive linking of Obama to William Ayers, a former 60's radical whose acts of political terror were committed when Barack Obama was all of 8 years old.

There's McCain smilingly handing his mike to a young man whose wife is expecting a child next spring, a guy who tells the senator and the audience that he is "scared" at the prospect of raising his child in an Obama (He means "Osama"--but you all got that, right?) America; there's the disheveled-looking, barely coherent woman who takes the mike to call Obama "an Arab," and there’s McCain, who right up to that moment had been smiling and nodding his head, again having to abruptly change course and "correct" yet another poor, misinformed soul. No, no, no—there’s no reason for you to be scared of an Obama Presidency; No, ma’am, no, he is not an Arab; no. And the crowd—his base—actually boos him as he labors to assure them that Obama is really a loving family man and decent guy, honest!

And as I watch all this, taking it all in, my thoughts drift back to when Barack Obama first announced his candidacy, and my friends and family and I watched in wonder as day by day his presidential campaign electrified the country, turning into first a national then global movement until finally one of my co-worker friends--who to my steadily growing annoyance had been ceaselessly shaking her head in cynical disbelief--finally said to me "Oh, girl, please. You know what's gonna happen. They're gonna get him. They're gonna do him like they did Dr. King, and Malcolm, and Medgar—they’re not gonna let no black man be President of this country! They will kill him first, you know they will!"

I’d wanted to smack that woman, right on the spot, in part because her faintly amused cynicism kept reminding me uncomfortably of my own doubts about Barack Obama's qualifications and readiness for that toughest and most exalted of jobs. What is wrong with black people, I remember thinking irritably. Do we have to be so damn negative all the time, so ready to dismiss each other’s—and our own—aspirations, hopes, excellence, dreams? Are we are own dream-killers? Why are we always so afraid to embrace the best in ourselves, and so expectant of the worst in others?

I switch the channel from MSNBC to CNN to CBS to PBS to ABC News to BBC America World News, and my friend’s bitter warnings swirl in my head as I listen to the cries and catcalls at the Republican rallies:
“I just don’t trust him!”
“He’s not one of us!”
“He’s not even American!”
“Not like us!”
"I've been reading up on him--"
“Traitor!”
“Terrorist!”
“Off with his head!”
“Bomb Obama!”

You know they’re gonna get him, girl. You know they will.