Chapter Six
I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to reorganize our home library.
It’s nice to have a project to keep me occupied while I’m alone.
I’ve organized our books alphabetically by author before, but we’ve added a lot to our collection, and I’ve noticed Joy struggles with that system.
She rarely puts books where they belong.
I also need to dust the shelves, rotate the books so none get prolonged sun exposure, and make sure they aren’t overcrowded—which can compress and warp books.
I also need to weed. I want to get rid of worn-out books that we won’t read again and don’t love enough to warrant Joy repairing.
Sometimes, duplicate books find their way into the house.
I occasionally get sent advance review copies of new books for collection development and readers’ advisory at the library.
I keep some of those, but not all of them. I’ll donate our spares.
I pick up a warped, water-damaged copy of Lolita. I’ve had this since university. I remember lying in the bathtub the night before an exam while Ben read it to me. He was helping me study. I told him I needed to finish the book and was too busy to shower, so he said he’d read to me.
I open the book. I read the line Perhaps, somewhere, some day, at a less miserable time, we may see each other again.
I close it.
I’m going to take every book off these shelves. I’m going to place them in piles around the room, and I’m going to put them away in a logical order that works for us.
Joy often puts dried flowers in vases in the blank spots on the shelves, so I’m brushing dusty, dried rose petals into a compost bag. Lou and Toulouse have jumped into the empty spaces in the shelves, entertained by the change in their environment and the new spots to perch.
I pause when I get to the shelf where I keep my brass dove.
“Put that book down, Josie. You won’t like that one. It’s for little boys,” a woman tells her daughter. They’re standing in front of a book display in the children’s section. The theme of the display is “Mighty Machines.” All the books are about trucks, planes, and construction vehicles.
The little girl is about two years old. She’s wearing a headband with wigtails, or fake hair affixed to it to mimic pigtails.
She doesn’t have enough hair naturally to wear it in pigtails.
I assume the hairpiece is meant to assert the child’s gender; God forbid anyone assume she’s a boy.
She’s clutching a yellow board book with a backhoe loader pictured on the front.
“Let’s pick a book for girls,” the mom says, taking the book from her child’s hands.
I fight an impulse to say something.
When I was about six, before I was conscious of social norms and the expectations of my mother, I used to beg my parents to buy me little boy clothes. I preferred the iconography ascribed to them. Dinosaurs. Pirate ships. Bugs.
I remember sitting crossed-legged on the carpet in my elementary school library, leafing through a book about a little blue spider. It was my favorite, but I knew I couldn’t check it out because my mom would think it was weird that I picked a book she thought was for boys.
Our librarian’s name was Ms. Carol. I remember her buying more books in the little blue spider series, which she set aside for me. I was astounded that she’d noticed I read those books, and felt seen and touched by the gesture.
I had to write a letter of intent when I applied to library school, and I wrote about Ms. Carol. I said I wanted to become a librarian because of her. I wrote about how she sparked my love of reading. I wanted to have a meaningful impact on other people like she did.
I can’t go tell that mother not to snatch books about trucks from her kid, but I can make sure our reading lists, book displays, and recommendations challenge gendered stereotypes.
I can make resources about diverse reading that outline why letting kids explore all types of books is good for them.
I can hand books about bugs to little girls, and ones about ponies to little boys.
I look at my monitor. Tomorrow is Tuesday, which is when I’m meeting with Brenda. I’ve got a blank document open to brainstorm what I’d like to talk to her about. So far, I’ve written:
Come to the meeting with ideas and proposed solutions.
Emphasize our role in community education.
What can we do to bolster awareness and understanding?
Think of program ideas…
Look ahead.
“Excuse me?”
An older man with a mustache and long gray hair is standing in front of my desk. He’s holding a stack of books about Vietnam.
I smile. “Yes? How can I help you?”
“What’s that pin mean?” he asks, gesturing to my vest.
My smile wanes. I have a trans flag pin on.
Please don’t tell me I have to deal with yet another confrontational patron.
I take a shallow breath. If this guy gets angry at me for wearing this pin, I’m not going to take it lying down. I’ve had enough. Why do people keep picking me to hash out their grievances? Is there something about my face that suggests I deserve to bear the brunt of everyone’s animosity?
I sit up straight. I don’t deserve this. I’ve come to work today to do my job. I have good intentions. I’m trying.
