Shaping Summitville

“No, Mr. G!”

His fourth graders were seated on the checkered carpet. He perched on a stool in the back of the stuffy library, his back to the whiteboard and children’s books A-K to his left. He watched the fan spin overhead, trying to keep the kids from seeing whatever emotions flitted across his face.

“You can’t leave! You just got here!”

The other kids shouted their agreement. As he brought a stern finger to his lips, the cries continued at a slightly lesser volume.

“Where are you going?”

“But we haven’t finished Henry’s story! We won’t know what happens!”

“Why are you leaving already?”

“But I don’t want you to go.”

“But you have to stay.”

He hadn’t been sure how the kids were going to take the news, but he supposed he was glad they were sad to see him go. It meant he had made an impact.

He had started at Summitville Elementary School that fall. He was (is) the new librarian, taking over for an elderly Mrs. Jovet. Based on what he heard from the kids, she had been old and boring and mean. And she had smelled funny. She was also incredibly organized; she had left behind a detailed calendar and more than 50 lesson plans for him this year, color-coded and organized by theme. Her lessons may have been stale, but he suspected she was a kinder and better teacher than the kids gave her credit for.

He was very different from Mrs. Jovet. In the send-off party earlier that week, the other teachers had described him as “vibrant,” “fun,” and “an inspiration for our students.” They complimented his wardrobe (brightly colored shirts, black jeans, and one of 24 immaculate pairs of sneakers from his closet) and the energy he brought to the library (“somehow my students come back to me more energized than they left me—I don’t know how you do it”). The affection had seemed genuine, and gratitude muddled in with relief and guilt as he planned for his departure.

“We’ll finish Henry’s story, Thomas; there are still a few days left in the school year. We might even have time to start another book, if we find a short one,” Mr. G said. “I’m sad to leave you all. Believe me, I wish I could stay. I want to thank you for being the best class. You already know I’m going to be cheering you on from afar every year. You’re great learners, each of you, and I’ve loved teaching you. I’ve loved helping you explore the worlds on these shelves. Even though I won’t be around to tell you, remember: stay curious, friends.”

He paused, his words ringing through the air. “Stay curious, friends” was how he finished every class, but the phrase felt different this time. More poignant, the air more full.

Hayleigh—strawberry blonde, freckles, pink shirt with a ketchup stain—raised her hand.

“Do you have a Tik-Tok, Mr. G?”

He laughed. Whatever mood he had been feeling, she had broken it.

“No.” A lie—he did, but that account was not for Hayleigh.

“Oh. What about Facebook? That’s mostly for old people.”

“Again, no. Are you calling me old or trying to friend me, Hayleigh?”

She blushed. “I just, you’re just… cool. Like, we could be friends, you know?”

He smiled at her, and at the two or three others who had nodded.

“I’m honored. How about this—I’ll share my email before I leave, and I’d love to hear from all of you. Send me your book reviews, and your research questions. And your favorite sneakers.” Zach grinned. They’d always bonded over sneakers. “I won’t be here next year, but I’ll always be in your corner.”

“Alright.” He stood up, discussion over. “And with that, ten minutes for free range. If you want to check something out, meet me at the desk by two minutes before the bell. Ready, break!”

The kids got up and wandered around the library. The regular cluster headed to the comics section (his addition—Mrs. Williams apparently wasn’t a fan of graphic novels), while the rest spread out across the nearest bookshelves. He was glad to see a few drift toward the tables he had arranged at the front. He highlighted a few books and magazines each month; this month’s theme was “Traditional Tales from Other Countries”. He hoped someone picked up the story from Nigeria.

The library was small, only slightly larger than his apartment. Tan bookshelves covered most of the walls, and what space was left he covered with quotes, posters, and photos. His décor reflected his interests as well as the values and lessons he hoped to instill in his students. Photos of outer space bumped against national geographic maps, overlapping with features on famous jazz musicians and quotes from Maya Angelou and James Baldwin. It was, he hoped, a comfortable space.

