Steinberg - Running the books: the adventures of an accidental prison librarian

Pimps make the best librarians. Psycho killers, the worst. Ditto con men. Gangsters, gunrunners, bank robbersadept at crowd control, at collaborating with a small staff, at planning with deliberation and executing with contained furyall possess the librarians basic skill set. Scalpers and loan sharks certainly have a role to play. But even they lack that something, the je ne sais quoi, the elusive it . What would a pimp call it? Yes: the love.

If youre a pimp, youve got love for the library. And if you dont, its probably because you havent visited one. But chances are you will eventually do a littleor perhaps, a lotof prison time and youll wander into one there. When you do, youll encounter the sweetness and the light. Youll find books youve always needed, but never knew existed. Books like that indispensable hustlers tool, the rhyming dictionary. Youll discover and embrace, like long-lost relatives, entire new vocabularies. Anthropology and biology, philosophy and psychology, gender studies and musicology, art history and pharmacology, economics and poetry. French. The primordial slime. Lesbian bonobo chimps. Rousseau nibbling on sorbet with his Venetian hooker. The complete annotated record of animal striving.

And its not just about books. In the joint, where business is slow, the library is The Spot. Its where you go to see and be seen. Among the stacks, youll meet older colleagues who gather regularly to debate, to try out new material, to declaim, reminisce, network and match wits. Youll meet old timers working on their memoirs, upstarts writing the next great pimp screenplay.

Youll meet inmate librarians like Dice, who will tell you he stayed sane during two years in the hole at Walla Walla by memorizing a smuggled anthology of Shakespeares plays. Hell prove it by reciting long passages by heart. Dice wears sunglasses and is an ideologue. Hell try to persuade you of the virtues of vice. Hell tell you that a prison library aint a place to better yourself, its a place to get better at getting worse. Hell bully you into reading Shelleys Frankenstein , and hell bully you further into believing that its our storyby which he means the story of pimps, a specialized class of men, a priesthood, who live according to the dictates of Nature.

He means it. Like many a pimp preoccupied by ancient questions, Dice takes the old books seriously. He approves of Emersonian self-reliance, and was scandalized that many American universities had ousted Shakespeare and the Classics from their curricula. Hed read about it in the Chronicle of Higher Education .

You kidding me, man? hed said, folding the newspaper like a hassled commuter, brow arching over his shades. Now Ive heard it all. This countrys going to hell.

Men like Dice will inculcate you with an appreciation for tradition, what Matthew Arnold called the best which has been thought and said. And youll discover precisely why it is so important to study the best that has been thought and said: How else you gonna top it?

T his at least is what Im told. I wouldnt know. Im not a pimp. Im in a different sort of racket. My name is Avi Steinberg, but in the joint, they call me Bookie. The nickname was given to me by Jamar Fat Kat Richmond. Fat Kat is, or was, a notorious gangster, occasional pimp, and, as it turns out, exceptionally resourceful librarian. At thirty years old and two bullet wounds, Kat is already a veteran inmate. Hes too bigfive foot nine, three-hundred-plus poundsfor a proper prison outfit. Instead he is given a nonregulation T-shirt, the only inmate in his unit with a blue T-shirt instead of a tan uniform top. But the heaviness bespeaks solidity, substance, gravitas. The fat guy T-shirt, status. He is my right hand, though it often seems the other way around.

Talk to Bookie, he tells inmates whove lined up to see him. Hes the main book man.

The main book man . I like that. I cant help it. For an asthmatic Jewish kid, its got a nice ring to it. Hired to run Bostons prison libraryand serve as the resident creative writing teacherI am living my (quixotic) dream: a book-slinger with a badge and a streetwise attitude, part bookworm, part badass. This identity has helped me tremendously at cocktail parties.

In prison Fat Kat, Dice, and their ilk are the intellectual elite, hence their role as inmate librarians. But the library itself is not elitist. To gain entrance, one need only commit a felony. And the majority of felons, at least where I work, do make their way to the library. Many visit every day. Even though some inmates can barely read, the prison library is packed. And when things get crowded, the atmosphere is more like a speakeasy than a quiet reading room. This place is, after all, the library of all rogues, vagabonds, persons using any subtle craft, juggling, or unlawful games or plays, common pipers, fiddlers, runaways, stubborn children, drunkards, nightwalkers, pilferers, wanton and lascivious persons, railers and brawlers. This according to a nineteenth-century state government report. Ive met only one fiddler. No pipers, common or otherwise. But I do meet a good number of rappers and MCs. With the addition of gun-toting gangbangers and coke dealers, the old catalog remains fairly accurate.

Which is all to say that a library in prison is significantly different than a library in the real world. Yes, there are book clubs, poetry readings, and moments of silent reflection. But there isnt much shushing. As a prison crossroads, a place where hundreds of inmates come to deal with their pressing issues, where officers and other staff stop by to hang out and mix things up, the pace of a prison library is social and up-tempo. I spend much of my time running.

The chaos begins right away. There is no wake-up call more effective than twenty-five convicts in matching uniforms coming at you first thing in the morning.