Books and Violence
When I was a child, I always felt intellectually inferior to my sisters. My sisters both read a great deal, they were especially fond of Little Women and Gone with the Wind, neither of which I had any interest in reading. (Though oddly, I have visited both Louisa May Alcott and Margret Mitchell’s homes.) My sisters shared a family passion for books, and those two in particular, which they read and reread periodically. I felt left out of their collective interest, which in retrospect may not have been as intense as I now remember it; but at the time it seemed like they were members of an exclusive club which I simply was never going to belong to.
I wanted to read, but every time I opened a book I suddenly had a headache. I was a good student, I was; but my grades were average regardless of how hard I studied. Then, during the summer, before starting seventh grade, just as I had resigned myself to be the less than bright sister, two amazing things happened. First, my mother read a newspaper article, written by an optometrist, in Bell, California, where we were living. She made an appointment for me to see the good doctor, whom she said had described me, in his article. The second life changing experience was being baptized in the Holy Spirit; but that is an entirely different story.
That summer, I went to the eye doctor daily. I had a lazy eye which needed to be retained – I sadly realize, as I am typing, that I am still closing that left eye. It was a long summer, but it was a good experience, as I learned that I could read without feeling ill. I went back to school a changed child. My seventh grade English teacher had us read Jonathon Livingston Seagull, it was the 70’s, and I earned an A! I was going to be okay; and be able to partake of the family obsession with books – though I must say that among the thousands of books which I own, I still do not have copies of Little Women or Gone with the Wind. I should do something about that.
Kate has often claimed that she owes her herniated discs to my books, perhaps; but if it is true, then she at least bares her pain for a worthy cause. Since moving to South Florida, I have taken a great deal of pleasure in shopping for books, at the local friends of the library sales. I have always bought more used books than new. The used price is of course a primary attraction; but I also like that used books come with a history. I do not mind someone else’s notes or inscription, and enjoy their bookmarks and what passes for bookmarks. I sometimes find it sad when I find personal notes or photographs and wonder if the mementoes were accidentally discarded, or if the former owner of the book has passed away, and the oversight belongs to someone settling an estate, who did not bother to leaf through the book. I usually leave such things in the book. I have found incredible treasures, from cold hard cash, to autographed tomes. My latest find is a copy of Over Here, over There: The Andrews Sisters and the USO Stars in World War II, by Maxene Andrews of the Andrew Sisters!
It is rare that I go to a book sale and do not find something which needs to come home with me. This week, Kate took a couple of days off of work, and humoring as she does so often, when I suggested that we go to the main Broward County library, and check out the book sale, she said yes. On Saturday afternoon, having verified that the library was still open, we drove downtown, anticipating great finds. I was excited to share the experience with Kate, and looking forward to a pleasant afternoon.
We arrived at the library, and immediately went to work. As the pile of must reads grew, Kate decided to take our stack of books over to the counter, in what seemed a simple and logical step. Continuing to browse, Kate handed me several books, asking me if I was interested in her finds, which were all excellent. Exchanging comments with her, I happened to look away from the shelves and notice that a clerk was bagging our books. I found her behavior disturbing, as I was not through shopping. I asked Kate to go over to the woman, not wanting to tear myself away, from the shelves, I had not yet looked through; but the clerk had stolen my thunder. Before too long, I went over to the desk, as Kate asked me if I had cash. I thought the question odd, how much could the books be?
I was shocked when the clerk announced the total. Are you sure, I asked? She said yes. I was stunned, but paid the woman. We took our books to the car, but I had to recount. Her total was outrageous. I am not a haggler when it comes to prices, I pay what I am asked; but something was wrong. I looked at the receipt, hoping for answers, but it only said two dollars. I had to count for myself. We took the books out, and even if she was charging a dollar per book, though many were marked twenty-five cents, she had grossly overcharged me. We went back to the library.
I stood in line again, and explained to the clerk that there was a problem. I mentioned the receipt, and she gave me an unhappy look. It was not until I came back, that she entered what I had paid into the cash register; and produced a receipt which reflected the amount of cash, I had given her. We then began to recount the books. It was entirely distressing. I was forced to ask another clerk about the prices, as the clerk who had waited on me invented prices; before acquiescing to charging me the listed and marked prices and giving me a refund, though it was less than adequate. The clerk had soured my afternoon; we headed toward the elevator disgusted by the incompetence, and obviously wondering if the clerk had simply been planning to steal our cash payment, from the library.
