Ann

I never felt like I was supposed to be there. 

It was exactly where I was supposed to be; that was the job. But I always felt like an intruder in a secret space, and no matter how many days I spent behind the library, it felt like at any minute, some adult was going to come walking in and ask me what I was doing there. 

I was in elementary school, and I had the privilege of being a "library helper." At the time, I believed it was meant to be a boredom buster; I was a highly gifted student who breezed through all my work and simply wasn't challenged at my grade level, but at the time, there was concern for the social life of children who skipped grades. They thought it was best to keep me with my peers. So they let me go to the library while everyone else was working on the things I had already known for a few years. 

Looking back, I wonder if part of it wasn't that they understood I also needed a social break. I needed something to throw myself into, my own little world, something to busy me when I felt in the depths of my soul like I could not be still. Not much was known about these fidgety kinds of personalities back then, but maybe they sensed it. 

My job as a library helper had me reshelving the books that had been returned, but mostly, I dusted the shelves. I dusted and straightened the shelves in the library itself, and I dusted and straightened the shelves in the back, where extra materials and things were kept. Where there were supplies for other fun things. Where teachers wandered in and out occasionally. 

It seemed like a cave of a back room because most of it extended in one direction from the door, but it probably was not as big as it felt when I was so small. It was full of things for the adults to use, and adults frequently came in and out. And here I was, a child - and always on the small side, at that. Quiet. Going through every shelf. 

I felt like a trespasser. Like at any moment, someone was going to tell me that I didn't belong there. 

But to Ann, the librarian, it was the most natural place in the world for me to be. 

She left me to it. She told me what needed to be done and simply trusted that I was doing it. She never hovered over me. She never spied on me. She never snuck in to check that I wasn't up to no good. She completely trusted me in her secret space, and when she did come by, it was to tell me what a nice job I was doing or to offer me a sweet treat of some sort. She never batted an eye at seeing small me in her big space. I always relaxed a little when I realized that the footsteps that I heard were hers. (I was such an uptight kid that I never relaxed completely, but her presence brought me comfort and reassurance.) 

As much as I felt like I didn't belong in the back, the library itself - and Ann - were a sacred space for me. I remember so fondly my days dusting shelves. (And the days she'd call me over for story time with the younger grades.) 

We live in a world that likes to draw lines. Everybody seems to have them. Everybody seems to know what the lines are in their own life. Everyone has this sense of where they're supposed to be and where they're not supposed to be. We all have these places where we feel like a trespasser, where we're sure that at any moment, someone is going to come in and tell us that we're not supposed to be there. 

I want to be an Ann. I want to be someone who not only invites others into secret spaces but welcomes them there. Someone who acts like it's the most natural thing in the world for them to be there. Someone who comes not to hover, but to encourage. To bring a sweet treat and a breath of refreshing air. Someone whose footsteps, when the world feels like it's walking on eggshells, bring comfort and a sense of relief. 

I want to be someone who, when others look back at the spaces we've shared, they remember them with fondness. 

Yes, I want to be an Ann. 

*And she had a fantastic sense of style that I only wish I could pull off.