I look him in the eyes. “This is a pin I wear to demonstrate my support for the transgender community, and to signal that the library is a safe space for them.”
I brace for the backlash.
“Oh, groovy.” He smiles. “I like the colors.”
I blink.
He remains where he is, still smiling.
“Thank you,” I say, my heart racing.
I really thought he was going to yell at me.
“I like the colors too,” I add, which is a lie. The pin is pink and blue, which are my least favorite colors, and they’re pastel. I prefer vibrant palettes. Yellows, reds, and greens.
“I love the colors, actually,” I say, so relieved by this man’s lack of anger that I feel compelled to be excessively positive.
An email notification pops up on the side of my screen.
COULD YOU PLEASE RECOMMEND SOME BOOKS, ARTICLES, OR ONLINE RESOURCES THAT EXPLORE HOMOSEXUALITY IN BIRD SPECIES?
THANKS,
SAMMY
I squint. They want resources on gay birds? Is this person messing with me?
I’m going to wait a little while before I respond.
I’ve given them a little too much of my time, I think.
I can’t allot hours of my capacity to one person.
There are other questions in the reference email inbox.
I want to spend the time I have today between helping people at the desk and preparing for my meeting with Brenda.
I also need to create a better sign about how to connect to the Wi-Fi, in the hopes that we receive fewer questions—
“Darcy?”
I look up. A woman is standing at the desk.
“Hello,” I say.
“Do you remember me?”
She has dark skin, a nose ring, and long braids. I don’t remember her name. I open my mouth, hoping it will come to me, but it doesn’t.
“We went out once,” she says. She’s sort of smirking.
I don’t know what to say. I’m surprised to see her here. We met once in Montreal, which is hours away.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” she says.
I do remember her, but I don’t remember her name.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I—uh. Your name is just escaping me out of context.”
“I guess saying we went out once is a bit of a stretch,” she says quietly. There’s no one standing near us. In a quiet voice she says, “We hooked up once. You don’t remember?”
I look at her. I do remember her.
She’s sort of laughing. “It was a really long time ago. Like ten, thirteen years ago, maybe. It was just this one night. It’s sort of brazen of me to mention it, I guess. I’m sorry. I just saw you and thought, Wow, that’s wild. It’s her. Are you from this area?”
I was dating Ben the night I met her.
“No,” I say. “I lived in Pert for a while, but I moved to this area about six years ago.”
“What a small world. This is where I grew up,” she says. “I’ll be honest, I’m a little disappointed you don’t remember me. The night we met was memorable for me. It felt sort of cinematic. We were in Montreal. We met in a bar bathroom. I was crying. Does any of that jog your memory?”
“You were crying?” I say, but I remember. I’ve thought about her a lot. I always wondered if I’d ever run into her again.
“Yes,” she says. “This girl I was sort of dating ended things, and I was sobbing in the bathroom. You came in, heard me, and asked me if I was all right. You consoled me.”
“I consoled you?” I repeat.
It’s interesting seeing her face. She looks the same.
She laughs. “Yes, you did. We made out in the bathroom and left together. Maybe it felt memorable to me because I was so sad that night, and you turned it around. We ran down Sainte-Catherine Street, under that canopy of pink plastic balls. It was an art installation. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” I admit.
She has a bright smile. “It felt sort of like that movie with Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy, where they meet on a train and spend twenty-four hours together. Have you seen that? I think it’s called Before Sunrise, or Before Sunset, or something like that.”
“I haven’t seen it,” I say.
“Well, it was a lot like that, except gay,” she says.
“We walked around Montreal until the sun came up. We told each other our life stories. You told me I was the first girl you’d ever kissed.
I thought of you a lot after, and I wanted to look you up, but you only told me your first name.
What’s your situation like now? Are you with someone? ”
“I’m married,” I say.
“To a man?” she asks quietly.
“No.”
She smiles. “Good.”
“How about you?” I ask.
“My partner and I live about ten minutes up the road,” she says. “We have two kids. Twin boys.”
We look at each other for a beat with pursed smiles, our eyes scanning each other’s faces.
“It’s nice to see you again,” she says. “I wondered what happened to you. I’ve thought of you and that night often. I’m sorry for coming up to you. This was weird of me, I guess, but I couldn’t resist.”