Dispatches From The Field #3: Mr. Lonely

If you had been in any of the branches of the San Francisco Public Library last Sunday evening, you might have wondered why the librarians were singing and dancing and even playing Wii games on the computer. Then again, if you were another librarian you wouldn’t have wondered at all. At the _____town Branch in _____town, the song they were singing was “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year”. And it wasn’t even close to payday. It was, as you’ve probably guessed by now, the night before the first day of school.

It had been, in Tennessee William’s phrase, a long, hot summer. Aside from the endless class visits, the thousands of Summer Reading Club signups, the “normal” computer disputes (“Hey Librarian, it’s my turn and he won’t let me log in!”), the underage children left by their parents who figured we were running the Summer Babysitters Club – aside from all those occurrences, there were also the totally unforeseeable events. Like the day when the family from Latvia showed up, wanting to know if we had any children’s books in Lettish. (The closest I found was “Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch”, but they seemed more confused than amused.) Then there was the time when Manfred the Magnificent couldn’t make his rabbit reappear. We later found him crouching next to the fridge in the staff kitchen – that is, Manfred was crouching. We’ve yet to find the rabbit.

But what I think I will remember most about the summer are the kids who we affectionately referred to as “The Runescape Renegades”. Not that they all played Runescape. But when Anthony left for summer camp, it became the computer game of unanimous choice. And some of them played it on a daily basis, and for a good part of the day, having perfected a ploy that they proudly referred to as “the three-minute hack”. This enabled them to repeatedly break into the automatic computer schedule for an unlimited series of three-minute increments. You’d be surprised how much damage can be done to a runescape in a three-minute stretch.

We have a rule in the _____town Branch that at no time is there to be more than one person at a computer. It’s a rule that’s rarely adhered to, especially when it comes to Runescape which, by its nature, is a socially interactive game. I mean, where’s the fun if a serf gets slaughtered and there’s no crowd of onlookers to cheer things on? And when a financial killing is made with one’s Runebucks, how can you enjoy the windfall if your friends aren’t there to resent you? As a consequence, a librarian’s day is largely spent in crowd control. When the crowd gets out of control, the computer is turned off and a sign is put up that says: “This computer has been shut

down because YOU did not follow the rules”. Everyone knows who YOU is. It’s the kid that’s standing behind you.

The most noteworthy thing about the renegades is their gender. I’m sure there are girls who have runescaped, but as far as I can tell, they only exist on the planet Rune. At the computer banks, testosterone rules, and I’m pretty certain that’s the case in the rest of the system. And it’s not only male, it’s Alpha Male. If a little beta brother should dare to show up, he is be banished by his elder who is probably using the little guy’s pin number to book some extra computer time. (A curious aside: in the nearly three month since I’ve been here, the only time I’ve heard the kids use the word “book” is when they ask me to book a computer.)

And then there’s Jacky, a skinny kid with a head of spiked hair who gets to the library before I do, and I get there an hour before we open to the public. If the Guinness Book of Records had a category for “Most Hours Spent at a Public Library”, Jacky would take home the trophy. And when it comes to stretching out his online time, he not only knows all the ropes, he can out-swing Tarzan. As if by magic, he seems to know exactly when someone’s advance booking is about to expire, either because the one who had booked it has failed to show up at the library or is taking a pee. When that happens, Jacky flits from station to station like the lord of the jungle. There are a total of ten internet computers in the children’s room, which provides him with the only exercise that he gets in an eight-hour day. (Ten on Tuesdays.)

It’s only when it comes to expressing himself that Jacky shows some cracks in his confidence. He arrived from a small village in China about three months ago, with his aunt and his uncle and a pocketful of English words. Most of those words are an addendum to damn. (“Damn good”, “damn bad”, and “damn booking”.) He’s been in this country just about as long as I’ve been in this branch, and I have to admit that his English is miles better than my Chinese. From the sound of it, it seems that he’s learning it from movies of the ‘50s. Whenever he messes up in a game, he’ll say: “Damn it. I cudda been a contenduh.” And when he’s really lost in cyberspace, he’ll start singing “Mr. Lonely”. If you close your eyes, you’d swear that Bobby Vinton was in the room.

