library patron KW

I noticed a tall, bit-stooped-over black man walking across the pod room on Friday when I brought the law cart down. Looked familiar. Watched him a bit. Looked like KW—a big kid I’d had in day treatment back in DCH, where I first worked when I’d moved to Denver. Big teddy bear he was—the biggest kid in treatment, but he didn’t seem to quite know it, or use that fact to intimidate like other kids might have. He liked joking around, was just looking for the fun in the moment. He was able to mimic RB’s shuffling, Chaplain-esque walk pretty well. Well enough that I had to chuckle into my sleeve so other kids wasn’t think I was laughing at a kid being made fun of. (RB was a white kid, borderline IQ, big tummy, reacted quickly when he thought others were making fun of him—).

I watched him a bit while taking care of some things related to law-library, then asked the deputy his name. “Hell if I know—want me to look?” Yes, if you don't mind...

The name was the same—it was him. Here he was, in jail now, exactly twice his age at the time I’d last seen him, I realized when I counted the years.

I thought about calling him over, saying hello, but ended not. I had already run into students of mine from other facilities that had been transferred on writs. I had a different and more familiar relationship with them as students in my class; the parameters at this job included keeping things businesslike and professional. “Friendly, not familiar” is the catch-phrase. It wasn’t standard for a librarian to call someone over and re-establish a connection. Figured I’d just think on it a bit more.

Mentioned it to my brother a day or two later. “You know, Tob,” he said. “If some of the people in the department knew what I did in therapy… Well, they wouldn’t approve. ‘Too close,’ they’d say, ‘crossing professional boundaries’—that sort of thing. But we’re kind of in the same work, you know? If there’s a chance to make a connection—to relate on a human level—that’s what’s important. I encourage you to make the connection. Who knows, it might give him a boost, might help him through the weekend.”

On Monday I came across a book I’d added to the collection—a graphic novel I teach in a different facility. I threw it on the pod Z shelf and made a note to add it to KD’s holds. I found another book for him by the end of the day and added it as well.

Wednesday came and we pulled into pod Z mid-morning. I had the books set aside and even felt a tad giddy about calling him over.

We went through the holds and I dispensed books to those who had requested them, trying to keep pace with the different activities and requests going on. Books coming in, going out, books overdue, needing to be found and re-checked in. Then I saw his books and hollered out his name: “Mr W! Mr. W! I have some books for you.”

“Aw, he shore aint coming to da cart,” responded a nearby patron. “He my cellie—he out cold. Fool can sleep.”

So I let it go, disappointed. But two minutes later my inmate worker—an inmate that works daily in the library and helps with the library cart service-- motioned upstairs: “There go Mr. W up there; he’s up.”

Shore nuf. I called him down. He began making his way down the metal stairs, somewhat perplexed, still sleepy. Then proceeded over to another cart.

“Y’all call my name? I didn’t order no books,” he said politely to the lady running the other cart.

“That would be with Mr Toby over there,” she motioned him over my way.

 “Y’all got some books for me? I didn’t order no books,” he said again, looking my in the eyes.

“Yessir, Mr W,” I said. “I took the liberty of putting aside a coupla books aside for you. You remember me? I taught in a program you were in, a long time ago.” 

He looked at me again. “Man, I thought you looked familiar,” he said. “What’s your name?”

I told him. It didn’t quite ring a bell for him, but that was ok. “That place still going?” he asked.

“Oh yeah,” I told him. “Checked their website the other day-- going strong.”

“Hhmm. Well aint that something. I appreciate the books, man. Appreciate it. I’ll check em out!”

“Ok, sounds good—tell me what you think of em.”

“Alright then. Alright. Well thanks again. Appreciate it.” He smiled. I smiled. That was it.

One week later:

Mr W. came down to the cart on time. Turned in one of the books, then said he wanted to check the other out for another week. That it was pretty good, he needed to finish it.

New library patron! He kited (in-house jail email) later in the week for a book on working out.

His buddy is the scholar—asked me for Aristotle, David Hume, Descartes. “How you say that guy’s name?—Dez-cart-ez?” I told him. Told him it was French, the name. “Yeah—always wondered bout that. Can you get some of his writing in here?”