Thank you, Mrs. Long

 As I near my retirement, I'm cleaning out old files. Several years ago I came upon this poem, a thank you note to Mrs. Long, the librarian who nurtured a child's imagination. 

This poem reminds us that despite being a symbol of intellectual freedom, the public library has its own checkered past and it hasn't been that long since a black child could not attend a white library.  I hope it also inspires you to be brave when people are counting on you to stand up for the right to read.

Enjoy.

A POEM FOR MY LIBRARIAN, MRS. LONG
(You never know what troubled little girl needs a book)

At a time when there was not tv before 3:00 P.M.
And on Sunday none until 5:00
We sat on the front porches watching
The jfg sign go on and off greeting

The neighbors, discussion the political
Situation congratulating the preacher
On his sermon
There was always the radio which brought us

Songs from wlac in nashville and what we would now call
Easy listening or smooth jazz but when I listened
Late at night with my portable (that I was so proud of)
Tucked under my pillow

I heard nat king cole and matt dennis, june christy and ella fitzgerald
And sometimes sarah vaughan sing black coffee
Which I now drink
It was just called music There was a bookstore uptown on gay street Which I visited and inhaled that wonderful odor Of new books Even today I read hardcover as a preference paperback only

As a last resort
And up the hill on vine street
(The main black corridor) sat our carnegie library
Mrs. Long always glad to see you

The stereoscope always ready to show you faraway
Places to dream about
Mrs. Long asking what are you looking for today
When I wanted Leaves of Grass or alfred north whitehead

She would go to the big library uptown and I now know
Hat in hand to ask to borrow so that I might borrow
Probably they said something humiliating since southern
Whites like to humiliate southern blacks

But she nonetheless brought the books
Back and I held them to my chest
Close to my heart
And happily skipped back to grandmother’s house

Where I would sit on the front porch
In a gray glider and dream of a world
Far away
I love the world where I was

I was safe and warm and grandmother gave me neck kissed
When I was on my way to bed
But there was a world
Somewhere
Out there
And Mrs. Long opened that wardrobe
But no lions or witches scared me
I went through

Knowing there would be
Spring