When it comes to talking in his mother tongue, however, he is as animated as a Pixar film. Although I’ve been told by those who know, that it isn’t a tongue a mother would endorse. More than once, a visiting teacher has scolded me for tolerating such language. The children’s manager has offered to give me a crash course in scatological Cantonese, just so I could tell him to tsow his tsang. Despite the language barrier, I’ve learned a lot from Jacky. The most valuable thing I’ve learned is that if you love what you do, you will never get tired of it. The enthusiasm he has when he runs in every morning is exactly the same when he sits there at night. And then, at precisely 5:45 (or 7:45 on Tuesdays) the energy starts to drain out of him. It’s like watching the Red Balloon after it’s been hit with the slingshot, as it slowly begins to expire.

The fact is that Telus has been programmed to shut down the computers fifteen minutes before closing. And with the computers turned off, there is absolutely no reason why a normal person would want to remain in the library. The gang’s all gone. It is as if an unseen force is drawing them away from the runescapes into a more seductive land outside. (A few years ago, when the Branch was being rewired and the computers were shut down for a week, a patron – an adult patron – asked in all seriousness why the library would bother to stay open when there were no computers.)

As remarkable as this vanishing act is at the end of each evening, what is even more astonishing is something that happens in the middle of the day. This is when a parent or, more often, a grandparent, shows up to usher his offspring away. At first there is resistance. The kid turns into a sack of coal in his seat. Then comes a series of arguments, followed by a series of threats, followed by an even lengthier series of bribes. This is followed by the plea-bargaining stage. You let me stay ten more minutes, I’ll let you take me to the dentist. It’s like going through a twelve-step program which, come to think of it, isn’t a bad analogy, as the computer can be as addictive as a bottle of booze.

It is at the moment that a compromise is reached, that the extraordinary thing occurs. In the blink of an eye, the tough guy turns into a little boy. Gone is the swagger, gone is the bluster, and instead of the Artful Dodger, out walks Beaver Cleaver clutching his grandfather’s hand. This transformation, from gangsta to cherub, is so astounding that I’m shaken by it everytime it happens. But what happened last Sunday left me not only shaken but, as James Bond would say, stirred. It happened just before the opening paragraph of this report, about an hour before the librarians were singing “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year”.

I was sitting at the reference desk, deeply involved in an ILL search for volume 148 of the Yu-gi-oh series, when I became aware that someone was approaching the desk. I looked up and saw that it was Jacky. This, I figured, could only mean trouble. It was only half-past three, and Jacky never leaves his computer (or anyone else’s) before the closing bell. Besides that, 90% of the time Jacky is the “YOU” in the computer-has-been-shut-down sign. Jacky walked up to within an inch of my keyboard. He stared at the monitor for a moment, and then he stared at me. “Hey Librarian,” he said, “you get lonely?”

This remark was so unexpected that I dropped my mouse, sending it spiraling toward the floor. “You o.k., Librarian?” he said in his best Marlon Brando voice. I cleared my throat. “What do you mean?” I asked. “How could I ever get lonely with all these kids always here?” This time it was Jacky who cleared his throat. “You the only one doesn’t speak Chinese,” he said. “Don’t you feel left out?” And then he added the words I will never forget for as long as I live or as long as I’m a librarian, whichever comes first. “Is that why you never play Runescape with us?”

So here I sit, thinking about Jacky and the rest of the gang. Looking around the empty room with its ghostly computers, I actually miss the little terrorists. It’s probably just the Stockholm Syndrome kicking in, but I think I know how Mr. Lonely must have felt.

