The Library: Safe Space in Sucktown

 While I was pretty indifferent when I applied for a part-time job in the circulation department of the library in Sucktown, being at a very low point in my life, I’d had a very good experience with the library by then. I say that it helped save my life and that is not hyperbole. From the time we arrived in the town, it was the one bright spot. It was a lifeline to me, being able to access the books that were there and to request from other libraries. As things deteriorated, it was more and more important for me to have access to books and ideas, given that I lived in a place where the latter were in short supply. People in Sucktown were most keen to go back to some mythical past and when they did engage with the present, it was to complain that the reason the town was struggling was because it was not on the major highway corridor. I heard this so many times that it started to annoy the crap out of me. Once, I replied, ‘That is not why people don’t come here.’  There were a few other people I knew who felt the same as I did. There had been others before me. We all left. But while we were there, the library was something of a safe space for many of us. This was before social media became what it is, which probably also made a difference. So although I struggled to get through each day at first, I felt some small measure of comfort because the library was a safe and familiar space for me—I can walk into any library anywhere and feel instantly at home. 

I did not expect to be challenged in the job and I wasn’t. I was immediately told that I would be trained in steps, with discharging to be left for last, because it had frequently brought people to tears. I had no idea what discharging entailed and I decided to just deal with it when I got there. I learned what I needed to learn and did what I was supposed to do—check out materials to patrons, shelve books, and, if someone had a query or needed help beyond checking things out, I was to direct them to the information desk. It did not matter whether there was a line several people deep and no one at the circulation desk was doing anything. We were not allowed to help them with anything other than checking out books, taking money for fines, and shelving books. This was sometimes convenient, because when people asked me for something, I could tell them that I was not allowed to help them and would get in trouble if I did, so they would have to go wait in line. This usually prevented them from expressing anger towards me. I did sometimes find it frustrating, though, and when I wanted to, I surreptitiously broke the rules. For instance, one elderly woman came up to me while I was shelving books one day and asked how to look something up on the computerized card catalogue. I showed her how to find what she wanted and brought her to the shelf where it was. 

Things went along for a week or so and one day there was much whispering behind the circulation desk. I took a cart and went off to shelve the books. It was always nice in the stacks and I often found books I wanted to take home, placing them on the cart, checking them out to myself, and placing them in my drawer. On this day, shortly after I’d started shelving, a co-worker came up to me and said to stop what I was doing because they’d decided today was the day I’d be taught the dreaded discharging. She assured me that I would eventually get the hang of it and she would be there to show me what to do and to help. It all sounded very ominous, but I followed her back to the circulation area, where I was instructed to sit at the computer. I was told to scan the books that had been returned and told how to organize them on the carts or on the shelves, if they were books that someone had requested. I started to do this and waited for the other shoe to drop. After a few minutes, the woman who was training me turned to the supervisor and said, ‘She doesn’t really need any help with this.’ The supervisor came to watch me, was apparently amazed that I was not in tears or frustrated or agitated, and we all went on with what we were doing. There was no other shoe. This was it. I was discharging. And I was not crying. I quite liked it, actually, because whenever I checked in a book that I was interested in, I could immediately check it out to myself and slip it in my drawer without leaving my seat. If someone else had already requested it, I placed a hold for myself.

Even though the things I was allowed to deal with were minimal, there were some awkward moments. These usually involved children. Once, a dad and his two sons came to the desk to check out some VHS tapes. They were already over the limit for how many could be checked out and they had some fines as well, so I told them they wouldn’t be able to check these items out until they brought some back. Dad was fine with this, but one of the kids started to cry. Dad hustled them out of there. Another father-sons situation was somewhat different and involved a different dad and sons. When I scanned the card of one kid, I discovered fines of close to $200! When I explained this situation to Dad, his mouth fell open and he understandably got quite distressed. He gave me the other boy’s card only to find the same thing. So there he was, just learning that these kids had almost $400 in fines between them. He spluttered something about divorce and the mother of the boys and how he had no idea. I felt bad for him, but all I was allowed to do was give him the name and contact information for the supervisor. Since this was during evening hours, she wasn’t there. People could work off their fines by volunteering to clean books and things like that, but I guess in this case, it would have to be a parent. People got $10 taken off their fine for every hour they worked—an hourly rate that was more than $2 more than we were earning. 

There was a fair bit of resentment between the people who worked downstairs in circulation and those who worked upstairs where the pay was better. There were no qualifications needed to work downstairs, and many who worked upstairs were not at all qualified for their jobs, so it was understandable. I had a friend who worked upstairs (who was highly qualified) and it was considered strange that we spoke. One day, she came down and stood behind the circulation desk while I was building a cart. As we chatted, I gradually became aware of the deep silence that surrounded us. I turned around to see my colleagues sitting there staring at us with their mouths open. I started laughing.

At faculty meetings, the upstairs people sat on one side of the circle and us downstairs folks on the other while we listened to the director droning on and on, sometimes for half an hour or more, while he said nothing. Words were spilling forth from his mouth and they were actual words, but when put together into sentences, they really didn’t amount to anything. Once, he came down to talk to someone who was using one of the circ computers and was going on and on about a meeting with the county commissioners, complaining that one actually fell asleep while he was giving hs presentation. I blurted out that I was not surprised and they both turned to look at me in astonishment.

I loved the library. I didn’t love working there, but it was not terrible, either. I ended up leaving when they were about to begin major renovations that involved knocking down asbestos filled walls while staying open and not providing adequate protection for workers. I avoided the library altogether during that time and I missed it, some of my former co-workers, and, of course, all those wonderful books.

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