Grunenwald - Reading behind bars: a memoir of literature, law, and life as a prison librarian

Copyright 2019 by Jill Grunenwald

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design by Tom Lau

Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-3706-8

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-3708-2

Printed in the United States of America.

To Mom

This book is memoir. It reflects the authors present recollections of experiences over time. Some names and characteristics have been changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been recreated.

A man dressed completely in black snapped the steel bracelets around my wrists. Dont worry, he said, taking a step back. The key to my freedom shone brightly in his oversized hand. Its just for a minute.

Then he winked, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

What had I gotten myself into?

Prison. Thats what I had gotten myself into. Not jail. Not a detention center, or a holding cell, or even the drunk tank. Prison.

The Clink. The Slammer. The Big House. The Pen. Lock up. Statesville. Sent up the river.

Not only had I landed myself behind bars, Id volunteered for it. Well, volunteered might not be the best term. I was an employee of the prison, so I was at least being paid to be there; but still. Very few people make the conscious decision to enter a correctional institution of their own free will.

Against the backdrop of the cold, sterile warehouse, the man in black cut an imposing figure: that intimidating combination of advantageous genes that gave him both height and width. Not in the soft doughy kind of way, but in the I could crush your head between my two bare hands without breaking a sweat kind of way. With two very large bear pawsized hands. His broad shoulders indicated that he had probably played football in high school. He might even have been one of those burly men who entertained thoughts of playing college ball until an injury sidelined him and cut his dreams short. In one fell swoop, he may have been forced to trade a lifetime of slinging footballs for a lifetime of slinging handcuffs.

The pair he slung now slid into place around my wrists with an admittedly satisfying click, but even with their cool curves, the metal felt sharp against my skin. The cuffs dug into my wrists like knife blades. Even knowing it was futile, I still pulled my closed fists in opposite directions until the chain connecting them tightened.

Surrounding me was a sea of unfamiliar faces. There were roughly a dozen of them, mostly men, dressed in ratty sweats and torn t-shirts. A mixed bag of races and ages, their eyes studied me. Suddenly my black yoga pants felt too tight, the neckline of my t-shirt too exposed. As I took stock of the group, a blush crept up my neck and a sense of unease washed over me. Of everyone in that room why was I the one who was singled out? All I had done was show up at a warehouse on the appointed day at the appointed time, and look at what had happened. He might as well have sewn a scarlet A on my t-shirt and called it a day.

My eyes traveled over the group of strangers clustered around a long table in the corner and at that moment, I questioned every single life decision I had made in the past decade, all the way back to July 1999, the summer between my junior and senior years of high school, when I got an after-school job at the library in my hometown of Hudson, Ohio.

It had been the perfect job for me. I am, and have always been, a bookworm. Books are in my blood, the written word etched upon my bones. (Although, surprisingly, despite my love of books and knowledge and learning, I am not a Ravenclaw but, instead, proudly wear the green and silver of Slytherin.)

In elementary school, I spent recess holed up in the library, tucked into one of the window seats, devouring books that were way above both my reading and maturity levels. What I couldnt find on the shelves of McDowell Elementary School could usually be sourced from the stacks of the local public library (just as long as I tucked them between more age-appropriate reading material so my mom didnt see). Soon enough I started writing my own stories, scribbling away pages of high fantasy or historical fiction that were, once again, far above my maturity level; but that, of course, was part of the fun. At ten years old, my knowledge about the Vietnam War was gleaned almost entirely from a few paragraphs found in my elementary schools copy of World Book, but that didnt stop me from using it as the setting for my first novel.

So at seventeen years old, needing a job, the one thing I did not want to do was work another summer at the hamburger station of my local McDonalds. Because of my love of reading, I was eager to apply and get a job at the library. After all, what reader wouldnt want to hang around books all day?

So I was surprised when a few years ago, my mother told a group of people that the only reason I started working in the library was because of her. Say what now? According to my mother, I was lazy and unmotivated and needed to be dragged and nagged to apply.

One of us is clearly lying. Or, perhaps more accurately, one of us has a faulty memory. I dont want to make any bold declarations I may come to regret, but only one of us is writing a book and has the opportunity to set the record straight per our own memories. (Ah, see, theres that Slytherin pride: refusing to admit that perhaps I am indeed wrong.)

After getting hired, I spent the next seven years working at the Hudson Library & Historical Society. From the summer before my senior year of high school through every winter and summer break during college, I shelved books and checked out books and came to know every inch of that library like the dog-eared pages of a beloved, well-read novel. When I wasnt home on breaks, I was in school, getting my BFA in creative writing, with a minor in English literature. I practically lived and breathed books, so upon graduation I returned to my parents house in Hudson and continued to work at the library while I decided what I really wanted to do with my life. As much as I wanted to spend the rest of my life writing books, that almost never pays the bills; I needed a Plan B.

Admittedly, it took me far longer than one would presume to realize that what I wanted to do and what I should do was become a librarian. For a year or two, I hovered on the periphery of adulthood, working jobs here and there, never finding that elusive career. It was only in my mid-twenties that I reached a point where I wanted something with more of a stable trajectory andlight bulb momentdecided to go to graduate school to become a librarian. After graduating from the University of Kentucky with my masters in library and information science in December 2008, I once again migrated back to Northeast Ohio. Unfortunately, the economy had taken a huge downturn and jobs were scarce. Librariesincluding Hudsonswere hemorrhaging money, reducing both hours and staff just to keep the lights on and the books available.