“Over here we’ve got our magazine area, a study room, and the adult room. Behind is our staff kitchen.” We walked into the room, and she placed her sack inside the icebox.
“I could never imagine a library as grand as this one. And one with its own kitchen,” I said quietly, mesmerized by all the finery the city held, knowing that most cabins back home could fit inside this kitchen.
She went on as we returned to the large room, “The high school children have the Douglas Debate Club room back here.” I followed as she led us through yet another door. It was spacious and warmly furnished with walnut floors and wall panels.
She motioned me over to a stand that held a copy of a book under its glass dome.
“This was the very first book checked out of our library in 1908,” she said proudly.
“It’s something else.” I peered at the gold letters stamped across the red book,Up from Slavery: An Autobiography by Booker T. Washington.Over fifty years old, and it was still in near-perfect condition.
Mrs. Claxton crossed to more shelves. “We have an extensive collection of Negro works.”
“So many books, ma’am.”
“The students debate important issues like women’s rights, the influence of women and how they’ve contributed more to the world than men, and whether Lincoln was a greater American than Washington. We also train them to speak in public. It can get mighty lively in here during the school year,” she said, raising a brow as she closed the door.
An older Negro gentleman came up to us and tipped his hat to me. “Ma’am, ’scuse me. Mrs. Claxton, sorry to interrupt, but the paper’s late again.”
“I’ll call on Steven at once, Mr. Wilson.” When he left, Mrs. Claxton said, “Our paperboy is having some problems at home. We’ll need to check in on him. Let’s see, what else? Oh, we currently have 12,978 registered as borrowers. You just met Mr. Wilson. He’s one of our oldest patrons and has been with us since the Carnegie Library fully opened.”
“Almost thirteen thousand?”
“We stay busy acquiring the latest for the community.”
“When we’d receive donated books from the cities for the Pack Horse project, they sent a lot of Bibles. So many that I thought cityfolk had given up on Jesus.”
She chortled and clamped a hand over her mouth. “Chile, donotlet Jedidiah hear this.”
A young woman in a long stylish skirt like mine and a delicate buttoned-up blouse called out from behind the big entry desk, “You just missed Mrs. Wells. She dropped off these writing tablets for the debate room.”
Mrs. Claxton announced, “Cussy, this is Lillian Carver, our front desk librarian. Lillian, Cussy Lovett is our visiting librarian for the week.”
Then she leaned in to me and barely whispered, “They don’t know your business, Cussy. Not even my niece Susan has been told. I suggest we keep it that way. Tamp any gossip before it starts.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what Mrs. Claxton would say if she know’d all of it. “Yes, ma’am,” I said, my face warming, ashamed that the librarian wouldn’t risk others knowing she had an inmate working for her. Still, I appreciated the ol’ woman’s wisdom and was relieved to escape any gossip such news would bring.
Lillian came around from her desk and said, “Nice to meet you, Miss Cussy,” never once showing repulsion or fear at my color, only a shy smile that lifted to slate-blue eyes. She left to help a patron.
“You’ve been officially welcomed to the Louisville Western Free Public Library. Let’s get your name tag in my office and get ourselves started,” Mrs. Claxton said.
Minutes later, she pinned the honorable title onto my blouse.
I pressed my fingers over it, suddenly proud, in awe of being able to work in a public city library. A Carnegie one, at that. I thought about my friend Queenie from back home. She’d left Troublesome for work at the Free Library of Philadelphia. I could see what all the fuss was about in her letters. Picture her big-city library up there. She’d been writing for years, asking me to visit. I missed hearing from her, wondered if she found out I’d been in prison.
“Now, Cussy, about our patrons: It’s the parents we’re more concerned with, as I told you. A lot of them labor during the day and don’t have much reading or writing skills, if any. We need this to change if the Negroes are to have equal rights. Many still can’t vote because they’re required to pass literacy tests or be able to write their name. I want to right this for all the people in this community, black and white alike.” She nodded firmly. “I know you must’ve had the same problem with your people in Troublesome. Maybe even at the library you’re at now?”
“I’m getting ready to help with almost the same dilemma.” I moved closer to her and lowered my voice. “Inmates can’t go before the parole board unless they can read and write.” Then I thought about my dear Loretta, the elderly seamstress inTroublesome and the special school she attended, but only when the moon was fat. Working with Sassyann on her letters. “I have a suggestion, ma’am.”
I began to tell her about our Moonlight Schools back home. How, years ago, the founder, Cora Wilson Stewart, taught the hillfolk to read and write during moonlit nights when the adult students could safely walk the mountain paths to the one-room schoolhouses after their daily work chores were finished.
Her eyes rounded. “I read about this educator long, long ago.”
“Mrs. Stewart founded the schools in 1911. She taught thousands to read and write, Mrs. Claxton. Postmasters, sheriffs, coal miners, farmers—anyone hankering for the books. There were married couples, soldiers, and even folks in their eighties that many thought were not teachable, and that you couldn’t teach an ol’ dog new tricks.”
She snorted. “Nonsense, I learn something every day. Going to keep doing so till my head’s buried under the last blade of grass.”
“Lots of soldiers signed up before heading off to the war. They found out that writing letters home was the only way to let folks hear from them. And their kin wanted to be able to answer the letters, so they signed up too.”
