By Lauren Green
What do you do?
When I get asked this question, I usually fall back on a go-to response.
“I’m a teacher,” I say, “on the 27th year of my one-year maternity leave.”
A tongue-in-cheek answer for sure, but one that inevitably redirects the conversation away from the fact that I don’t have a job title. I was once a teacher, and after that, a stay-at-home mom. But nowadays I don’t have a clear-cut answer. If somebody wants to know what I do to earn a paycheck, I suppose my answer would be… nothing. But that sounds pitiful. As such, it’s become a sensitive topic for me.
This what-do-you-do line of questioning recently came up in a group conversation. One friend remarked that in other countries, it is more common for people to ask about what you like to do. A subtle, but meaningful distinction. This is a question I can readily answer. I garden. I tutor. I write. I plan. I administer. I clean. I learn. And right up there at the top of my list: I read.
I’ve been a reader for as long as I can remember. Growing up, my best friend’s mom was the head librarian. We lived in a small town, and the library was, literally, housed in an old house. It had creaky wooden floors and small, irregularly shaped rooms chock-full of neatly shelved books. The card catalog was located in the middle of what used to be the house’s original foyer, and it contained years’ worth of local history. Or at least the history of who was reading what, thanks to those signature cards tucked inside the back cover of each book.
I remember one particular day when my mom took me to the library. We walked in the front door and immediately split up; she veered right to browse in the grown-up room while I headed left, laser-focused on the Laura Ingalls Wilder shelf in the kids’ room. (Or maybe it was the Judy Blume shelf?) After some time, we met up at the check-out desk, signed our names on those aforementioned cards and went on to finish our errands. The last stop of the day was at a local five-and-dime. There, in a sales bin, I remember discovering a pile of comfy cozy sweatsuits. I must have caught my mom in a weak moment because she actually bought me the navy blue set I’d been pining for. Back home, I put on my new sweats and settled in to start reading one of my library books. About that time, it started raining outside. To this day, it ranks among one of the best memories of my early childhood.
No doubt I eventually grew out of that navy sweatsuit, but I never grew out of reading. For this, I credit the early days of exposure to the public library system. We always had books in my house, but rarely new ones. Most of my books came from that house-turned-library. And thanks to my friend’s mom checking them out to me, my reading supply — and interest — never waned.
Fast forward a couple of decades. My husband and I moved to Southlake with our young children. With multiple readers in our family, the Southlake Public Library featured prominently in our weekly routine. Every Tuesday, between piano drills and baseball practice, my kids and I popped into the library. We unloaded the pile of last week’s books into the return bin and split up, each of us heading toward our favorite shelves, much like my mom and I did back in the late 70s. No price-checking or debating whether we really needed a certain book. If the title looked vaguely interesting, we handed it to the librarian and into our tote bag it went; no long-term storage obligation and free of charge.
Well, not really free. As an adult, I know that public libraries don’t just magically appear, and they certainly don’t run themselves. Hard-earned tax dollars fund these buildings, their revolving collections and the salaries of the degreed professionals that manage them. Our Southlake library is small, but what it lacks in square footage, it makes up for in programming, resources and community engagement. Spring break is already here, and summer is on the way. I take my reading job seriously, so this means my busy season is coming. Luckily, our Town Square library gem works hard for everyone, especially those of us holding the precious job title of Reader. When I get asked this question, I usually fall back on a go-to response.
“I’m a teacher,” I say, “on the 27th year of my one-year maternity leave.”
A tongue-in-cheek answer for sure, but one that inevitably redirects the conversation away from the fact that I don’t have a job title. I was once a teacher, and after that, a stay-at-home mom. But nowadays I don’t have a clear-cut answer. If somebody wants to know what I do to earn a paycheck, I suppose my answer would be… nothing. But that sounds pitiful. As such, it’s become a sensitive topic for me.
This what-do-you-do line of questioning recently came up in a group conversation. One friend remarked that in other countries, it is more common for people to ask about what you like to do. A subtle, but meaningful distinction. This is a question I can readily answer. I garden. I tutor. I write. I plan. I administer. I clean. I learn. And right up there at the top of my list: I read.
I’ve been a reader for as long as I can remember. Growing up, my best friend’s mom was the head librarian. We lived in a small town, and the library was, literally, housed in an old house. It had creaky wooden floors and small, irregularly shaped rooms chock-full of neatly shelved books. The card catalog was located in the middle of what used to be the house’s original foyer, and it contained years’ worth of local history. Or at least the history of who was reading what, thanks to those signature cards tucked inside the back cover of each book.
I remember one particular day when my mom took me to the library. We walked in the front door and immediately split up; she veered right to browse in the grown-up room while I headed left, laser-focused on the Laura Ingalls Wilder shelf in the kids’ room. (Or maybe it was the Judy Blume shelf?) After some time, we met up at the check-out desk, signed our names on those aforementioned cards and went on to finish our errands. The last stop of the day was at a local five-and-dime. There, in a sales bin, I remember discovering a pile of comfy cozy sweatsuits. I must have caught my mom in a weak moment because she actually bought me the navy blue set I’d been pining for. Back home, I put on my new sweats and settled in to start reading one of my library books. About that time, it started raining outside. To this day, it ranks among one of the best memories of my early childhood.
No doubt I eventually grew out of that navy sweatsuit, but I never grew out of reading. For this, I credit the early days of exposure to the public library system. We always had books in my house, but rarely new ones. Most of my books came from that house-turned-library. And thanks to my friend’s mom checking them out to me, my reading supply — and interest — never waned.
Fast forward a couple of decades. My husband and I moved to Southlake with our young children. With multiple readers in our family, the Southlake Public Library featured prominently in our weekly routine. Every Tuesday, between piano drills and baseball practice, my kids and I popped into the library. We unloaded the pile of last week’s books into the return bin and split up, each of us heading toward our favorite shelves, much like my mom and I did back in the late 70s. No price-checking or debating whether we really needed a certain book. If the title looked vaguely interesting, we handed it to the librarian and into our tote bag it went; no long-term storage obligation and free of charge.
Well, not really free. As an adult, I know that public libraries don’t just magically appear, and they certainly don’t run themselves. Hard-earned tax dollars fund these buildings, their revolving collections and the salaries of the degreed professionals that manage them. Our Southlake library is small, but what it lacks in square footage, it makes up for in programming, resources and community engagement. Spring break is already here, and summer is on the way. I take my reading job seriously, so this means my busy season is coming. Luckily, our Town Square library gem works hard for everyone, especially those of us holding the precious job title of Reader.