My personal musings as I approach my fifties and beyond. For my posts on books, reading, and my life in the stacks as a school librarian, please visit MoreBooksThanTime.blogspot.com .
I almost didn't write today. I haven't written much this summer, save for these first Thursdays. I usually post book musings on Mondays through the summer, and Slice of Life posts on Tuesdays throughout the year. I just couldn't find the motivation or the muse post-May. My half-written post for my first Monday on the work calendar languishes in the queue, my compulsion for timeliness preventing me from finishing it and posting late. It's made me question if I should even continue those posts, and maybe just concentrate on Wednesday library updates. My thoughts are turning, turning,...not quite turned out.
It's been over three very long years of wondering how things will turn out. Pandemic surges and deaths, lockdowns, remote work and school have turned into teacher shaming and shortages and delayed academic learning and stilted social skills among children. This beginning of the school year, though better in job fillings, is still feeling the pinch. And I just saw a commercial from Moderna reminding us that COVID is still present as a top-five cause of death in our country. So we are still in the process of turning, turning,...not quite turned out.
I received hard news this week, and I am in a state of "and": grateful and appreciative of the strategizing done to support me, worried and saddened by the impact the changes will undoubtedly have. My feelings are turning, turning,...not quite turned out.
Reading back over this post, I am hesitant to publish it. I am not wont to adding burdens to anyone's psyche, nor am I prone to toxic positivity. I consider myself an optimistic realist, but in this moment, my outlook is turning, turning,...not quite turned out.
I pray that when it does turn out, it hasn't been turned around.
"No pessimist ever discovered the secret of the stars, or sailed an uncharted land, or opened a new doorway for the human spirit." --Helen Keller
"First, is there a physical place that has deep spiritual meaning to you? Secondly, are there people who have invested in, walked alongside, or that you have walked along side of in your journey? How have they encouraged you on the way? Has your spiritual journey given your life purpose? Does your journey have a way? In other words, what has been your path on that journey? In my mind the answers to those questions help constitute what church is to so many of us."
I once thought I had a complicated relationship with Church. After all, I am a lapsed Roman Catholic, raised through all the sacraments allowed to a layperson save for Extreme Unction. I had a personal spiritual epiphany in my late thirties that pulled me--and consequently, my family--ever so gently away from the patriarchal hierarchy of that institution. (If ever there was proof that women are generally the keepers of religious practice, there you have it--or the absence of it, as our case may be.)
Now that time has given me distance from that schism, it doesn't seem so complicated at all. We were regularly practicing Catholics, and then we weren't. We continued to say grace before meals, sing "Happy Birthday" to Jesus on Christmas Eve, do service projects, and blessed the children before bed. It was an organic realization that our faith extended beyond religion, beyond Church, and most importantly, beyond the patriarchy. I was simply tired of feeling less than, tired of intermediaries and dogma taking up space between me and the Divine.
I'd like to think that my mother--who was a practicing Catholic nearly all of her life--had a hand in my transition. She was always a progressive, the parochial high school student who dared to ask the nuns "Why?" in class. If we could sit down and talk about the pivotal moments that led to my absence from weekly Mass, I think she would nod her head in agreement that I made decisions aligned with my faith and spiritual needs.
To answer Dave's questions: My family has been alongside me on this journey. I have sought advice from a spiritual director, from friends, and from reading about other women's journeys, even those within the traditional guidelines of Church. My church in the physical sense has broadened to include places that are sacred to me--the hospitals where my children were born and cared for, labyrinths I've walked, retreats I've attended, walks in nature. The message has always been of the profound presence of the Divine, both in the surroundings and in the people near me in those spaces. I no longer feel "less than", and when I am called to traditional prayers and practice, it is from an internal longing, not external expectations.
This has been a though-provoking prompt, and I thank Dave and the other participants in this writing circle for sharing their thoughts this month.
One of my teachers said it best: "I thought it might be fun to be a librarian, but then I see you doing inventory, and I think no, that's not fun, that's hard."
We are in our last week of the school year. Students finish on Thursday, and teachers finish on Friday. My work calendar extends into next week; librarians have to compile an end-of-year report, wrap up finances, and clean up the library space after the majority of patrons are off for the summer.
Inventory is supposed to be finished this week, as final reports are run over Memorial Day weekend. With over twenty-thousand cataloged items in our collection ranging from children's books to teaching kits, it is a daunting task that began back in February.
We are currently sitting at four hundred thirty-nine uninventoried items. Students are still holding on to a hundred books that were supposed to be turned in on May eighth. Six teachers still need their inventory completed. Summer reading lessons need to be taught, and reading game sheets distributed. I am without an assistant the last two days this week.
I want to enjoy this last week with the students, but the clock is ticking...
Last Tuesday, the day before attending our annual Texas Library Association conference, I wrote about not knowing if I wanted to continue working in a school library. We had received word the previous week that we were losing our library assistants, and the state legislature was astoundingly moving forward with bills impeding intellectual freedoms. Feeling attacked by systems over my pay grade, I was considering jumping what felt like a sinking ship. I am, after all, eligible to retire.
But. (You knew that was coming, right?)
I went to the conference, my first in-person in three years. I was surrounded by like-minded professionals who believe in the right to read widely, promoting diversity in literature and safe spaces in libraries. Three-and-a-half days of peopling among my people, exhausting for this introvert but filling my librarian heart. Two days into the conference, we found out that some of the assistant positions were given back, and I was among the lucky few due to working on a Title I campus.
Yesterday, I signed my contract for next year. I paused before doing so, but I signed.