Respectfully submitted,

Librarian Joseph

Dispatches From The Field #2: The Party's Over

An architect friend of mine once said that there is nothing sadder than to watch a building as the life is going out of it. It was not until I witnessed the dismantling of Merced that I finally understood exactly what he meant.
In a way, it began even before anyone actually noticed it. Months before our closing date, we had been weeding the shelves with increasing momentum. With normal weeding, which goes on throughout the year, you look at each book, check its condition and its circ stats, leaf through it (perhaps reading a page or two), and then you either reluctantly put it on the withdrawal truck or happily return it to its place on the shelf. As the days draw closer to renovation, step three (the leafing-through bit) is eliminated. After about a month of this activity, you find that your hand has lost a major part of its reluctancy reflex when it reaches the withdrawal truck. And by the time that the closing date is within shouting distance, you are weeding like Adam when he was ousted from Eden.
Weeding is one thing. But wait till you get to disposing. Things that you swore you could never live without are now put into piles of “yes”, “maybe”, and “I can’t believe I’ll never see this again”. The fact that each staff member is restricted to two boxes of worldly goods tends to make the “unbelievable” pile the largest. What is really unbelievable is the amount of stuff one actually accumulates in a relatively short period of time. I have been at Merced just under a year, and my possessions filled half the staff bathroom. (They probably would have filled the entire bathroom if it were not for such useless items as the sink and the toilet.)
Next to go is the furniture, when the bookshelves are empty enough from the weeding, and the tables have been deserted enough by the readers who have gone elsewhere to find the books that are no longer there. But you know that the final chapter has come to an end on the day that the patrons are no longer there. Especially when, just the day before, there was the closing party. The place was bursting at the seams, with music and dancing and clowns and pizza and people who had been coming to the branch from the time it was built, bringing their children with them to say adios to the biblioteca. At least for dos anos.
And then the packers came. In less than eight hours, every book in the library had been crated and sealed, ready to head out for a two-year hibernation at a waterfront pier. The branch was not only without its books, it was without its leaves. It looked like October in Omsk. The entire


children’s collection was reduced to just thirty-four cartons. It felt like a funeral. Even the staff was skeleton.
A couple of us tore off the first page of The Chronicle and buried it next to a tree in the courtyard. It was the day after the stock market had taken a major tumble. The headline said: “Gloom on the Street – Future Uncertain”. As if to underscore the feeling, the next story was headed: “North Korea Launches Missile”. Hopefully, by the time we unearth the paper at the opening party, the world will be in a better mood. Provided, of course, that the world is still here.

It’s been nearly a month since we closed, and I still run into patrons in the street or on the bus who ask how things are going and say how much they miss us. “The ________ Branch is just fine,” they say, “but it’s no Merced.” Or “I guess what folks say is true. There’s no place like home.” (I always ask if I can quote them on that.) Even the check-out clerk at Trader Joe’s got into the act. “Will that be fiction or non-fiction?” she asked with a wink, and handed me my carrots in a paper bag. But I think that my most memorable moment since leaving Merced was my meeting with Martin. That, and my awesome alliteration.
Martin used to roll into Merced at least three times a day. When school was out the number went up considerably. I once counted seven separate appearances on a particular Wednesday, and if his mother hadn’t shown up he probably would have broken his own record (ten). Martin spends most of his minutes on the computer, saving all his work as he leaves the building, and starting in where he left off when he re-materializes. I once sneaked a peak at his screen. It looked like something that you would be more likely to see on a computer in Princeton than in the children’s room at Merced. Martin, I concluded, is some kind of a math genius.
I once asked Martin where he goes in between visits to the branch. Martin said: “McDonald’s”. One look at Martin, and you know that was a rhetorical answer. At eleven years old, Martin is definitely a candidate for a fat farm, not Old McDonald’s. There is always some kind of snack in his chubby little hand, and when I tell him to finish it before entering the library, he gives new meaning to the phrase “fast food”. I asked him just how many burgers he consumed in an average day. “About ten”, he replied. “In round numbers.” I refrained from adding the obvious.
Over the months we’ve developed a routine. As Martin exits the library, he calls out: “See you later, book curator!” And I call back: “In a while, backup file!” And then I add: “I’ll be counting the minutes.”




It’s hard to say who was more surprised, Martin or I, when I happened to run into him a week after the closing party. For my part, the surprise was seeing Martin empty-handed inside a McDonald’s. For Martin’s part, it was seeing me inside a McDonald’s. We asked each other how our summers were going. (Me: “Lapsits for the small fries.” Martin: “Fries.”) I told him how good it was to see him and that, unless I had occasion to use the restroom at the Mall, I probably wouldn’t be seeing him again for another two years, when the library reopened. “I’ll be counting the minutes,” I added. Martin gave a shy little wave. “One million fifty-two thousand,” he said. “In round numbers.”


