Zibby Mag

By Julie Chavez

I sat at the circulation desk in the library on a Monday morning in early March, alone in the cavernous space. My eyes glided over the bright book spines, the rainbow rug in the Everybody section — the horseshoe of shelves in our library packed with picture books — the Nimbus 2000 floating above the fiction, hung with fishing line. It was oppressively silent in the large space, and though I knew there were students in their classrooms, masked and distant, the loneliness of the moment was so overwhelming that I cried.

It was my first day back to school after months of Zoom calls from my dining room table, watching over my two middle-school-age sons as they engaged in distance learning. It was chaotic and stressful and occasionally beautiful, but all the days seemed to be viewed through a lens made grimy by anxiety and stress.

I missed believing I could know the shape of my days and the general rhythm of the days to come. To believe that life is going to unfold as you expect is a seductive, comforting lie. It’s the illusion of control, and I used it to blunt the hard, awful truth: anything can happen, anytime.

I wasn’t surprised to find myself crying at my desk, a fresh wave of grief breaking over me. I missed the kids; I missed the version of this job I knew; I longed for the version of myself who existed in that memory, who thoughtlessly wore her illusions like a comfortable coat.

I missed the happy chaos of children. I resented that I found myself, yet again, adjusting to a new normal. To my husband’s daily inquiries, I could only respond: “It feels flat.”

After a few weeks of being trapped in this malaise, I sat down one day, put my hands down on my desk, and grounded myself. It was time to turn on the lights and send the guests home from my pity party.

To believe that life is going to unfold as you expect is a seductive, comforting lie.

I started a book order. I scrolled websites for upcoming titles, read reviews, browsed recommended books for reluctant readers. Click, click, click. I made a stack of books to read so that I’d be ready when the time came. I imagined putting the perfect title into a smiling student’s outstretched hands.

I spent the morning engaged in these hopeful acts. I read Other Words for Home and Jelly and Short, and I marveled at the beauty of the wisdom in their pages. And as I closed one book and picked up the next, I realized that one thing hadn’t changed: this job has always been an act of hope.

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Sean was in kindergarten during my first year working at the school. He marched into the library every week with his classmates, rounding my desk to find his spot on the rainbow carpet. He had thick black hair and wore eyeglasses reminiscent of Clark Kent’s; he sported neat sweaters and collared shirts. He listened quietly to every reading and never had to be reminded to stop picking his nose or hassling his neighbor. He was mostly stoic as I read the funny books, but he did crack an occasional smile.

After I’d finished reading, the children were released to choose a title from the Everybody section. I gave instructions on the proper use of shelf markers; I managed the line for the Elephant and Piggie books. But every week, after the initial rush of requests and reminders, Sean lingered there, wandering in slow circles.

“Sean, are you looking for a certain book?”

He stood silently, avoiding eye contact. He mastered in stillness, his little blocky body standing, patient.

“What about a Dr. Seuss book?” I slid out a bright new copy of Green Eggs and Ham.

Sean looked at the book and then walked to the other side of the horseshoe. I followed him and suggested Chrysanthemum, a favorite from Kevin Henkes.

“We read this one recently, remember? We have other books by this author, too.” I looked at him expectantly.

Wordlessly, Sean slid away from me again.

He and I performed a variation of this scene every week for two years. In all that time, he never spoke a word to me.

But that wasn’t the end of the story.

As I closed one book and picked up the next, I realized that one thing hadn’t changed: this job has always been an act of hope.

On a bright fall day, at the beginning of Sean’s second-grade year, he looked at me and said, very clearly, “I want a Tacky book.”

“Tacky the Penguin?” I tried to hide my excitement, afraid to break the spell of the moment. Instead, I smiled and nodded as I removed the entire collection of titles and spread them out, happy to give him the one that he wanted. He picked up Tacky the Penguin and the Haunted Igloo, smiled to himself, and walked to the checkout.

Looking back, I know that during those years, Sean was preparing himself to speak to me. Every week, he unearthed a little more confidence. And, for my part, every week was an act of faith, a release of expectation, a reminder that growth is always happening, that the wheels are in motion even if the progress sometimes seems invisible.

Every tricky phase with my own boys has yielded the same wisdom: things are in motion. I use the word “things,” because we can’t know precisely what pieces are moving. We can’t know which revolutions will bring the outcome we need, though we typically can pinpoint the outcome we want. Loving our people, living in a confusing, complicated world: it’s always been an act of hope.

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It’s been over two years since the day Sean first spoke to me. Earlier this year, he traded the Clark Kent frames for new glasses, and he spoke without reservation as he told me about his latest favorite book on our Zoom call. Every time he raised his little hand on the screen, I felt a small zing of joy. What a privilege to watch a boy grow into himself.

Regardless of circumstance, this is why I work in education, why I work in the library: I use these books and the messages inside them to connect. The grief from the last few years remains. We’ve been stripped of the illusions of control. But isn’t that also wonderful, hopeful news? Anything can happen, anytime.

Despite all our loss, grief, and disillusionment, we’ve tried to remain audaciously, unreservedly, and sometimes foolishly hopeful. Nothing was ever guaranteed, and yet beautiful things were happening all the time, invisible motion whirring all around us.

And every time he came into the library, that boy gathered up a little more courage to talk to me.

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Julie Chavez writes to celebrate her imperfect, beautiful life. You can find her exploring the joys and impossibilities of mothering and modern womanhood at www.juliewriteswords.com. Her forthcoming memoir, Little by Little, will be available in May of 2022.