The Librarian

"Girl, girl," she would shriek, "come here!".  Her command would send me rushing across the room as swiftly as my little Stride Rite encased feet would carry me.  "Girl, follow me".  And I did, for if I didn't, her claw of an hand would reach out and encircle my forearm and forcefully guide me in the intended direction.  She had no idea of the force her bony fingers inflicted on my tender skin.  No idea that her fingers would leave a rosary ring of bruises just above my elbow, where she chose to grab to maneuver me. 

Who was this demanding old woman using the force of words and gnarled hands to secure my assistance?  Who was this old woman that croaked orders like a wicked witch in a classic fairy tale?  Her name was Sister Sylvia and she was the librarian in my Catholic elementary school the whole nine years I spent there.  For nine years, she was the woman in the black polyester dress and veil that barked an explanation of the Dewey Decimal system, threatened fines for late books and kicked my sister-in-law, Sheila, out of the library for, of all things, whistling.

Sister Sylvia was an institution at St. Stanislaus, proof being that my grandmother had her way back in her elementary school days.  She wasn't a librarian then, but a teacher, a young one, fresh into her nun's habit.  And even then she was mean as hell, grabbing my grandma Mimi by the ear to discipline her during daily mass, slapping small hands with wooden rulers, not doing a whole lot of smiling, but a whole lot of yelling instead.

The thing was, you were never going to be on Sr. Sylvia's good side.  She was never going to pat you on the head and call you "good girl" just "girl! girl".  And I hated that more than anything.  The fact that she couldn't be bothered to know my name or remember my name, but just called me "girl", like I wasn't so much a person but a gender.  Once in my teen years my father, while disciplining me for one of my many antics, called me "girl" and it bugged me so much that to this day I remember it.  Not that I got in trouble for who knows what, but that he, in a moment of anger, called me by the same "pet" name as Sr. Sylvia, "Girl!".

Anyways, despite the fact the Sr. Sylvia ruled over the school library, all the girls in class always wanted to be picked to "work" there during class time.  It gave us a little joy to find a small bit of favor being chosen to help, but it was also the novelty of using date stamps and ink pads, wielding a little power over kids who had to fork over nickles in overdue fines, secretly adding a couple extra days to due dates for our friends (wink, wink).  And for what it's worth, she did instill in us a certain respect for books, drilling into our young minds that a library was a place for silence and respect, a place to go to find answers to our questions and find joy in words.

So, when a librarian stood up at the parent orientation meeting at Reagan's school and put out a plea for parent volunteers to help out on occasion, something inside me clicked.  Like Sr. Sylvia kicked on a switch in my head.  I could almost feel her thin, bone-like fingers guiding me to the library a few days later where I stood at the check out desk and asked "can I sign up as a volunteer?". And just like that, I fell in love with the library all over again.

So since school started this past fall I've scoured the volunteer calendar, matched up available days in mine and signed up for a couple of hours each week.  It's not brain surgery, just a lot of shelving and straightening.  It's a lot of me standing at the bookcases muttering the alphabet under my breath reminding myself that K comes before L and not vice versa.  It's a little of me throwing my hands up seeing that someone shelved a couple of Williems in with the Williams.  I like handling books.  I like stumbling upon stories my children will enjoy.  Those that make me smile, I stack behind the desk and check out under my name to read to the kids at bedtime.  But I especially like the quiet.  So much so that one day while ending a phone call with my dad so I could rush of to the library I confided to him "I wish they would offer me a job".  And wouldn't you know, just an hour later as I crouched in front of the "D" bookcase filing away picture books, the teaching library stooped near me and asked "Would you be interested in becoming a paid substitute for the library?".

It doesn't get better than this!  Still loads of free time to participate in the kids' activities, to explore Hong Kong, to shop, and lunch and laugh with new friends, but a day here and there to ease back into the work force and earn some "pocket money". (When's the last time you heard that one? Pocket money?)

So now when a librarian has the flu or fancies a day's vacation, you might just find me behind the circulation desk at HKIS lower primary library.  And now there's no date stamp and ink pad, but a little scanner gun that beeps and bings and bongs.  There are no drawers filled with informative index cards, but an online catalogue to scan and search. No nickles for late books, just gentle reminders and handwritten notes sent home. And there's no Sr. Sylvia, croaking out orders from inside her black nun's habit.  But there is this "girl" and she's a very, very happy one.