Respectfully submitted,

Librarian Joseph

Library Appreciation Class, 1962

THEIR SUMMER WAS WELL-STOCKED! [1962]

By Mary Frazer

Twenty-four boys and girls made approximately 1,000 treasured new friends this summer, and became acquainted with dozens more.

Their friendships, which promise to last a lifetime were the books in the Merced branch of San Francisco’s public library, introduced by Margaret Kostouros, an enthusiastic librarian who last year organized the Bay Area’s only junior course in “Library Appreciation.” It is a project which has few, if any, counterparts across the country.

Last week, the weeks of work among the bookracks culminated in a “graduation,” complete with diplomas and proper ceremonies.

The two dozen young people—who wouldn’t give a comic book a civil ‘Hello’—earned the certificate through hours of study, work and pure enjoyment that began last June. Miss Kostouros related these highlights…

…Such star students as Clarence Cavitt, 13, of Aptos Junior High, Joan Corriea, 13, of St. Stephen’s School, and Susan Kollerer of Mercy High read dozens of junior classics on their own time… “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea,” “Kidnapped,” “Treasure Island,” and the Newbery Award book, “Johnny Tremaine.”

…Lynn Marie Bednarz, 13, also of St. Stephens; Robert Kavanaugh, 12, of St. Emydius School, and others researched into the history of books, beginning with the Babylonians.

…The course included the birth of the printing press and all of the processes which preceded it.

…The young book lovers learned about famous libraries, from the ancient world’s papyrus rolls to such 20th century collections as the Library of Congress and the Vatican Library.

Everyone had to produce a book review, with candid comments about what they liked and didn’t like. Nonfiction was the popular choice by far.

The course was free, and Miss Kostouros received no other reward than the satisfaction of having started a number of young lives on the road to book loving and, she hopes, the start of at least one career in librarianship.

[caption: Lynn Bednarz, Robert Kavanaugh, Merced Library “Graduates”. Their motto, “Vita sine literia mors est,” or “Without books life is death.”

Library Appreciation Class, 1961

Youngsters Learn How To Use The Public Library
[S.F. News-Call Bulletin, Mon., Aug. 14, 1961]

Do you know how to use your public library?

Because a lot of people don’t, Margaret Kostouros, in charge of the children’s section at San Francisco’s Merced branch library, undertook three years ago to do something about it.

Sixteen boys and girls, graduates of this summer’s course under her guidance, were in proud possession today of diplomas attesting their knowledge of how a library functions.

They voluntarily devoted two hours a week for six weeks exploring the workings of the Merced branch, the history of libraries generally and producing at least one full-scale book review.

“I didn’t like the idea of spending the summer weeks in mere reading programs,” Miss Kostouros explained. “From what I could observe, the children just didn’t get enough out of it.

“I believe this is something that will serve them all their lives.

“And as the program has developed, I find youngsters genuinely interested in what we offer them.

[caption: Margaret Kostouros (top rear) shown after she presented diplomas in library understanding to her students at Merced branch public library. Included in group are C. Alexis Harl, Marilyn Archbold, Kathleen Bryant, Nancy Lerond, Mary McMahon, Susan Azzaro, Barbara Bryant, Marilyn Lippi, Judith Janssen, Louise Robertson, Madelyn Fried, Philip Nino, Carl Bovill and Owen Jackson.]

Missing us yet?

Don't worry, we haven't gone away entirely. You can still...

• Check out books at the bookmobile
• Hear stories at the YMCA
• Pick up your holds at Ingleside branch (unless you specified another branch library)
• Join the book club at Borders bookstore
• Visit nearby branches such as Ingleside, West Portal, and Ocean View.

Details:

*Bookmobile service on Mondays and Saturdays from 10:00 to 12:30
You can browse, check out and return, pick up holds, and get a library card.
Location: Stonestown Mall parking lot on Buckingham Way near the UA cinema.

*Family Storytime on Saturdays at 4:00
Songs and stories for children of all ages.
Location: YMCA Stonestown, Child Watch room. Eucalyptus and 20th Avenue.

*Baby Rhyme Time on Mondays at 9:30
For infants up to 18 months.
Location: YMCA Stonestown, Child Watch room. Eucalyptus and 20th Avenue.

