Chapter Thirteen #2
“Yes, she’s fine. I went with Sophie to a pediatric geneticist appointment while I was with them. They did some testing. The doctor said she’s perfectly healthy. Some of her fingers just didn’t grow. I guess it was just a random case.”
“Is Sophie doing okay with all that?” Hodan asks.
Joy nods. “Yes. At first, she was rattled, but we talked about it a lot. Having a baby with missing fingers is hard because we have all our fingers, so we don’t know what it would be like not to.
It’s scary to have a baby who is going to have hardships you haven’t.
But the doctor told us similar kids with limb differences do very well, and it shouldn’t impact the quality of her life.
The actual function she has is good. There’s nothing wrong with her, really.
The only real issue is how other people might treat her.
That’s what Sophie is worried about. We just don’t want January to be treated badly. ”
“How was your weekend?” Mordecai asks.
I’m pouring coffee into my thermos in the break room.
“It was good, thanks. How was yours?” I twist the lid on my cup.
“It was too short.” He yawns. “I did a bunch of yard work. Planted a mulberry bush. I also went to visit my friend Lucy. She just moved to Oldewood Street. Oh, and I went to my brother’s for dinner.
Brought a homemade lemon meringue pie. I’m exhausted.
And we’ve got the human library program at the end of the day, right? ”
I nod. “Yes we do.”
He pours coffee into his mug and says, “You know what? I wanted to say, I’ve been thinking about this whole Declan thing, and I’m so sorry that you’re dealing with this.
Especially right after being so sick. It’s like you came back to work just in time to be harassed.
I’m sure after dealing with whatever your health issue was, this has been especially insufferable.
I hope it isn’t impacting your recovery—”
“It was a mental health crisis,” I tell him.
He raises his eyebrows. “Oh. You didn’t have to tell me that. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you had to tell me—”
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “Someone I used to be close with died unexpectedly and it really shook me up. I had a series of panic attacks. I’m doing a lot better, though. I still feel a little off, but I’m all right.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
I sip my coffee. “That’s okay. You didn’t kill him.”
He doesn’t laugh.
“I was joking,” I say.
“Good one,” he says without laughing. He adds, after a beat, “Who was he?”
He’s prying.
I say, “An ex-boyfriend. His name was Ben. We dated for five years before I realized I was gay. We were together from when I was eighteen to twenty-three. He was twenty-eight to thirty-three.”
He raises his eyebrows. “A ten-year age gap? That’s quite the May-December romance. You know, I had a similar experience, actually. I dated a man who was twenty when I was a teenager. He hasn’t died, though.” He looks at me. He adds cautiously, “Sadly.”
I snort into my coffee.
“Was that an insensitive joke?” he says quickly. “You said that thing about me not killing your ex, so I thought maybe the tone made it acceptable—”
I laugh. “You’re a terrible person, Mordecai.”
He snorts. “Fuck off.”
The human library event has begun. We’ve placed chairs around the room for patrons to sit and chat with their human “book.” I’ve set up a table with coffee, cookies, and other refreshments.
We have a good turnout. The participants have all been paired up already.
We’ve given everyone a moment to get settled.
I’m standing in the middle of the room to open up the program.
I project my voice. “Thank you all for coming to our Human Library! We aren’t the first to host this kind of event.
These events were inspired by the Danish concept of “Menneskebiblioteket,” which I’m sorry, I probably just pronounced poorly.
The event aims to bridge divides and combat prejudice by facilitating meaningful conversations between people from different backgrounds.
We’re so excited you’re here to participate. ”
Mordecai is helping with the event. He adds, “You’ve all been given a pamphlet with some sample questions to get the conversation going. There’s also a quick survey. We’d love your feedback.”
I say, “Thank you all again for joining us today. I hope you have wonderful conversations. Please feel free to get started!”
The participants’ eyes move from us to the person they’re paired with. The library starts to become loud with conversation.
