authorsbooking (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} authorsbooking) wrote,@ 2007-09-19 10:33:00 |
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Books, books library books
It feels like the school's heart, pulling students in and pumping them out, high on the oxygen of opportunity and possibility.
May 13, 2002
Bookstores are swell, but I love libraries. From quirky neighbourhood outposts to vast reference institutions, they welcome and reassure. Like museums or art galleries, they are places full of knowledge and information, full of people who want to learn. They are quiet but they hum. My favourite library is at my daughter's school.
I'm biased, because my grandmother was a school librarian in Montreal West. She was one of the most thoughtful, critical readers I have ever known. I remember visiting her library, and being enormously proud of this elegant silver-haired woman reading to a group of children, and then carefully, firmly, guiding each one of them to books she knew would hold their interest, and spur them to read more. I didn't think I would ever meet anyone who could match her gift for matching child with book. Then I met the librarian at my daughter's school.
Let's call her Jane. I don't know what sacrifices had to be made or what jobs juggled to win a librarian for the school -- I don't want to know. No one works harder or listens more intently than Jane. She's not alone; the library relies on a platoon of mothers who check out and shelve books and repair the dinosaur-and-reptile sections after each kindergarten class departs.
But what Jane provides is far more important, and more difficult. She is the link between book and child. She is the difference between a child wandering -- lost, bored, or intimidated in a sea of bindings and misleading jacket covers -- and a child thrilled to possess exactly the right book for him.
When Jane arrived, she interviewed all the children in the older grades, to learn about what and whom they had been reading, and what they thought of it. Then she gave them lists of books she thought might suit their interests and reading levels.
Over the next months, I saw Jane escort groups of four or five children at a time on a sort of literary tour, pausing here and there to pull books by different authors from the shelves.
"You read this one, didn't you, Sarah?" She prompts "What did you think of it?"
"Um . . . I thought it was good?" comes the hesitant reply.
"But?" asks the librarian.
"I thought some of the, you know, the people? They were, um, unrealistic?"
Jane prods until Sarah expands on her opinion of the way certain characters were drawn, and plot lines developed. Other girls who've read the book, or another by the same author, chime in and the debate and analysis evolve into an impressive group critique.
When the girls leave, 10 minutes later, each has dissected at least one other work, and all have fresh suggestions from the librarian for new books to tackle, based on their own comments.
A small child walks in, striding confidently up to the paperback shelves to claim a battered copy from the Captain Underpants series (I am not making that title up). Within seconds, the librarian's hand has plucked it from his grasp.
"Oh no, Connor, you're not taking that out again. Come with me, I have something much, much better for you -- you're going to love this."
A few minutes later the sheepish Connor has left, clutching a book that boasts considerably more words. A slightly older boy walks in.
"Thomas, you must try Captain Underpants," Jane says smoothly. "You will find it very funny."
Books inspire. Words inspire. The right words to the right child spark synapses and fuel appetites. These are things a librarian knows. But people inspire, too. Teaching a child how to use a library, how to really use it--to find a novel, a picture book, a poem, or to find reliable information for her history project--that has to be one of the most basic and vital tasks a school can perform.
It is something that wouldn't happen without Jane. I know, because I am a volunteer. I show up in the library every couple of weeks and serve the Dewey Decimal system as best I can, but I haven't the patience or the creativity to really work with children. I break into a sweat as I swipe the scanner over a bar code and realize I must now explain to this angelic child that he has five overdue Lemony Snicket books and can't check out book six until he coughs up the others.
A child asks for research help and between the obscurity or complexity of the topic, or the vagaries of the Internet, I will be forced to reveal my utter lack of ability. I'm generally met with a resigned compassion that hints at a lifetime of dealing with well-meaning but incompetent adults. But the library tolerates me, and I am grateful, because I am learning, too.
All manner of teachers and students circulate through this library. I press my hand to the checkout table and feel it vibrate. Maybe it's the scanner. Maybe it's a pulse. Because this library feels like the heart of the school. It's not a room; it's a muscle. It may not seem so to many of the students, who surely must take it for granted as they do the gym and music programs. But this library pulls them in and pumps them out again, high on the oxygen of opportunity and possibility. In this library, the joy of discovery, and pride of accomplishment are everywhere, from the vivid artwork on the walls to the whispered boastings of "Oh I read that already," or "Wait until you read this one!"
In this library, children gain confidence. In this library, they learn that if they know zilch about the habitat of the yak, or the diet of the Incas, it's okay: they know how to find that information. If they don't, this librarian will teach them how.
My daughter's school has a librarian: a person who understands books and learning and children, and knows how to bring them all together.
Every school should be so lucky.
