The tears of the red, yellow, black, brown and white man are all the same.
~Martin H. Fischer
In August 1957, in Central Texas, a well-dressed young woman perspired as she climbed the steps to the public library’s children’s room.
“Can you help me?” she asked. “I was graduated from college in May, and this is my first job as teacher, second grade. I’ve made a list of books that I’ll need. The school where I’ll teach does not have them.”
“Well,” I said. “I was graduated in May, too, and I’m working here while my husband completes two required courses for his bachelor’s degree, plus a couple more courses toward his master’s. I DO know books. I’ve read all my life, and helping you will be fun.”
Together, the teacher and I searched for books. Teachers were allowed to check out twenty books on their library cards. We laughed and figured out which books would fit into her teaching, and which would be just plain fun for her kids.
She thanked me for helping her carry the books downstairs. We were both sweating. She eyed her underarm stains. “I just bought this suit,” she said. “I usually make my own dresses, but I wanted to splurge to get ready to teach. I could not try on this suit in the store. That’s their policy. Do you think it fits?”
After the woman left, I went back upstairs and had begun shelving books when the children’s librarian confronted me.
“Why did you help that girl?” she asked.
“She’s a teacher. She needs books.”
“THOSE people don’t come in here,” said the frowning woman. “We send a bookmobile to the part of town where THEY live, and they can check out books once a week. Teachers can send me their lists, and I decide what is right for their grades. You were choosing books from shelves all over the place. We probably won’t get back the books she took.”
“She had a library card,” I said.
“She can use the bookmobile. Don’t forget, and wipe those books she didn’t take. She sweated on them. And don’t let her come up here again, or any of THOSE children. They don’t belong here.”
Because I needed my $190-a-month pay, I stayed quiet, cleaned, and straightened bookshelves. But the more I thought about the eager teacher, the more I boiled. The children’s librarian had already limited all children to books at their grade level only. I’d grown up thinking of my hometown public library as my special place, where I could choose any book I wanted. But this was not my hometown.
Finally, I asked for a private word with the head librarian. I told her that I intended to work with any teacher and any child in the public library. The head librarian had known me since childhood back in my hometown, and I knew of civil-rights battles she’d fought throughout the state. She was also an excellent librarian.
“I’ll take care of this,” she said.
And she did. Before the city council, she reviewed the intention of a public library, and she presented a resolution that called for the library to be open to all. Her resolution passed unanimously and was published in the local newspaper.
I’d like to say I stayed and became part of that quiet revolution, but my husband was graduated. We moved away to his first job. Besides, I was pregnant, and a baby bump was beginning to show. The children’s librarian said, “No child should see you in that condition.”
“At least,” I thought, “she’s a bigot on several levels. Surely, she and her ways will go away soon.”
I have worked in other states, as librarian at a grade school, and with many children and teachers. I know of several students of color who lived in that 1957 community and became scientists, writers, performers, and teachers. I hope they sometimes think of their second-grade teacher, who climbed some steep stairs to help them. I was proud to meet her at the top of the stairs.
~Shirley P. Gumert
