How to Read a Book

by Monica Wood

“I’ll need a photo ID with your address on it. A driver’s license should do it.” “I don’t drive.” “Or a state ID, something with your photo and address.” This is what happened at the bookstore, exactly. My most recent ID isn’t the sort you present to law-abiding booksellers. Or librarians. So I just stand there at the circulation desk with nothing but my worthless word. The librarian beams at me. “No worries.” The gap between his front teeth makes him look sweet and defenseless. “You can use a piece of mail,” he offers. “A utility bill, a letter. A little something-or-other to prove you live here.” “I don’t have anything like that. I just moved here.” “Ah, then welcome to Portland.” He beams again, probably doesn’t have a normal-temperature smile. “I’m sure we can solve this.” Because he looks like a librarian, because he wants me to use his library, because his teeth aren’t right, and because he thought I might have a letter in my possession, a letter somebody wrote to my current address, to me, to me personally, I start blinking back hot dumb tears. Again. This librarian, though. He is so polite, so respectful and kind. Instead of dropping dead of shame I tell him my story. Not all of it. Some. Not as much as I told Lillian the bank lady, but enough. Not only does he process a card based on my word that I live here, he finds Spoon River Anthology deep in the stacks, then walks me over to New Fiction and makes a few recommendations.

Important complexity and relevance for discussions about voting rights.