Our books were heavy and poorly packed. Kate headed toward the elevator, and another woman walked along with us, making her presence known. The security guard kept calling this woman back, in what I assumed was some sort of flirtation, I was wrong. As we entered the elevator, with our hands full, Kate pushed the first floor button. The woman then began speaking to us. My first reaction was confusion. I did not quite understand what she wanted. I assumed she was making a comment about which elevator button to push; and motioned with my head that she might see that the first floor button had already been pushed; but again I was wrong. When her comments finally began to register, I realized the woman was in fact threatening us. She was the niece of the clerk, who had overcharged us, and this woman began to use vulgarity as she told us to watch out. We could not raise our voice to her auntie; she was going to take care of us. Her threats were violent, and she was volatile. We tried to get out of the elevator, but she blocked the door as she talked about how she was going to harm us. Fearing an escalating situation, hands full, and Kate trying to protect us, I called for help, the security guard not ten feet away. He would not come, and as we tried to get past her, she became more belligerent. Finally, I hit the alarm button in the elevator, which the security guard decided to react to. He pulled her away, as she continued to threaten us.
We left the library badly shaken. Was the woman armed? Did she have a knife or gun? How could she say such horrible things? She wanted to kill us because her aunt had over charged us and failed to enter the sale into the register? Has even the library become a place of contention? I was crushed. One of my most favorite places in the world had been sullied by the insanity which has now become so common place – violence.
The desire to walk around Las Olas or venture into the art museum was gone. I just wanted to go home, and lock the door. As we pulled into our driveway, a neighbor was leaving the pool, and walking by our house. She glared in our direction, and I was reminded that my sanctuary had also become anything but tranquil. A few weeks ago, as the hours of noise ticked away, from a party at our home owner’s association club house, we called the police, asking that the noise ordinance be enforced. The extremely loud, pounding racket, which we could hear in our home, with all windows closed, would not stop. The cars of the parties guest were parked on the lawns, and not simply in the front of a house, but driven on the grass, far enough to be able to park three and four cars in a row. We went outside, to see the commotion, and look for the police, who were supposed to be our saviors – or at least enforce the law. We saw the police, circling around the club house, twice, both times with all of their lights, including their headlights, turned off! The police did not stop, though people were parked in the middle of the street, leaving barely a single lane open for traffic. Why? The reason was simple. There was at least one squad car parked at the club house, and at least two Sheriffs, and one reserve officer, the party’s host, present at this unlawful gathering. How do we know who was at the party? Well, a nice officer stopped to identify himself and tells us to go back into our house, calling us honey and sweetie; as well as racist. The swimmer was the hostess of the party.
I am a racist because I think a contract should be enforced which says that the party must be over, and the club house cleaned, by one o’clock in the morning. I am not a racist, I am a law abiding citizen! This officer, who claimed to be a community liaison sheriff, for the city of Deerfield Beach, let us know that the security, for the night, was also a member of the sheriff’s department, as was he, and that the man throwing the party was a reserve officer for twenty plus years. He continually tried to intimidate us, and told Kate that there were lessons she needed to learn. The truly sad thing is that Kate and I have met Sherriff Lamberti, who heads the Broward County Sheriff’s Department, and have found him to be an outstanding man; also, we volunteered as COP’S, in community policing outreach, and had incredibly wonderful experiences with the members of the Sheriffs department, with whom we interacted. Now we stood being told to go back to bed, being called liars, and racist by members of the Broward County Sheriff’s department, who though off duty, had no issue with flashing their badges and informing us of how many sheriffs’s were at the party.
We drove to the club house, though it is only two doors away, and took what unfortunately is a bad picture, of the one police car that was there all night, a guest of the party. Once we took that photograph, as three o’clock approached, the party finally broke up.
I did not get into fist fights as a child. Not even my sisters and I fought physically; we fought with words – the only ammunition I feel I have left. I am still in shock to think that the clerk’s niece would threaten to beat me up; and still in shock that the stream of revelers would threaten to beat us up, and teach us a lesson. When did violence become the answer to all disagreements?
All I wanted was to look through some old books – I found a biography of Gary Cooper, for my mother, which I know she is going to love. (She was allowed to name her youngest brother, and she chose Gary, the Cooper was already a given.) I have found amazing books at the library and it breaks my heart to know that I will never again be going back to the Main Library, on Andrews Boulevard; and that from now on, something wonderful will be associated with something so sad – whether or not I want to make the connection, my books are now tied to the threat of violence – and for that matter so is my house. That is all for now.