There was a pause because the restrictive legislation keeps moving forward. I've no doubt that certain groups, like "Moms for Liberty", are behind this. After listening to a "CBS Sunday Morning" segment on book banning, I looked up the group's website. The doublespeak is carefully crafted, but plain to see. Their idea of liberty is narrow, and doesn't seem to be paired with "and justice for all."
Why? Why are people so determined to restrict others' access to information and ideas?
Later that day, I was reading Kelly Barnhill's When WomenWere Dragons (a book bursting with righteous social commentary). Chapter 21's ending caught my breath; I had to take a booksnap. Here is at least one answer to the why.
That mom group's definition of liberty is the kind of freedom Barnhill describes. The Giver by Lois Lowry is also about the same kind of freedom. What both books warn us, though, is that legislating a cover-up for what makes people uncomfortable and rocks the status quo does not make those situations go away. The cover is always blown; the universe arcs towards justice.
I'm okay with being uncomfortable. So let's go once more into the fray, shall we?
I want to write about how beautiful the weather was yesterday, sitting in my backyard after work for a bit. I wasn't among the last people leaving campus for the day, for once, so I had time to breathe and enjoy some fresh air.
I want to write about how I didn't kill the beautiful flowering plant I got for School Librarians' Day (was that just two weeks ago?)--it just needed water to perk up. How the notes of appreciation from students and staff made me feel like I am where I belong, that I can keep doing this for a few more years.
I want to write about finding the tote-that-turns-into-a-backpack that I bought three years ago for an annual conference that COVID cancelled, and how I'm finally going to attend the conference in person this week. I want to write about how I'm excited to learn and grow as a librarian alongside my colleagues...
But.
Today, I just don't know. It's been a week since confirmation that library assistants' jobs would be cut across our district (I guess because librarians are superhuman, and can do the work of multiple people within a forty-hour workweek?). In the same week, SB13 passed the state Senate and moved to the House, the bill requiring more hoops to jump through to put books on our library shelves (I guess because my state certification as a teacher and a librarian, supported by degrees from state universities, doesn't make me qualified enough to make those decisions?). Other bills are moving forward too, regarding prosecution of librarians and mandatory book labeling by vendors. There's even a bill proposing that our highly trained school counselor-educators (yes, they have to be dually certified, like me) be replaced by chaplains (I guess because separation of church and state doesn't apply to public schools?).
I want to be excited about going to conference tomorrow. I want to think that I have six more years in this profession, in this state, even though I am eligible to retire.
It's national School Library Month! Last week, I wrote about the good things happening in our library. This week, I want to talk about the most important partnership that keeps a school library humming and growing--the teamwork of librarians and library assistants.
We have an old-ish, small-ish school--about five hundred students, give or take. And a small-ish library, four hundred square feet below current minimum standards but still holding over twenty-thousand materials (yes, we have a lot of weeding to do).
School librarians, at least in Texas, are not trained to just sit at circulation desks and check books in and out. We have to be certified educators first. Our master's program covers collection management; children's and young adult literature; curriculum support; cataloging materials; financial responsibilities; scheduling; equity and diversity; teaching information literacy, research skills, and technology use. We teach through lessons and carefully planned read-alouds, and get to know our students and staff in order to provide just-right materials and keep our collections relevant.
So who is checking books in and out, maintaining the shelves, helping with yearly inventory, keeping the library open while the librarian is performing all the tasks listed above?
Our library assistants.
Their work is just as important as the librarians' to-do list. What good is a well-curated collection if the shelves and library closet aren't orderly enough to find materials? Flexible access to the library is an important factor of its effectiveness--but the librarian can't be in two places at once, doing both tasks of teaching and running the desk.
My library assistant takes pride in keeping our library looking great. She takes the initiative when shelving to pull the musty, dusty books she thinks should be weeded. She is an avid reader who is quick to recommend books to our students. She covers ninety-nine percent of our library email account, sending and receiving interlibrary loans. At this time of year she's busy with inventory; we have to scan all barcoded items in our collection, which includes both books and teaching materials.
It really does take two to run an effective school library.
I have kept the Church of my childhood at arm's length for almost two decades, but you wouldn't know it if you visited my home. There are crosses over the main door and all the bedroom doors (the risen, not crucified, Christ is on the children's bedroom crosses; we are a faith based on resurrection, after all). An old ceramic bust of the Virgin Mary hangs by the front door, her nose slightly chipped, most likely during a California tremor. Dried palm leaves are tucked behind a mirror. A large wooden rosary hangs on the wall between the dining and living rooms, and a collection of rosaries hangs by my desk in the study.
Praying the rosary is a meditation I resort to in times of unrest and weariness. I very rarely follow the Mysteries; more often, I choose a person to pray for with each Hail Mary. If I'm worried about rushing, I purposely recite the repeated prayers in French, which makes me slow down.
This Good Friday, I plan on taking a quiet moment to choose a rosary from my collection, pause, breathe, and pray.
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It is such a holy season. My Islamic friends are observing Ramadan, fasting from sunup to sundown and reflecting on transgressions and reparations. My Jewish friends are celebrating Passover; I remember a time when one of the parishes we belonged to (we moved a lot) celebrated a Seder meal with a nearby synagogue for Maundy Thursday. Jesus was Jewish, after all. Our traditions are so closely intertwined; it's a shame that our religions are often used as the basis for exclusion, shame, and violence.
I'll ponder that in prayer, beads in hand, tomorrow. And maybe light some incense, too.
