A mother and daughter come into the library to “pay a fine” on the daughter’s card. By “to pay a fine,” I mean to fuss about having to pay the nearly fifty dollars the kid racked up keeping some DVDs and books out well past their deadline.

[Mother] is LIVID with my coworkers. It is, after all, clearly their fault her daughter hid the items in her room and didn’t tell her mom she had them, and [Mother] only found out about them when the letter came. To punish her daughter, she has the child’s card cut up and her account closed. Then, she gets herself a library card. When you get a library card, you are required to sign it ASAP. [Mother] declines to do this immediately.

Mother: “Now she will have to go through me, and I will not let you people cheat us out of our money.”

The branch head agrees to cut the fines in half (this is almost standard procedure when kids are involved) and to remove the child’s account.

I learn about this AFTER the following incident.

Because of a staff shortage, I have been sent over to this library to substitute for the children’s librarian. In comes an angry woman, yelling at her child in a language I don’t know. The child comes to my desk and asks for some books on a particular topic. [Mother] huffs and sniffs and makes digs about my size, my shade, pretty much everything about me, including my uselessness. I have not seen this woman before in my life.

Meanwhile, I ignore her to help the daughter, who is probably ten and actually pretty friendly. We manage to find three of the books she needs. The other two are not on the shelf. I will need to get the library card to put the books on hold at our main library and have them sent to the branch.

[Mother] sniffs and snorts and says things like:

Mother: “Oh, I know why you need it. You’re all like that.”

Me: *Ignoring her comment* “Ma’am, without the card, I cannot put these books on hold.”

[Mother] slams the card down in front of me. I swipe it and… it does not work. Okay, sometimes that happens. I call the main desk and ask about the card.

Main Desk: “Oh. Her. She stormed out of here without getting the card activated last week. Send her out here and we’ll take care of it.”

Mother: “I know why you’re doing this to me!”

She continues to drop insults and slurs about my weight, my color, and so forth.

Me: “Ma’am, I do not know what happened to you today, but I had nothing to do with it. I am trying to help.”

Mother: “No, you are not. You are just trying to pick on me because of my color!”

Her daughter convinces her to go out to the desk and activate the card.

She comes storming back, slams the card down, and waits. I get the items on hold and tell the girl they will be available tomorrow. I have pulled out of the record and her personal information and [Mother] suddenly demands that I write up a note to tell the teacher that her daughter won’t have all her books on the morrow. Aha! [Daughter] waited until the last minute to do her report, I figure, and [Mother] is mad at her. So, I pull out a form letter and fill in the information and ask for the child’s name. Remember, I don’t know this kid from Adam and have logged out of her mother’s account.

I ask for the child’s name and the mother snaps a series of sounds at me. I catch some of it — later, I realize they are from the same Mediterranean area that some distant relatives are from — and write it down, and [Mother] screams

Mother: “NO! You’re so stupid!”

She slams the card down in front of me.

Mother: “The name is right there!”

Well, yes, it is. It’s one of those signatures that look like a big circle with some up and down scribbles, common to doctors and officers. I go to swipe the card and the mother snatches it from me.

Mother: “Are you so stupid you cannot read the card name?”

Me: “Forgive me, but no, I cannot. I do not know what the issue is, ma’am, but I have been trying to help you and I don’t understand why you are talking to me this way.”

I’m almost in tears.

Finally, her daughter spells out the name, much to her mom’s displeasure. I am grateful for that since, even though I thought I had most of the name, I would never have spelled it the way it was actually spelled. I thank the child and give her the letter, and they stalk off without another word.

When I tell the branch head about it, she shakes her head.

Branch Head: “That has to be the unhappiest woman in the world.”

Me: “Oh, she has had a hard life and she’s just taking it out on the world.”

Then, my colleague relates the whole story and adds in the fact that this woman holds a position of some importance in our fair city.

Colleague: “She just suffers from the notion that she should be bowed to every time she comes in here and we don’t do that. Therefore, even if you handed her a billion dollars and gave her her own private island, she would still declare you a racist or a sexist or an ageist or whatever she decided you were that day. Most of the staff runs when they see her coming.”

Me: “I’ll be sure to do the same.”

And not three days later, I almost did when she sent her daughter in to collect her other books.

It’s 1988 and I have been with the library for not quite a year.

Black History Month is upon us and children of all shapes, sizes, colors, and cute smiles are looking for information on various famous people.

But they clearly do not know what or who they are looking for.

Child #1: “I am doing a report on a famous black singer. Her name is Martha.”

Me: “Oh, good choice. Martha Reeves and the Vandellas were a great singing group!” 

Child #1: “There’s another Martha? My report is on Martha Luther and her Kings.”

Next child:

Child #2: “I need a book on a famous black man who got his leg shot off during the war.”

Me: “Um, I am going to need more information than that. Which war are we talking about?”

Child #2: “The war.”

Me: “Honey, there have been lots of wars over the years. Was it the Civil War? The American Revolution? World War II?”

Child #2: “The Revolution! Yes, the revolution! When the people came here from England to fight the Americans to free the slaves.”

We finally figured out we were looking for Crispus Attucks, though I don’t remember him getting his leg “shot off,” only that he was among the first killed at the start of the Revolution.

And then there were the inventors. Not Lattimer or McCoy or Madame C.J. Walker. No, we are talking about the well-known John Doe. Mary Smith. Lotta Peeples. Who “invented” THE comb. The hairbrush. THE washing machine. And of course, the kids needed at least five books on each of these people.

No surprise, there were none. Cue child sobbing because they have to write an eight page paper on this person.  

