Librarianship today- defunding public education

When I was a little girl my mom and her best friend discussed the future they saw for their children. I have no memory of this, but mom and Donna both repeatedly told me many times that they always saw me becoming a librarian. I, of course, said ew - no! Librarians wear ugly shoes, they have stodgy hair and they “shush” people! Of course, eventually, it turned out they were right, but I had to sow a lot of oats to see that they were. Sadly, neither of them lived to see their prophecy come true.
Donna died first in 1999, then we lost mom in 2005. I often think of at the two of them up in heaven, wherever that might be, laughing their breathy laughs, smoking their cigarettes, drinking cup after cup of coffee reminding each other, that yes, of course they were right; Kim is a librarian. When mom died, I floundered; what to do with my life? I was fairly new at being single but I persevered, and despite the struggle, I allowed myself to finish college and I earned a BA in Humanities. I worked at Barnes and Noble during that time, but really did not see that as being the be-all-end-all of career moves (in all honesty, B&N was one of my favorite ever jobs, and I worked for them at three locations over a period of 16 years in total, from part-time bookseller, to department manager, to Children’s manager, then back to part time). But what to actually DO with that BA? About 6 months after mom died it hit me like a lightening bolt - I should go back to school to seek a Masters degree in Library Science. BN offered me a lateral promotion to a pilot managerial program as Children’s Department Manager, and they paid a certain amount of my college tuition; for that I will always be grateful. Because my BA was in Humanities I thought I would pursue a career at a museum in some library capacity. Just on a whim I decided to take a course in children’s literature, and then another. My professor said that I was a true children’s librarian, and I scoffed - nope; never gonna work in a school, no way, no how. She insisted, and then it so happened that another BN windfall came my way and a friend at another store recommended me to a private school in Tampa…and before I knew it I was hired with four classes left to obtain my degree. That was not something I ever planned to do or be. Librarian - let alone a children’s librarian in an actual school! It’s funny how life happens sometimes, and it turns out I am pretty ok as a children’s librarian. The job at the private school did eventually play out after six years; the school decided to go another route with their library, and I was not qualified to teach reading, so I moved on to the public school sector. I moved on from a private school setting to a Title 1 high needs school. I never really looked back. I loved the kids in the private school; a lot of them were readers, and they had so much loving support from their families; reading to them, sharing books with them, supporting them was easy. Their parents were lovely to me and it was a wonderful adventure. The public school was a different sort of adventure. The children did not have all their basic needs met. Many of them lived below poverty level, some were homeless, many did not have power or running water, or safe places to live. They were a completely diverse group with a variety of stories that were often so heart-wrenching. I discovered that my capacity to truly love and care for them invested my heart and soul to them. It was never easy, and could often be frustrating. Truthfully, meeting their reading and education needs often looked and felt more like supporting and encouraging them in an environment that they could feel safe in. As a librarian, exposing them to stories and books was always my goal, but sometimes a hug or a word of encouragement and letting them know I cared was all I could accomplish. I’d like to think that I made a difference in their lives, but as an educator, you cannot always see what seeds you have sown.
That school closed this past year. It wrenched my heart. Of course, I worried about myself, but, I am a highly educated adult with a solid career path behind me. Mostly, I was devastated for the kids. What would happen to them? Our school was their home, their safety net. We loved and supported them in every single way possible - which is another whole story all in itself. The children ended up being bused to other schools a few miles from their little neighborhood school. Many think, oh, they’ll be fine; they’ll still be offered an education. But, truthfully, school is not just a brick and mortar place of learning. I was fortunate enough to have grown up in a small village in central upstate New York. I learned that school is about reading, writing, learning math, yes, but it is also about learning how to become a member of a community, becoming a part of society. It is about learning how to behave, watching others for clues, knowing that you are supported, even if not at home, by educators who love you above all else, and truly care what happens to you. If you do not always have access to those things at home, school is a place where