It’s that special period in life when, in retrospect, one realizes that this was the point at which the boundary between childhood and adulthood begins to blur. It’s the time to suffer through regardless of one’s economic circumstances or relative place within culture and society. It’s that bridge that we all cross if we live long enough. That’s why the popularity of coming-of-age films, performances, and books never wane. Coming-of-age stories are relatable because we’ve all been there in one form or another.
I used to feel embarrassed when I didn’t know references to characters in children’s books. I didn’t know these characters because these stories were never read to me, and the books were not available to me when I learned to read for myself. I’m not placing blame or feeling sorry for myself. It’s just a fact.
My various families were doing the best they could to keep me housed, fed, and churched. There was no time nor money for story books. In my formative pre-teen years, I was grateful for Webster’s Dictionary and a few books from school. During my teen years in a different family home, there was a Bible, a dictionary, and just before I finished high school, there were the World Book encyclopedias.
Though I didn’t know it at the time, I needed books and the stories they told to create a virtual world in which I could imagine beyond my circumscribed world. Once I had the freedom to read the books that I wanted to read, I would do anything to keep them in my life.
In fact, the only crimes I’ve committed are related to books. I still feel badly when I think about the incidents. I’m guessing that there was not a public library in my community because I had to take a bus to a library that was a good distance from where I lived in what was considered a White neighborhood. I wasn’t sure I would be able to get a library card, but thankfully I was given one. After a few borrowings and returns, there was one book that I wanted to keep. The return date came and went. I received overdue notices in the mail. Though I was afraid of what might happen, I chose to give up my privilege of borrowing future books in order to keep the book that I felt I had to have. I made the sacrifice because having the book was worth the risk.
After assuming that I had lost my privileges at the library because I had not returned the book, innocently, I committed another book crime. Lured by advertisements about real books for $1.00 sent by mail, I subscribed. When I realized that subsequent books would cost more, I attempted to stop the subscription to no avail. My family did not have money to pay for my foolishness. All I could do was wait to be arrested. Eventually, the books stopped coming and no one came to arrest me. My mother may have found a way to stop the subscription and pay for the books I had received. I only remember how awful I felt about the situation.
Done with book subscriptions and probably banned from the library in the neighboring community, I had to find a way to read. I don’t remember how I was able to convince my family to allow me to stop doing forced labor in order to have a few free Saturdays. I wish I could recall the conversation I had with my mother that afforded me the money and freedom to take the bus downtown to the Chicago Public Library. This privilege was, indeed, a miracle.
I can picture myself being self-consciously aware of my difference sitting at a table at the rear of the reading room. Whether it’s reality or not, the ambience as I recall my time at the library is warm, brown, wood-paneled walls and shelves of books. I liked the smell, the soft lights, the quiet. I was away where I had freedom to read undisturbed.
A book not returned and therefore stolen; books received and likely not paid for; feeling small and insignificant in spaces not welcoming to me—these are some of the significant events in my coming-of-age story.
Gwen Dungy 