Reading behind Bars
Page 28
But I didn’t know much about Clara herself so, perhaps a bit morbid, her obituary seemed like a good place to start.
She was born in Hawley, Aug. 29, 1863, the daughter of Calvin E. and Olive (Crittenden) Cooley. She was married to Mr. Thorington on Aug. 4, 1885. He was an officer at the Hampden county jail in Northampton and she—
Huh. My great-great-grandfather Andrew had worked in a jail.
I continued reading. He was an officer at the Hampden county jail in Northampton and she was a matron in the same institution for 30 years.
Wait. Rewind.
Both of my great-great-grandparents had worked in a jail?
Seven years prior, I stepped out into the prison yard for the first time as a prison librarian. I had no idea what to expect and I really had no idea what I was doing. When I tell the story of how I got there, I usually do mention the state of the economy, the struggle to find a job, and that I was willing to work just about anywhere to pay rent, including working at a prison.
But maybe, just maybe, something else had guided me there, too. Maybe, passed down through the generations, there was something in my blood that told me that for that brief period of time, I needed to be working there at that prison.
At this point in my life, I’ve been working in libraries for over twenty years. I’ve worked at public libraries and academic libraries and research libraries and, yes, a prison library. But none of the patrons I have met along the way have had as big of an impact on me than the men I met during the twenty-one months I was employed at that prison. Every single day I think of them, by name, and wonder how they are and what they are doing. I wonder if Woodson got that job at the library, and if Conway enjoyed his green beer.
But more than anything, I hoped their experience with me instilled in them a love for the library as an institution. Because even out in the big wide world of life after prison, the library is a neutral space. The library doesn’t care who you are or where you come from. The library just wants you to be there, enjoying the books and reading the newspapers, and checking your email on the computers. The library is a space for everyone, regardless of background and history.
Public libraries as we know them today are due, in large part, to industrialist and philanthropist Andrew Carnegie. Over the course of three decades, Carnegie provided funds for nearly 2,900 public libraries including 1,700 in the United States. Prior to Carnegie’s investment in America’s literacy, libraries were guarded by fierce gatekeeping techniques, most often monetary: for a fee, you could access the books inside. There were private clubs that reserved books only for members, or students at an academic institution. Local libraries that provided free titles for a city or town were virtually nonexistent, and those that did exist were often treated as an afterthought by the local bureaucracy.
A lifelong reader, Carnegie wanted to change the elite trappings of libraries. As these free libraries began to sprout up around the country, and around the world, libraries and the books inside stopped being merely for the privileged and wealthy, but were now available to everyone, regardless of income or status. It wasn’t just about having access to books, either, but the knowledge and information that could be gleaned from them, as evidenced in a quote attributed to Carnegie: “A library outranks any other one thing a community can do to benefit its people. It is a never-failing spring in the desert.”
It’s a refreshing image, the pool of glistening water in the middle of an arid wasteland, the life and vitality that can come from drinking. Carnegie spoke of public libraries, of course, but the idea that a library can reinvigorate a person is true for all libraries, including, and perhaps especially, prison libraries. Surrounded by guards and bars and razor wire, the library always proved to be the one place at camp where the men could just exist.
This is true for all of us: the library is, and hopefully always will be, a place where we can just be free.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I have to thank my editor, Veronica Alvarado, for championing this book. I initially mentioned “my prison librarian memoir” to Ronnie as a potential topic back in November 2016, so it’s taken almost three years for us to get here. I told her that I wanted to do this story justice, and thanks to her patience and hard work, I like to think that I have.
Major kudos to the entire team at Skyhorse Publishing, especially production editor Jen Houle, and Tom Lau for once again giving me a fantastic cover. Along with them, thanks to sales team members Steven Sussman, Rachel Bloom, and Anna Brill.
So much love goes to my Beta Readers, Sydney, Alexa, and Claudine, for their comments and support. And, of course, to my OG Beta Reader, Jenn. Next margarita date is on me.
The research process for this book included documents, reports, and rules made publicly available online by Cornell University, the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction, the University of Michigan, and the Correctional Institution Inspection Committee. This includes the regulations I frequently cite throughout the text.
To Team OverDrive, thank you for the support, and for being the best company a librarian writer could ask for.
To Ben, my husband and partner in crime. I’m so happy you are the music to my words.
To my family for never, ever doubting my dreams of being a published writer.
On August 22, 2018, I returned to the Hudson Library & Historical Society and gave a presentation on the art and craft of memoir writing. My mom was in attendance, and I used the story of our mismatched memories regarding my original employment at that library as an example of the challenges that can come with writing in this genre.
Seven weeks later, she passed away after a hard fight with cancer.
I’m still convinced my version of events is correct, but on the off-chance that she was right all these years, and because she really pushed me into getting a job at the library, all I can say is, thanks Mom.