*Book club for adults on Wednesday, 6/24 at 6:30
This month's selection: The Women by T.C. Boyle
Location: Borders bookstore. Winston Drive at 20th Avenue.

*Nearest open branches to Merced
Ingleside: 1649 Ocean Avenue at Faxon. All Merced holds have gone to Ingleside for pickup unless you specified otherwise.
Ocean View: 345 Randolph Street at Ramsell.
West Portal: 160 Lenox Way at Ulloa.

Closing Party, June 6, 2009!

Dispatches From the Field #1

Bon Voyage or Why You Should Join The Neighborhood Library Campaign by Librarian Joseph

The first summer job I had was at Macy’s Department Store. I was assigned to the notions counter, though at the time I hadn’t a notion of what that was. At our training session we were told never to ask a customer: “May I help you?” Instead, we were to say: “How may I help you?” That way the customer couldn’t say “no”.

That lesson in life came back to me last Thursday, at our first Neighborhood Library Campaign meeting. The branch is scheduled to close for renovation in early June, and it was time to talk turkey. The bird, in this case, was fundraising, the funds being raised for furniture, fixtures, and equipment. And the task at hand was to gather ideas from our neighbors as to how to best go about it.

At ten minutes before the meeting was scheduled to begin, one neighbor and four of “the brass” had shown up. Ten minutes later, the score was 13 – 4. We were surprised – and heartened – by the turnout. Tamara from Friends opened the meeting by asking us to go around the table with the usual introductions. And then she asked the unusual: “I’d like each of you to tell us,” she said, “when you first fell in love with libraries.” Jon Worona was later to say that it was a stroke of genius. “It made everyone feel that they had a connection with the past,” he said. “But even more, it made them feel that they had a share in the branch’s future.” For me, it was a life lesson comparable to the one I had learned at Macy’s so many years ago.

One man (I think his name was Aaron) said that he could pinpoint the exact day when he fell in love with the library. It was the day when he realized that he could read an entire page of words by himself! He recalled running to the library after school that day and pouring through book after book to see if he could repeat the magic. “That was in the late 1950’s,” he said. “I even remember exactly where I sat.” And he pointed to a corner in the children’s room. As things were to turn out, over half the people at the meeting grew up with Merced as their neighborhood branch.

Next to speak was a young mother who also remembered coming to the branch after school. “And I came here tonight,” she said, “because I want to be certain that my kids will have a place to do the same.”

And then it was the turn of a woman who had been quietly sitting at the table directly across from me. I had seen her quite often in the library, and although she was one of the regulars, I had never really spoken to her, outside of “good day” and “how are you”. She was, as the saying goes, a lady of a certain age, an age when people would come to the library to actually sit down and read through an entire book. Nowadays, they seem to spend more time reading their e-mail than their Evanovich. But I suppose habits have changed and folks take their books home to read when they go to bed.

In any case, the woman introduced herself as Janet, and proceeded to speak. No one around the table had any idea what we were in for. If we had, I suppose we would have called The Chronicle. Or the crew that does Masterpiece Theatre.

She began by telling us that she grew up on a farm in the Midwest. Except for her mother’s songs, there was very little in the way of diversions – there wasn’t even a radio. “We didn’t find out that Amelia Earhart was missing until a month after it happened.” But every Saturday night her parents would take her to the town and they would go to the public library. Her mother would sit with her at the children’s table and read to her “until the cows came home – literally!”

Her mother would read stories to her about girls who could ride on the wind, and would tell her such secrets as why the sea was salty and where the sun really went after it set in the evening. “My mother loved songs and poems, and even when I was four or five she would read to me from a thin blue book that I later found out was by Emily Dickinson.” Wonderful as her memories were, what struck me most was just how vivid they were for Janet. They seemed to be happening right before her eyes and, even more magically, right before ours. As she reached back into the years, she began to either laugh or cry. It was difficult to tell which.

At that moment, I understood just why she would come to Merced and sit for hours reading books. And I think that everyone around the table knew just why we had gathered there that evening.

One short post-script: After the meeting, I spoke with Janet, telling her how touched we all were by her story. “I only have one question,” I said. “Where does the sun go after it sets?” “Think about it,” said Janet with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m sure that it will dawn on you.”

“There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away.”