We had to start writing a form letter to teachers (which soon became known as the Dear Dummy letter) explaining that back in the day, many, many, many people created and patented a new version of the hairbrush or the comb, or created and patented a different version of a wringer for a hand-cranked washing machine. Or new buttons. Or corsets. Shaving creams…

We had to explain that these people were black, white, Hispanic, or Asian background, and that the only reason we know they existed and what their race was is because the forms for the patent office included a little box for this. ALL we know about the inventor is his or her invention, their name, the number assigned their patent… and their race.

Regardless of their race, there are not five paragraphs, let alone five books on each person.

Imagine having to send that out daily with an extra line scrawled at the bottom saying, “Please allow [Student] to choose a new topic so he won’t flunk your class.”

Every year for closing in on ten years, the head of the tech department where patents were kept would contact teachers and explain that we could not supply five books on the life of a citizen who happened to try making something new for an already existing device, so please don’t ask kids to write a ten-page paper on them. Every year, the teachers would say they understood… and then send the kids in to research the same obscure people anyway.

And of course, my favorite kid was the one who came in with his dad. The child darted across the floor to the desk, leaned against it, and crowed, “Hey! Where your dead black people at?” His father — both were African American — did a facepalm and shook his head. He said, “Son, they aren’t keeping the bodies on ice out back. Tell the lady who you want to read about.”

That exchange had the dad and I laughing for most of the exchange. I miss those days, as the demand for writing reports has fallen off. I just hope I never have to explain to another child that the singer she wants to report on is actually a Civil Rights Leader.

Related:
This Is Why We Need Black History Month

My coworker is working the front desk when the phone rings.

Coworker: “[Community] Library, this is [Coworker]; how can I help you?”

Patron: “Hi, I’m looking for books by a particular author. Do you have them?”

She gets the name of the author and searches our system, but no books by the author come up.

Patron: “Can you order them in?”

Coworker: “If they’re over a year old, we can interlibrary loan them. Let me just look up the publication dates for you.”

She goes online to look up the author… and discovers the author is some kind of white supremacist author whose books have such “charming” titles as “Kill All N*****s.” Seriously, almost every book has that slur in the title as well as some kind of violent act. Shaken but still determined to act professional, my coworker gets back on the line with the patron.

Coworker: “Okay, I’ve found the books. I don’t think we’re going to be able to order these in.”

Patron: “That’s okay. Can you read the titles out loud for me?”

Coworker: “Well… the first book is called ‘Kill All N-words’.”

Patron: “No, I want you to read out the whole title for me.”

My coworker drops professionalism and just hangs up on him. Our boss says she made the right call, but she is still frustrated and bewildered.

Coworker: “I dunno what he was even trying to accomplish! Was he recording the call and trying to get me to say something racist?”

Me: “I think you got a troll.”

I work at a library on my college campus, and one morning I’m sweeping the front stairs — from top to bottom, obviously. A middle-aged gentleman approaches and stands watching me for a few seconds.

Gentleman: “You know, if you were in the Army, they’d make you start from the bottom and work your way up.”

Me: *Pausing, confused* “But… that makes no sense. You’d just have to do it all over again.”

He laughs as if this is the funniest thing ever.

Gentleman: “Exactly!”

I try to make a light comment to end the conversation.

Me: “I guess it’s good I’m not in the Army, then.” 

Gentleman: *Suddenly serious* “You could be, though. You should sign up.”

I am an overweight nineteen-year-old girl with thick glasses — my bad eyesight alone would disqualify me from most military roles — a nerdy graphic tee, and Pokémon earrings, and I’m working at a library. None of this picture clearly proclaims “military material,” but I guess this guy is looking to fill a quota because he decides to get up in my face and start trying to convince me to enlist, physically backing me up toward the wall.

Gentleman: “Come over to the recruitment center! I can get you signed up today!”

Me: “Thanks, but I’m not really interested.”

Gentleman: “Don’t you love your country? Don’t you have any patriotism?”

Me: “I mean, sure, but—”

Gentleman: “We’d whip you into shape in no time! Come on, what d’ya say?”

I’m more and more uncomfortable with his physical closeness and looking for any way out of the conversation.

Me: “My… ah… my dad. My parents wouldn’t be cool with their daughter enlisting. Sorry.”

Gentleman: “Well, don’t tell them, then! If they ask, tell them you’re taking a vacation!”

At that, I just gaped at him for a second, managed to bite out a “you have a nice day,” and escaped into the library where my boss let me hide in the break room for a few minutes.

My coworker has been a librarian for going on forty years, and between working at the reference desk, the microfiche room — yes, that long! — and the usual circulation and shelving duties, she has seen it all.

Back in the 1980s, the library was having an issue with a serial flasher. A few times a week, patrons would complain about a man with his penis out standing near them in an aisle or over in the study area, but the librarians couldn’t catch him in the act, and he looked and dressed neutrally enough that no one had been able to give a definite description.

My friend was shelving books near the back of the library, in a section where the shelves were not full, leaving space on each shelf and sometimes a gap between the books on one side and those on the other. As she was walking down an aisle with an armload of books, she looked at a shelf and saw… an erect penis, just lying there. One quick glance showed her that the man was standing on the other side of the bookshelf and had… inserted himself into the gap.

Without missing a beat, she dropped her armload of books on his appendage.

She says he made the most terrible noise, stumbled back and hit his head on the shelf behind him, and just stood there moaning. She ducked around and got a good look at him so she could describe him to the other librarians, then said sweetly:

Librarian: “Oh, I’m sorry, did you leave something on the shelf? I didn’t see anything, but I forgot my glasses today.”

There have been other flashers (always a hazard in libraries), but that one was never seen again, according to her.

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