you can find out how to fit in, how to be. Because the students at my former (inner city) school are bused now, it cuts back on their ability to participate in the school community for athletics or family events, all those things which help a student become a more well-rounded individual. Most of the parents don’t have cars; they would walk their children to school, or, if bused, the bus ride was a short distance from their homes. I try so hard not to dwell on the future of those kiddos, but honestly, I do still think of them often and wonder how so-and-so is holding up. How are they doing in this current political environment as we all deal with the fall-out being handed down to us. I worry daily for their futures. I was invested in them and what will become of them.
A public school education is the only answer for so many children in America today. I am a product of a public school education, and I am proud of that fact. Even as I type this there are people up in Washington working very hard to defund public education and to throw away all those services the students at my old school relied on so heavily, and truthfully, not just Title 1 schools but ALL schools. School is so much more than just brick and mortar locations; this is the only hope some of these kids will have to do better in their lives than what has been handed to them. People who have never worked in education say, enh, so what? It will be in the hands of the state; teachers complain too much. Parents can put them in charter schools, or public schools or magnet schools. It is not that easy, and it is not what is best for them in any way, shape or form. Parents do not all have equal knowledge of the options before them.
What started this train of thought was an encounter with some fourth graders today. My new school is lovely. It is a mixture of families, many like I had in my private school setting, but, because it is now an “older” Tampa neighborhood (still in “new” Tampa), the population has shifted, as happens as communities expand and grow outward. More affordable housing has been built, and families who do want better for their kids move in the this A-school neighborhood. Today a fourth grader I made a connection with earlier in the school year returned after being gone a few months. He was so excited to come to the library and hugged me twice! Now - he is taller than me! His joy made me happy and I was glad to see him. He reminds me of some of the students I had in past years. Always eager to please, yet still testing the waters of life. He has a look-alike in this same class, and the two stood side by side and it made me smile. The kids were all gathering close to the door; it was time to line up to leave, and the others were gathering their things and chattering excitedly about lots of things. Someone pointed out a few new books I had on display for Black History month; biographies on Kamala Harris and Barack Obama. (Yes, I have a book representing Donald Trump, but it is in the biography section and not on this particular display). One of the boys said Ms. Fields….do you think Kamala would be a good president? Now. As a librarian, as an educator I am not going to put my own opinions on display; my job is to present facts and information and let the kids make their own decisions, and not tell them how to think or feel. I said to him, a better question might be, do YOU think Kamala would be a good president? He told me no. He said that his reasons were that she was greedy and only wanted power and money. And I replied, ok, then there is your answer, and you very much made up your own mind on that. He was pleased, and I was pleased for him feeling safe and able to say what he thought. A few other boys were close by; I am not sure if they heard him or were voicing their own opinions to his question, but they all said in agreement with each other that they think she would have been a good president because Trump is a racist. And then they were all out the door. Oh. Wow. Now race does not pertain, yet, it truly does in this case; all five of these boys in this discussion are black. Kids are kids. They parrot their parents. They make their own opinions; they see what they see and pretty much say it as they see it. I thought of this all day long. Just the difference of opinion, how one sees it one way and another yet a different way. They both stated their thoughts without interference from me or from their classroom teacher. That is the country I was raised in. To be able to state what you think, and to listen to what others think. My job as a librarian is to have materials on hand for the kids, to not interject my own thoughts and opinions, and to make them feel safe. If public education is defunded and if state’s become the holders of the entire purse-string of education, states like Florida will flounder in so many of these policies and children like my boys today will not feel so safe in their learning environments. Public education in states who make more of an investment in educating students in a free democracy will be far safer at producing more well-rounded children. It really gives me a lot of food for thought

