Chapter Twenty-Five #2
“When we’d receive donated books from the cities for the Pack Horse project, they sent a lot of Bibles. So many that I thought cityfolk had given up on Jesus.”
She chortled and clamped a hand over her mouth. “Chile, do not let Jedidiah hear this.”
A young woman in a long stylish skirt like mine and a delicate buttoned-up blouse called out from behind the big entry desk, “You just missed Mrs. Wells. She dropped off these writing tablets for the debate room.”
Mrs. Claxton announced, “Cussy, this is Lillian Carver, our front desk librarian. Lillian, Cussy Lovett is our visiting librarian for the week.”
Then she leaned in to me and barely whispered, “They don’t know your business, Cussy. Not even my niece Susan has been told. I suggest we keep it that way. Tamp any gossip before it starts.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what Mrs. Claxton would say if she know’d all of it.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, my face warming, ashamed that the librarian wouldn’t risk others knowing she had an inmate working for her.
Still, I appreciated the ol’ woman’s wisdom and was relieved to escape any gossip such news would bring.
Lillian came around from her desk and said, “Nice to meet you, Miss Cussy,” never once showing repulsion or fear at my color, only a shy smile that lifted to slate-blue eyes. She left to help a patron.
“You’ve been officially welcomed to the Louisville Western Free Public Library. Let’s get your name tag in my office and get ourselves started,” Mrs. Claxton said.
Minutes later, she pinned the honorable title onto my blouse.
I pressed my fingers over it, suddenly proud, in awe of being able to work in a public city library.
A Carnegie one, at that. I thought about my friend Queenie from back home.
She’d left Troublesome for work at the Free Library of Philadelphia.
I could see what all the fuss was about in her letters.
Picture her big-city library up there. She’d been writing for years, asking me to visit.
I missed hearing from her, wondered if she found out I’d been in prison.
“Now, Cussy, about our patrons: It’s the parents we’re more concerned with, as I told you.
A lot of them labor during the day and don’t have much reading or writing skills, if any.
We need this to change if the Negroes are to have equal rights.
Many still can’t vote because they’re required to pass literacy tests or be able to write their name.
I want to right this for all the people in this community, black and white alike.
” She nodded firmly. “I know you must’ve had the same problem with your people in Troublesome.
Maybe even at the library you’re at now? ”
“I’m getting ready to help with almost the same dilemma.
” I moved closer to her and lowered my voice.
“Inmates can’t go before the parole board unless they can read and write.
” Then I thought about my dear Loretta, the elderly seamstress in Troublesome and the special school she attended, but only when the moon was fat.
Working with Sassyann on her letters. “I have a suggestion, ma’am. ”
I began to tell her about our Moonlight Schools back home.
How, years ago, the founder, Cora Wilson Stewart, taught the hillfolk to read and write during moonlit nights when the adult students could safely walk the mountain paths to the one-room schoolhouses after their daily work chores were finished.
Her eyes rounded. “I read about this educator long, long ago.”
“Mrs. Stewart founded the schools in 1911. She taught thousands to read and write, Mrs. Claxton. Postmasters, sheriffs, coal miners, farmers—anyone hankering for the books. There were married couples, soldiers, and even folks in their eighties that many thought were not teachable, and that you couldn’t teach an ol’ dog new tricks. ”
She snorted. “Nonsense, I learn something every day. Going to keep doing so till my head’s buried under the last blade of grass.”
“Lots of soldiers signed up before heading off to the war. They found out that writing letters home was the only way to let folks hear from them. And their kin wanted to be able to answer the letters, so they signed up too.”
“I had heard the schools were successful but didn’t realize the extent.”
“Mrs. Stewart used beginner tablets of blotted papers and inserted the alphabet in one-half so her Moonlighters could learn their letters and etch their names. Weren’t long before the students could write without tracing and copy script from a newspaper or book.”
“This is exactly what we need!” She smacked a palm down onto the table.
“It helped a lot of Kentucky men stand up to the big lumber and coal companies.”
“My brother was a mule for the King Coal companies and died under their rule,” she said. Suddenly, she sprang up, spry as a young’un. “Law, chile, this is a grand idea. Why, I could have Miss Wells at the elementary get me the tablets, pencils, and tracing paper.”
“We could hold classes every evening, Mrs. Claxton.”
“Maybe my late-afternoon librarians could watch over their children in the reading room while we teach the parents.”
