I grew up in
Philadelphia in a neighborhood that was mostly Jewish and Catholic. It was on
the northern edge of Philadelphia and most of the homes, all row houses, had
been built in the decade before my birth. We were slow to get things like
department stores and we took a bus and a subway downtown for most major shopping
until I was a teenager. We were also missing a real library, which was a great
loss for me.
A bookmobile was our only library until I was ten. The problem
with the bookmobile was it circulated between sections of Philadelphia so
access to it wasn’t a daily or even weekly thing. And you had to know what book
you wanted when you stepped up to the window. Browsing was half the fun of a library,
and we didn’t often get to enter the bookmobile. If you weren’t quick to come
up with a title the woman in the bookmobile would hand you whatever book was at
her fingertips.
My family
did not buy books except for Christmas and birthdays and not even often then. My
father did not read anything but newspapers, and my mother wasn’t much of a
reader either. So most of the books I read before we got a real library were
ones the neighbors passed on. It was mostly boys on our street, so I read a lot
of books about horses, cowboys, desert islands and trains. The other type of
book that came my way was books of fairy tales and I did not have much
appreciation for those either. I wanted books about girls like me.
But about
the time I was ten, the West Oak Lane Branch of the Free Library of
Philadelphia finished its construction on Washington Lane. The neighborhood was booming by the
late fifties and an outdoor mall with a Gimbels Department Stores and a library suddenly turned up. The library was a magical place for me. Every
Friday after school, I walked to the library and took out the five books we were
allowed. I read exactly the sort of books you would expect, stories about girls
who became nurses or teachers or detectives.
Mrs.
Robinson was the children’s librarian, and unusual for the day, she was Black.
I had seen so few Black people in my life that I didn’t even realize she was black
until my mother told me. She was a wonderful mentor for me as she tried
mightily to move me away from the very pedestrian books I was drawn to and onto
ones that had some literary or historical value. She was especially eager to
promote biographies. To this end, she even allowed me to wander in the adult
section. The adult section was physically blocked off at that time and she
checked to see what I had chosen and checked it out for me. Since I was ten by
the time the library was finished, it was not long before I could take out
adult books without her permission (and up to 12 at a time).
I hope that
I went back to see Mrs. Robinson to tell her I appreciated her interest in me,
but I am not sure that I did. I have had a lifelong love affair with libraries
and books and I credit much of it to that vibrant and enthusiastic young woman I met in 1958.
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