Supre Librarians Day 7
Flyers went up the next day.
Wes, Iris, and I decided on posting the old-school, tab style ones in highest traffic areas. Iris designed them through the night and Wes printed one-hundred copies from the professor’s office printer the following morning. We took thirty-three each and spread out to cover as much campus ground as possible.
It was a bright day. People jogging past and blankets splayed out all over the place. Alabama was this kind of lovely this time of year, but that was where the similarities ended. I had no idea how diverse a place could be. Every corner of the world was represented here, and I fit in ways I never did down south.
On the farm, my mom taught a monthlong homeschool course to us kids every May called the South where we discussed our region in devastating detail. Once, we entered a debate about the wider world in comparison to our tiny one, and I could tell I hit a nerve in her. My position argued the importance of exploration and returning to one’s roots, while she wholeheartedly believed in flying free endlessly, especially as a Black girl.
She continued over dinner adding that was her reasoning for homeschooling us – lack of diversity in and around our town. We’d either be the minority or the majority, and she wanted us to learn, not fight for our place, and for societies scraps. That was the only time I ever heard her curse. Fuck was the word she’d used. A hard, strong, emotionally charged fuck came out of her small frame like a visceral monster had been holding onto it in for years.
While approaching Sever Hall at the edge of Harvard Yard with my handful of flyers, I felt my head tilt so far back my hair tickled the back of my neck. The sight of the reddish brick building made me think further of my mother and her simple longing for her children to experience togetherness. She’d fought for decades to send us off to the places not segregated and here we were. Here I was-- the last of her brood admitted to the stunning castle they called Sever that housed the most beautiful and storied library in the nation –Weidner. Teaming with people from Malaysia, Australia, South America, Canada, Italy, Delaware and everywhere.
That’s when I saw her alone. No children left to prepare for flight. No museum visits scheduled. No librarians to consult about creative approaches to curriculum. No debates about weather or southern dynamics or anything else. Only her and Annie the chicken and loneliness. How unfair for her to be the root of such genius, long-game strategies’, yet left not to reap the benefits.
I closed my eyes. “I’ll bring you here one day, Mama,” I whispered into the air that smelled like first edition hardcover books. “I promise you that.”
I wiped at my wet eyes, vowing not to let anyone see me this close to tears again, and I approached a beautifully organized public billboard. When I went to hang the Flavor of Harvard flyer, a swift librarian tapped me gently on the shoulder.
“You need approval first, dear,” she said, and I smiled at the word dear. It reminded me of the librarians back home.
“Oh,” I replied.
“Everything alright there?” she asked, pulling at her cardigan.
I wanted to pinch my forearm to stop the sadness, but I couldn’t help it. “Agh,” I let out an odd sigh and closed my mouth, not trusting myself. “Home,” I started again and took a pause to breathe. “Sick.”
“I see,” she replied reaching into her pocket for a pack of tissues. She peeled back the tab and offered.
I laughed. “Librarians always seem to have the necessary thing in the necessary moment.”
“We’re cerebral like that,” she winked. “Now show me that flyer of yours so that I may approve it.”
I held up the flyer and told her the concept just as I had explained it to Iris and Deacon. Her eyes widened a few times and she pinched at her chin about halfway through, but she did not smile or nod. By the end of my pitch, I was beginning to think she’d reject posting it.
I ended my speech with, “It’s a unique concept, I realize.”
She didn’t say anything for a few tense moments. Then, she quietly reached into the other pocket of her cardigan and pulled out an approved stamp. “Do let me know when this idea comes alive, won’t you? I loved Flavor of Love in the 2000’s.”
“What?!” I asked too loudly. “Sorry, you?”
She chuckled. “He’s a prodigy, you know? Plays multiple instruments.” She leaned in close. “Picasso was my favorite. She seemed to like him for himself. Eliminating her first was an error he never quite recovered from.”
I felt a wide grin stretch across my face. “My sentiments exactly!”
“Shhh.”
“Sorry,” I replied before hugging her tight. “And thank you.”