He wondered what made him “cool.” Maybe it was his tattoos—he usually wore long sleeves, but you could see the date on his forearm when he occasionally broke out a polo. Maybe he was seen as more casual than the other teachers; he tried to treat the students as grownups, and he felt like he had formed friendships with some of them over conversations at the front desk, especially those who liked to read. Maybe it was his sneakers. Or maybe his dreads—as the only black teacher at the school, he certainly stood out.

He’d guess 95% of the students at Summitville were white. Most had been uncomfortable with him at first—hesitant, tightlipped but curious, his bright smile and dark skin unfamiliar. He’d made them comfortable through the stories on the shelves. If willing to listen, he knew a well-told story could bring anyone together. His passion for learning, goofy jokes, and genuine enthusiasm had overcome those initial barriers. From the way his students were reacting to the news of his departure, he knew he’d won them over. He wished the same were true of his colleagues.

He'd read about “people libraries” in Europe, where patrons could rent time with a person to hear about their life story. It was meant to combat stigma—to highlight the humanity and commonalities between you and the alcoholic or trans person or catholic or atheist or schizophrenic or whoever you were talking to. Exposure therapy: the best way to reduce discrimination. Maybe that’s what he’d done at Summitville. These kids now had a year of bonding with him— a tattooed, dark-skinned black man—as he taught them about storytelling and research methods and the Dewey-decimal system.

Roberto walked up to the desk and silently slid a science fiction story across the desk. Mr. G skimmed the back as he scanned and stamped the book.

“…an intergalactic lunchbox, huh. I don’t think I’ve read this one—you’ll have to tell me all about it. How did you like your last book? You zipped through that pretty fast.”

Last week, Mr. G had recommended a book about aliens that was mostly a book about feeling like an outsider. Roberto was shy, and one of the few students of color in the school, and he seemed to have gravitated toward Mr. G from the start. Mr. G worried about students like Roberto now that he was leaving.

Roberto smiled. “It was the best. Everything was super crazy, but the aliens felt like people I knew. I think that’s why I like books from the green section,” science fiction, thought Mr. G. “The worlds always seem so different but also kind of familiar. I don’t know.”

“I hear you. I like science fiction for the same reason. And you’ve read eight books from that section this school year—so cool! I bet the local library has some good sci-fi options. You should check it out over the summer.”

Roberto nodded, part of his mouth turning downward. “I can’t believe you won’t be back next year, Mr. G. You’re my favorite teacher. I’m going to miss you.”

“I know, buddy. I’ll miss you too. Like I said—you’ll have my email, and when you find a good book, I’d love to hear about it. I mean, I gotta know what happens with this lunchbox… sounds pretty crazy.” He slid the book back across the desk, tapping it twice.

Roberto smiled. “Yeah, okay. See you on Thursday, Mr. G.”

“Stay curious, Roberto.”

Roberto rolled his eyes, smiling as he walked over to the line of kids near the door. Mr. G’s mind wandered as he prepared for the next class.

He may have won over the students, but he never really made inroads with his colleagues. On the surface, everything was fine. There was no outright animosity. But there was always slightly too long of a pause when he entered the room, slightly too bright of a smile during small talk. There was no one to grab a drink with after work, no one whose answer he actually cared to hear when he made small talk about weekend plans.

He knew some of the other teachers disagreed with the way he brought race into the classroom. But these weren't stories to be avoided; they were his life, and these kids certainly weren’t hearing about the issues at home. Where better to learn than at the library? He looked at his display table, the Nigerian story still front and center.

He loved his job. And he was glad for the net positive impact he believed he had on his students. Yet this year had been exhausting. Unsustainably so. He would miss the kids, but without a community, and with a long commute, COVID-19 chaos, and better pay at the private school nearby, it didn’t make sense to stay.

He paused his reflections as his first graders walked, skipped, sprinted, and stumbled their way into the library.

He had made an impact on Summitville. Summitville had also made one on him. He didn’t have 50 color-coded lesson plans to leave behind, but he hoped this space—with its Nigeria story and James Baldwin quotes and comics section—would continue to influence how his students saw the worlds around them. Both on the shelves and in each other.