Standing up for what we deem is right; Harold Lauder was misled

 I do not want my Substack or blog to become a political outlet. I want to keep it safe for stories, anecdotes and things which are on my mind as I continue on through my life, whichever version of myself I am up to now. But I have to say, today my mind is full of political chatter and it’s hard to stay quiet during a time we need to stand up for what we believe in and take charge of our lives. I feel justice is not being fairly or kindly served. So for today I will take a small stand and say what is on my mind.

My favorite fiction book has long been Stephen King’s The Stand. In both the movie and book, the character of Harold Lauder is a major antagonist. He is young when the plague hits, and he and Fran are left alone in their hometown seeking others to commune with. Harold realizes that they cannot stay put, and need to seek the company of others. He is clever and inventive, almost fearless, but, he is also pompous and pretentious. All he really wants is for Fran to love and cherish him. Harold has a chance to do well in the new society that is formed whenever the survivors gather in Boulder, but Randall Flagg, the main antagonist of the story, recognizes Harold’s weakness for Fran and a desire for power, and he plays upon Harold’s basic desires of the heart. Harold, along with help from Nadine Cross, Flagg’s intended bride, creates a bomb to destroy the leaders of the new community. When Harold and Nadine flee Boulder after the detonation, Harold meets with a devastating accident which leaves him alive but in a state of which he will not survive; he served his purpose and Flagg wants him gone. Too late, Harold realizes he could have been an important leader in the new community and could have been someone special if he had not let his jealousies and insecurities take over his emotions. Before he commits suicide, he writes a note seeking forgiveness. He writes “And when the end comes, and when, it is as horrible as good men always knew it would be, there is only one thing to say as all those good men approach the Throne of Judgement: I was misled.”

I have been thinking of Harold Lauder since last night when I read about the happenings in our country this weekend; the purposeful ruination and antagonism of trade alliances with our two closest neighbors. I’ve been picturing some of these major players showing remorse one day and saying you know what; I was wrong - I was misled. I’ve been thinking of how the control of the finances of our government has been handed over to a non-elected, non-government official and several college students with no experience or training in having such access to the veins of the country. Today I am thinking of students not coming to school because of raids of ICE preying upon their illegal status. These are children who are innocent; children who deserve a future, and whose parents sought out a better life here in America. The majority of immigrants are not criminals doing harm to others. They just want to make a life in America. They should be safe here and they are not. It should be enough that they just want a better life and are working hard to obtain it. So many Americans are not safe today; if they identify as a different gender from which they were born, if they love someone of the same sex as they, if their skin and pedigree are not “white” enough. Even those of us born as women - our rights are being stripped away by a political force who consider the general American people “not enough” on any playing field; none of us who are not white males are safe right now. Government employees are threatened with dismissal if they are not loyal enough to a misogynistic, racist, bigoted tyrant. I am not one to call names, and I do not believe in it. I have not stooped to that in my past nor will I in my future. I believe these labels are not name calling. It is stating obvious facts. Those who dominant right now tell us it is going to get rough before it gets better. But I can promise that those who are saying that it will get rougher are not going to experience what the majority of Americans will face as hardship going forward; skyrocketing food prices, rent, mortgages, insurance; the cost of living; these have little significance or impact on those who are majorly wealthy already. The wealthy stand to gain even more wealth if the trajectory of things continues as it is. The wealthy become wealthier and the division between financial security and poverty increases dramatically.

To paraphrase Stephen King and Harold Lauder - so many of us are being misled. What is happening in our country is not being supported or approved of by many citizens of our country. We are being thrown into chaos, and no one is able to keep any of it straight anymore. America is supposed to be the home of the free and the brave. We are supposed to embrace diversity, equity, and justice for all. It seems to me that a witch hunt is happening all around us, and those of us who are not white enough, not of cookie cutter religiosity, who are not “straight” enough are being condemned just by existing. I am truly terrified for the America in which I grew up; I am terrified to see the writing on the wall and the fear in which so many of us live right now.

I believe in hope. I believe in always trying to see the rainbow through torrential rain. I believe in kindness and love and honesty. I will not change myself through this metamorphosis we are living through. I believe life is a pendulum and what goes up truly has to come down. That is the cycle of life. I saw a meme the other day of Ruth Bader Ginsberg saying almost this identical thing. Maya Angelou once quoted a country song and said that every storm runs out of rain, and it is true. It is hard to watch, hard to stay hopeful, hard to believe the rain will stop, but I believe we have to. Personally, I can change nothing in this world except myself. Mel Robbins coined “Let Them”. Let them do as they will; I cannot change them or anyone else. I can be patient, kind and honest but I cannot be silent because the time for sitting in silence is beyond us now. What I think and feel has no impact on anyone but myself, and I refuse to stoop to a level where I cannot be kind, yet I also believe in standing up and using my voice the best I can. To be silent and say nothing is to allow others to change me, and my choice is to say what I believe to be true.