“We can solicit volunteer teachers like Mrs. Stewart did. And I could make up some fliers for your board and then distribute them around the neighborhoods, letting the parents know about the evening classes.”
Our conversation rose easily as we talked over and around, lifting each other’s ideas, jotting down our notes.
After an hour of discussion, she summoned her staff for a meeting, the excitement rising in her voice.
Weren’t long before eight of her librarians were gathered in the debate room.
All looked to be in their thirties and forties, and very professional and serious.
Nary a one complained about being called in to donate their services, a testament to their fondness for the older librarian and their own dedication to patrons.
“Lillian,” she called out, “see how much typewriter ink and pencils we have in the supply room. We may need to send the janitor over to the print shop on Walnut.”
Minutes later, she sent us packing into quiet meeting rooms, where we typed up fliers for the adult writing classes for the next three hours.
When I took a break, I spotted Mrs. Claxton in her office, furious fingers flying over the typewriter keys.
In the afternoon, Mrs. Claxton sent Lillian and another librarian over to the business district to ask shopkeepers to tape fliers on their windows.
Weren’t long before the librarian had stacks of leaflets on her desk. While I waited for her to count the fliers, the telephone rang.
“Louisville Western Branch Library.” Her eyes narrowed. Then she covered the receiver and whispered, “Close the door.”
“Yes, Warden, I’m still here. She’s working right now and doing quite well.” Mrs. Claxton shot me a smile.
I set the fliers on the table.
“Yes, she’s been a tremendous help in such a short time. I wish I had more like her… Uh-huh. I can understand why you want her back.”
My heart skipped. Had the warden changed her mind? Was the doctor waiting for me at the prison? Maybe she had sent someone and they were already on the way.
“I’ll make sure to stay in touch, and I’ll have her packed and ready for the officer Sunday at two. Yes, ma’am. Thank you, I’ll speak with you tomorrow.” The librarian hung up the telephone.
“Come on, chile, let’s grab these fliers and get going.”
Relieved, I gathered up the papers and followed her outside.
She nudged me over to the end of the building and placed a small brown hand on the cornerstone inscribed:
LOUISVILLE ^ FREE^ PUBLIC ^ LIbrARY ^COLORED ^ brANCH
^ ERECTED ^A^D ^ 1907
“The Carnegie library was the nation’s first full-service library built for coloreds and staffed by coloreds.
To power the people. Five years ago, we changed that to all the people.
Began hiring whites too. Today we need to go and find the ones who’ve been forgotten and get them book-read to vote.
” She patted the rough, sun-bleached stone.
***
While the July sun beat down in the late afternoon, we made our way around the neighborhood, knocking on doors.
Mrs. Claxton fanned herself. “It’s going to be another hot week. I fear we’re going to be wearing the weather.” She wiped the tiny droplets above her mouth, and I did the same, the air draping us like wet wool.
We walked past businesses until she came to a block of homes. “Let’s start here,” she said.
Some were doubtful when the librarian told them they could learn to read and write, and vote come next election.
She pushed hard and said to one suspicious woman, “Now, Patty, we’re growing voters, and your own sons can read and write just fine.
But until they come of age, we need you and all the parents to vote for them. For us. Our people. Our rights.”
Patty’s eyes disappeared into her big, airish face as she wagged her head.
“Come to the class tomorrow, Patty,” Mrs. Claxton wheedled.
“We have ourselves the first library in the nation operated fully by Negroes and built just for us. We need to honor this gift by learning to read and write. And once you can do that, you can vote. Wouldn’t you like a say on who your next mayor is? Our president?”
“What about her? That disfigurement she’s got—it could be catching or sumthin’.” She pointed at me.
The embarrassment lifted and heated my ears.
“No,” Mrs. Claxton huffed. “She’s different, and not too unlike us or the thousands out there who are not like those who rule us. Law, Patty, just come to the class. For the children.” she softened her voice, touched the woman’s sleeve. “Our community.”
“Yes, ma’am, stop by,” I chimed. “Please tell everyone to come tomorrow evening.”
Patty glared at me, the anger cinched in her brow.
“Reckon there’s a lot who have disfigurements, Miss Patty. Some that don’t have a name or color,” I said, lifting a stubborn chin.
Mrs. Claxton tugged on my sleeve, and I stepped back from the woman’s chilly gaze.
“Hmph, don’t need any negative Nellys. We need voters!” she declared a few minutes later on the sidewalk, hooking her arm in mine.
Overhead, a crow squawked her truth from a utility pole and took flight, rolling out its bickering caws.