I watch people begin to talk to each other. While I scan the room, I’m startled to spot Declan. He’s standing by a large sign I placed by the entrance to the library. The sign says:
WELCOME TO THE HUMAN LIbrARY!
CHECK OUT A LIVING BOOK, SPARK MEANINGFUL CONVERSATION, brIDGE DIVIDES, AND CONNECT!
Mordecai notices Declan’s presence too. He nudges my arm. “Why is he here?”
Declan looks up from the sign toward us. My eyes connect with his, and he starts walking in our direction.
“Hi,” he addresses us as he gets closer.
“Hello,” Mordecai and I reply in unison.
“I’d like to participate in this program,” he says.
I wonder why he wants to do that. Is he trying to monitor the conversations? Perhaps the words “diversity” in the promotional material felt like a red flag to him.
“Why?” Mordecai squints at him.
I grit my teeth. He probably shouldn’t have asked him that. It sounds unwelcoming. I wonder why too, but—
“Am I not allowed?” Declan raises his voice. “I want to see what you’re doing here. I’m a member of the public. I have a right—”
“Did you sign up?” Mordecai asks. “All our human books are already claimed.”
Declan shakes his head. “That’s disappointing. I came all the way here.”
I wonder how he would have behaved if we had paired him with someone. I’m not sure I would want to subject one of the participants to his slander.
Mordecai says, “We’re sorry for the inconvenience, but the event started fifteen minutes ago and—”
I interrupt them. I have an idea. “You know what? I’m available. We could pair you with me if you like?”
Mordecai frowns. “What? You’re not signed up as a book.”
“We put a lot of effort into encouraging people to come to our programs,” I say. “I would hate for Mr. Turner to come all the way here just to be turned away. Would you like to borrow me as a book and have a conversation?”
Declan’s eyes scan my face.
“Sure,” he says. “Let’s talk.”
Declan and I are sitting in two chairs facing each other in a corner of the library. We’re in the 900s section, where history and geography books are shelved.
“Would you like to grab a coffee or a snack before we get started?” I offer.
“Maybe in a bit, thank you,” he says. He’s leaning forward. His elbows are resting on his knees, and his hands are clasped together.
We look at each other.
I inhale. “Should we get started, then? What would you like to know about being a librarian?”
He looks at me. “I think it’s obvious what your political and ideological beliefs are, and I’d like to know what measures you take to ensure the books and services you offer here don’t promote a particular agenda.”
I brush my hair behind my ears. “We have collection development policies that we have to follow. We have rules when it comes to what books we acquire and what programs we offer. It’s not up to me as an individual.”
He squints. “There are a huge number of books in this library, especially books for children, that push gender ideology, critical race theory, radical feminism, and other ideas that I strongly oppose, but sense you likely support. Can’t you admit it’s suspicious that this building is full of books aligned with the political beliefs that you as an individual have?
Can you understand how that looks to someone from my point of view? ”
He is speaking calmly, but I sense he’s preparing for us to argue. His neck is red. I don’t want to argue with him. It would be nice if we could actually communicate.
I say, “We get complaints about material that is more politically right-wing too. We have books and content I personally think is awful, to be frank with you. We have a large range of resources that cover a variety of viewpoints, including ones that are aligned with right-wing ideologies, even extremist ones. We’ve also had speakers visit, like authors, who are definitely very conservative.
This is meant to be a space for all members of our community, including people I don’t personally agree with. ”
He tilts his head. “So, you admit your personal beliefs oppose mine, right? You support things like critical race theory and changing your gender?”
I look at him. He has eyebrows when you’re up close to him. They’re just blond and hard to see.
I say, “On a personal level, it’s important to me that the library is a space for everyone, regardless of their beliefs. My job is to uphold the principles of intellectual freedom and inclusivity.”
“And my job is to protect our community from moral bankruptcy.” He leans forward more in his chair.
