book people

I went to the library the other day. I went to the library because I live only two blocks from the library and I wanted to get a library card. I like libraries very much. I worked in one once. I like to read the books that are in the library, and sometimes use the computers because even though they're public access and slow and grandpa dinosaur computers, there's something more smart-- or at least more calm-- about a library computer than my teensy laptop which is so trendy and small and can fit in my purse, practically.

So I walked to the library in my favorite black cardigan that has the stitching on the outside instead of the inside, and my purple shoes from Target, and I was reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn as I walked because it helps to pass the time. I like tripping across the cracks and the weeds in the sidewalk because I'm reading a book and not watching my feet. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn has been called one of the Best Books of the Century, and it was given to me for my 23rd birthday from one of the Best People of the Century-- one julieannaface-- and it was pretty fitting for me to have that book with me, since I had three-- literally three-- people in those two blocks comment on that book.

"Oh, what a good book!" one woman remarked as she sat in her van in front of a stranger's house, windows rolled down, so suddenly that I jumped out of my cardigan almost and all I could do was laugh uncomfortably and reply with a shaky, "Yeeahahahaaaaah."

A kid with a backpack on a bike whizzed by, but not without telling me, "That is one of my favorite books!" I thought that was pretty neat because he's a man, but the swollen backpack hinted it might be filled with books, which made me assume he's either just one of Those People who have read and know everything, or he's a Book Person-- a Book Person like me.

I am a Book Person, I'll have you know. My degree doesn't automatically grant a person the title. I know a startling number of English majors who aren't, in fact, Book People. Maybe they're Writing People or Research People, or sometimes they're just I Don't Want To Be An Elementary Ed Major People, and I guess that's fine because at least they're honest. I'm a Book Person, and so was that kid on the bike. We're those who smell the insides of books at the store, or in the library, because there is something so familiar and comforting about the smell of books, new or old. We're those who probably haven't read all the latest Best Sellers, though we have read some, because we like to read the classics, the Best Books of the Century. We like to sit in libraries just because. Maybe we even carry our own books to the library, even though we intend to read other books once we get there, because we just love books books books. Am I right?

For better or worse, there is a breed of Book People that surpasses all-- the Librarian. I revere librarians and their Book Personedness. When I bounced into the library and up to the front desk to get a new card, I had half a mind to play Francie Nolan-- you know, being inspired by trees growing in Brooklyn-- and ask the librarian, "Do you know any good books for 23-year old girls?" I didn't, though. I didn't need to. Because I am a Book Person, and I Get It.

The librarian, looking every inch her part with perfectly smoothed hair and a forest green turtle neck and her gold-rimmed glasses connected to a chain so they could hang around her neck, eyed me with my messy ponytail and skinny jeans and tiny purple purse (which maybe I'm not even cool enough to carry), and asked how she could help me. I suddenly lost all my nerve. It turns out, I am unnerved by Supreme Book People. I stood there like a jumbly mess, thumbing the corner of my book and rolling back and forth on the side of one foot. "I'd like a library card, please," I did manage to stammer and felt my cheeks start to burn for an unknown, and very discouraging, reason.

I suddenly reached out and rested A Tree Grows in Brooklyn on the counter so she would somehow know of our kindredship and she wouldn't look at me That Way. She nodded at it, but didn't comment, and said, "I think we can do that for you. Do you live in Orem?" By my uneasiness, I'm quite sure she figured I might be 17-years old, 18 at best, and probably still lived with my mommy and daddy. After the fact, I guess I could have drummed my married-fingered left hand across the cover of my book, but maybe that would have been trying just too hard. I nodded that I did, somehow unable to form any kind of words in my mouth, and growing more and more annoyed that I couldn't stand before her with poise and an air of don't mind me, I come here all the time. "Do you have a driver's license or picture ID with you?" she asked, the brooch on her sweater mocking me. I nodded again and started to fumble with my purse to get my wallet. Why was this so difficult? "We'll also need a proof of address," she added, and when I paused, dumbfounded, I could swear there was a condescending glint in her eye.

I haven't printed a new driver's license yet, see, with my new name and address, and most of the mail I receive still has my maiden name. "I... I... I don't have anything like that with me," I admitted quietly, screaming in the back of my mind, "NO! NO, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! I GET THIS PLACE! I BELONG HERE! I'M ONE OF YOU! A BOOK PERSON, LIKE ONE OF YOU!!!!" while she shrugged politely sort of and oozed a strange kind of pity and judgement. "You'll need to bring those before we can issue you a library card," she informed me. I nodded and backed away slowly, hoping the bottom of my pants wouldn't catch on the carpet and send me tumbling to the floor, since that definitely would be the most graceful way to bow out of this situation.

I crawled away to the Adult Non-Fiction section, feeling less of a Book Person than I ever have and intending to find some solace in William Hazlitt and Charles Lamb and maybe some A.A. Milne if I could be so lucky. Book of the Century or not, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn couldn't cut it being fiction, and a novel, and therefore out of the general realm of my recent (read: past three years) experience. While pleasant, and inspiring, and beautiful to read, and borderlining on non-fiction, Betty Smith was no match for the personal and intellectual ramblings of Vernon Lee. I breathed a literal sigh of relief when I got to that row with all those beautiful authors and the word "essay" sprinkled throughout most of the titles and wanted to hug the whole shelf so that scary librarian could see because something tells me she probably doesn't even love essays and while she may be the Mother Superior of Book People, there are only a handful of us that are ESSAY BOOK PEOPLE.

I am an Essay Book Person. I love to be an Essay Book Person.

I started pulling collections of essays from the shelf almost at random, really only intent on reading The Essays of Elia which I grabbed specifically and tossed my hair about it because how many people in the world can actually say they even know the title The Essays of Elia and grapple it off the shelf specifically? NOT MANY, YOU SCARY LIBRARIAN BOOK LADY. And I took all those books and plopped into a comfy library chair off in the corner all by itself, with all these books scattered at my feet, and I read that Essays of Elia for an hour before I trekked home to be with Ames, and you know what I did? I put away all those books I didn't even touch right there on the Books for Reshelving shelf-- all except The Essays of Elia because maybe that librarian will find it and smile with satisfaction, happy that someone finally took that book (which she has probably never read, thank you) off that shelf and enjoyed it for a while and enjoyed it enough to leave it for her to find and enjoy herself.

Because I am a Nice, Essay, Book Person, and I hope you will be too.