Grandma Willow; Trees hold the secrets to our lives

When I was very young, we took many small day trips, to places like Santa’s Workshop and the Enchanted Forest in the Adirondacks. I remember going to Wellesley Island, which is technically still in New York state, but on the St Lawrence right on the Canadian border. I remember seeing the river in all its majesty – crossing the 1000 Island bridge entrance to the island just before the border crossing. The river was huge in my young eyes, and in fact, it really IS huge and beautiful; it is truly a sight to behold. I remember riding in my mom’s station wagon, windows down, music playing, the wind rushing in smelling of the river and fresh air and sunshine. I think what cements that memory the most is the memory of being stung by a bee. A bee just innocently flying by got sucked into the crosswinds of the car, landed on me and stung my ear – like a piercing. I shrieked, my mom got mad because I scared her – then was empathetic and pulled over to be sure I was ok. I remember going to Panther Lake, where my aunt and uncle had a camp, going to Hyde Lake every year with a group of my parents’ friends in the fire department. And always, Black Lake. My aunt Leona had an old camp up there that she bought in the 1950’s. It was 2 hours northeast of Phoenix, where I grew up, and as a kid the ride seemed so much longer than when I could drive myself there later on in my teens. My mom would pack us up when we were little, drive north and we would sleep in old surplus army tents set up close to the lake. We used an old outhouse, and we bathed in the lake with Prell shampoo and bars of floating Ivory Soap. To this day the smell of old canvas, campfires and Ivory soap take me back to those days, and I now and then buy Prell shampoo to bring back the memories. My cousins and I would pile all together at night in the tents like puppies to sleep and our moms would drink their cocktails around the campfire. It was rustic and glorious. After my parents’ divorce, we still went to Hyde Lake, and we still visited Black Lake, and my dad and Carole ended up buying our camp off Mitchell Rd (always and forever known to us as The Lake). For all my youth and teenaged years summers at Black Lake were truly magical. We could swim, fish (but, if we caught them and kept them, we had to clean them, and my aunt would freeze them for poor-man’s-shrimp when enough of those tiny fish were gathered, so, the older we got the less we fished there were more important ways to spend our days!). We would at first row around our little cove, until we were gifted small outboard motors which allowed us the freedom to be kids on a lake, exploring every nook and cranny we felt like exploring. We would roam the dusty old unpaved roads, venturing off into the woods and exploring the rocky surfaces scratched out and left behind by ancient glaciers. At first, we lived in a travel trailer, upgraded to a single wide trailer, and then it evolved into a double wide. The Lake is still a glorious place to me; it is my safe-haven, my slowing-down place. It is home and it is in my heart and my soul.

One of the best parts of Black Lake is the old willow down at the water’s edge. Years ago, a swing with a heavy chain was installed and it is one of the first places I go when I get back to the lake and I can kick off my shoes and drift down barefoot, connecting to the earth again. It makes my soul smile. The ancient, huge willow at the water’s edge – I call her Grandma Willow, has seen well over a century of seasons. We know she dates to pre-Civil War; when we first began clearing the property one of my family members discovered documents near her base that date back to those days; I have no idea where those documents are now, but it is a true family legend that they exist, and that Grandma Willow is very old. Imagine if she could tell stories, what she could tell?

I love laying on the ground under her branches and looking up to the sky. She spreads her arms like a giant hug hovering over me, and she brings me comfort and joy. I imagine myself sinking into the ground under her, sinking down into her roots where she clings to life in the cold earth where the bedrock meets the water and her tentacles of life stretching far and wide under me like a superhighway filled with nutrients to heal and help her continue to grow. She has lost some large limbs over the years; branches folded and cracked under the extreme cold and snow of the northern tier of New York state just a few miles from the Canadian border. She sheds small limbs often, yet every year she puts out new limbs and leaves, persistently clinging to life. She is magical, consistent, constant in an ever changing, fast-paced world.

“I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do. I feel as if this tree knows everything I ever think of when I sit here. When I come back to it, I never have to remind it of anything; I begin just where I left off.”

― Willa Cather, O Pioneers!

I recently came across this anonymous quote – “Accept what is, let go of what was, and have faith in what will be.” It seems to me that there is comfort in Grandma Willow knowing everything I think, as she holds space for me. In a constantly changing fast-paced world it is perfection to sit a bit under Grandma Willow’s branches and accept what is and to let go of what was. Grandma Willow brings me comfort and hope. Last time I was home I gathered a few pieces of bark she had shed. It is here in my home, on my small devotional altar. She continues to bring me joy, wisdom and comfort and helps me cope with this world, until I can be in her living presence again.