“I find it hard to believe that you actually want this to be a space for everyone. I feel like this space is not welcoming to me, my family, or anyone who has traditional values. Can you acknowledge there are biases here? Don’t you think most of your coworkers are politically left-wing too? ”
I consider the question. “I honestly don’t know what my coworkers’ political beliefs are.
I know that higher levels of education are associated with greater support for progressive policies.
So yeah, anyone who has a job like a librarian, or a lawyer, or a teacher, or any career that requires that sort of education is probably more likely to be left-leaning, but not always.
There are lots of people I work with who seem to have conservative beliefs.
And most people who work here aren’t librarians.
We’ve got library techs, pages, and volunteers. ”
“It’s condescending to say that more educated people are more likely to be left-wing,” he says.
“I wasn’t trying to be condescending,” I say.
He’s projecting his voice. “I have valid concerns about this place. I think it’s reasonable to want libraries to demonstrate ethics and moral values.
I don’t want my tax dollars promoting lifestyles or behaviors that aren’t good for our country.
I think we’re accommodating a loud vocal faction, which you’re a part of, rather than accommodating most of our citizens, who I believe agree with me. ”
I look at him. “I want you to know that most of the work we do here doesn’t have anything to do with political belief.
We host programs about how to do your taxes or write a résumé, and we lend out Wi-Fi hotspots.
We do puppet shows. We read Clifford the Big Red Dog to children.
I understand you have reservations about some of our materials and events, but I—”
“I have more than reservations. I’m appalled.”
His face is red. He has hazel eyes.
I ask, “What specifically troubles you?”
“I think you’re promoting an agenda. You’re pushing ideologies that go against traditional values and that endanger children. How would you feel if government institutions that you pay taxes for weren’t aligned to your beliefs, and were actually boldly opposed to them?”
I look at him. “I already feel that way.”
He squints.
I add, “And our goal really isn’t to push an agenda. It’s to offer a safe and welcoming environment for everyone.”
“Well, I don’t feel safe or welcomed,” he says.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.
He crosses his arms. “I don’t think you really are sorry, because to make me feel safe and welcome you could start by removing the books we’ve requested.”
I exhale. “But that would make other people feel unsafe and unwelcome. Do you understand that?”
He leans back in his chair. “I don’t think we’re ever going to agree, are we?”
“I agree,” I say.
“How do you think your conversation went?” Mordecai asks. We’re cleaning up now that the program has ended.
I’m tossing empty paper cups into a recycling bag. “I guess it went as well as I could have anticipated. He didn’t really budge. I didn’t exactly expect him to change his—” I pause.
“What?” he asks.
I frown. “Damnit. I didn’t say anything about the emails.
God. I’m so sorry. I should have. I wanted to confront him about sending us those pictures.
And I forgot to talk to him about the bird and abortion emails too.
I was too focused on talking about Clifford the Big Red Dog and what libraries do. I wanted to get our mission across—”
“Oh man,” he says. “That’s okay. It might not have been safe to anyway. What if he got angry? I was surprised he didn’t. Though I have a feeling we’re going to have to suffer through a Liberty Lately article about that soon.”
I close my eyes and shake my head, pained.
“Do you need me to bring home anything?” I ask Joy. I’m sitting in the car, about to drive home from work.
She says, “Yes. We need Band-Aids.”
I frown. “Band-Aids? Why? Did you hurt yourself?”
“Um. I got a little scratched. I, uh, tried to introduce Kyle to the girls again, and it went poorly.”
I make a face. “Jesus Christ. Are you okay? I don’t think those cats are going to get along, honey.”
She says, “I know. They really don’t like each other, do they? I don’t know what to do. I was thinking, maybe Kyle could just live in the workshop permanently? He could be our workshop cat. He could—”
I sigh. “No, honey, he can’t always live in the workshop. He won’t be happy in there.”
Her voice is quiet and subdued. “But I want to keep him. I love him.”
I say, “I know you love him, but we can’t keep him.”