Dear Librarians,
I did not grow up going to libraries. I don’t mean that I never set foot in one—I did, from time to time. But in the two neighborhoods where I grew up—one in Potrero Hill, California, and the other in Clearwater, Florida—I have no memories of story times or frequent visits to browse the latest arrivals in the children’s section. I lived in cities and towns full of libraries, yet they were never close by, never easy to get to, never a regular part of my life. That all changed in high school when I “discovered” my school library.
I was older than most when I first experienced the reassuring calm of the library—a refuge where I could stare out the window and dream just as often as I would open a book and engage. Daydreaming and reading intertwined, blurring the space between the stories I invented in my mind and those created by others. It was like a house of cards—precisely placed, perfectly balanced—until one fell, and, in solidarity, the other followed.
That was the general state of things when my school librarian, whose name I regretfully don’t remember, decided to introduce some structure—and adventure—into my solitary communion. When I entered the library and settled into my usual corner, half-dreaming, half-reading, she started placing books near me. Different books. A kind of literary smorgasbord. I remember the anticipation of never knowing what would appear. I’m pretty sure she nudged Watership Down in my direction before a teacher introduced me to that world of rabbits. But I know she introduced me to Anna Karenina.
Before I ever set foot in my school library, I was an avid reader, growing up in a home filled with books about people of African descent. I was well acquainted with Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, and Richard Wright. But Anna’s world became a gateway to the long and gloriously complex terrain of Russian literature—The Brothers Karamazov, War and Peace, and beyond. As my obsession with Russian writers deepened, I returned to the library more often, staying longer, sometimes even missing class. That’s when my access was cut off. I could no longer spend hours immersed in those books, exploring the intricacies of human existence.
Now that I think about it, I wish we had spoken more. I wish I could remember her name. I wish I had asked her what made her choose those books for me, how she saw the reader in me when I barely recognized it myself. In many ways, she set me on the path to becoming the writer I am still becoming.
I hope you enjoy Integrated and look forward to finding in on your shelves.
With gratitude,
Noliwe Rooks
