Let's Talk Turkey

Not long ago I was reading through some Facebook posts and came across a crafty video about making a turkey out of an old book.  Hot glue, cutting, folding, rolling, voila! Centerpiece!

It is a cute idea and a really cute turkey. 

Then you get to the comments.  

I know, I know. Never read the comments. I really did quite by accident, but either way, I read them.  

And boy howdy!  People were becoming unhinged.  

Why? 

Because this project involved the destruction of a book. 

I will be the first to admit that I love books.  I mean, I really love them.  The look of them. The smell of a new book. The feel of the edges of the pages. (I especially love a book with deckle edges.)  Or some of the newer publishings that have color on the edges of the page. I love looking at the binding, seeing if the book is glued or sewn. 

I also love well-loved books.  I am the person who will write in the margins of a book.  It helps me, especially if I am ever planning to reread. (And not just books I teach from; my copy of Blue Like Jazz is positively filled with notes.)  

However

Books are things.  Special things. Wonderful things. But things, nonetheless.  And physical things have a useful life span.  They are created, they are used, and then, essentially, they reach the end of that useful life.  

We try to preserve things that are rare or personal or done by hand, but generally speaking, books, like other things, can reach the end of their lifespan. 

And that is not bad. Or evil. Or wrong.  It is just life. 

When people are nervous about the idea of pulling old books from the library, I try to gently remind them that we are not the Library of Congress.  Our mission isn't to house every book. Nor is it to forever keep every book we ever get. 

We don't have that kind of space, and every old, worn-out, mouldering book on the shelf is taking the space that could be housing a book that a student really wants.  

If a book hasn't been checked out since 1968 (I came across one of those a few weeks ago), it probably needs to go.  If a book is incorrect or outdated or in poor repair, it just needs to go. 

And that is OK.  

And if that is the case, what better usage than living on as a cool, decorative turkey? 

A Long Ago Hurt and a Present Healing

It can be easy to say that what's in the past is in the past, but it never really is.  We all drag around our pasts with us, a bag of burdens that inform, mold, and influence us.  For good or ill. 

But it is a lot easier to pretend past sins don't exist, past errors and flaws are gone. Until they aren't. 

Last week, Representative John Lewis won the National Book Award for Young People with his powerful graphic novel March: Book Three. This book is not

only the true story of the civil rights movement, told by Representative John Lewis, chronicling the Freedom Summer murders, the 1964 Democratic National Convention, and the bombing of the 16th street Baptist Church. It is made in a format that is accessible to everyone. It is deeply moving and a powerful show of what people can do when they are mobilized for change. 

It is an amazing book, and Rep. Lewis is an amazing man.  

Just when you think this is the feel-good story of the year,  he gives his acceptance speech. 

Here are his words:

“I remember in 1956 when I was 16 years old, with some of my brothers and sisters and cousins, going down to the public library and trying to get library cards. We were told that libraries were for ‘whites only’ and not for ‘coloreds.’ To come here and receive this award, this honor, is too much.”

This kills me. It hurts my heart in a way that feels too sharp, too raw. 

The thought of the journey, those two points on a timeline.  To be that young man, kept out of the library because of race.  Then, fast forward, to receiving the National Book Award for a text dealing with that exact struggle. 

But there is no fast forward.  This is Rep. Lewis's life, lived and led. 

And these are the sins of the nation. 

Libraries are, at this point, some of the most progressive institutions in America.  They safeguard access to materials, stand up for intellectual freedom, protect the rights of the marginalized.  

But it has not always been that way, as Rep. Lewis and millions of others can attest. 

And it is up to each and every one of us to assure that this national tragedy is never repeated. 

The hardest part of this is to look in the mirror. 

I would never ever refuse service to anyone. Ever. 

But have I, in smaller ways, done the same? 

Have I ever not purchased a book because of controversial subject matter? I am sure I probably have. 

Have I ever shied away from a difficult discussion because I found it personally painful, even though it was morally right? Definitely. 

Have I been the best, most vocal advocate for the marginalized?  Doubtful.

My place in the library and in the school is to be the one who safeguards access.  While restrictions might not be as overt as those that kept Rep. Lewis out of the library 50 years ago, they can be just as effective and sinister. 

Which means I need to look at myself, and the ways I try to ensure that the library is fair, free of bias, open, and accessible.  It means I need to be purposeful in noticing those minute ways that people and subjects are kept out or hidden. 

But let's be honest here.  It isn't always the big things.  Sometimes it is the kid who has a fine and can't pay it. Or the kid who has lost a book and is terrified. Or the ones who have been made to feel uncomfortable in libraries in the past. 

Library anxiety is a real thing.  It can keep people from being where they need to be, where they have a right to be. 

What about hours of operation?  I have the luxury of being open during the entire school day.  What about schools that have so restricted staff that the hours don't accommodate students?  What about kids who might need the library before or after school? Or at lunch?  How can I make the library accessible, so accessible that no one is ever turned away?

Rep. Lewis's story is, in the end, a victorious one, but also an indictment, and one that can't be ignored.