Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“So,” Rafe says, walking over to a corrugated plastic mail bin full of letters. “People who are incarcerated across Pennsylvania write to us and request books.” He rips open the letter. “They say what kinds of books they’re interested in—sometimes a specific book, sometimes a genre or a subject. Like, here.” He hands me the letter. “This man wants a dictionary and books on World War II.”
The handwriting in the letter is the neatest I’ve ever seen. It looks like an old-fashioned love letter or something, every loop perfectly formed. I guess you have a lot of time to practice penmanship in prison.
Thank you for the books you sent on dogs, the letter says. I have read them three times so far. I enjoy the pictures too so if there are histories of this war with pictures then great! The paper is thinner than the lined paper I used in high school.
“Once we know what he wants,” Rafe continues, “we go look up which prison he’s in and see if there are any restrictions on what we can send.” He follows a line on the sign taped to the wall with his finger. “Okay, no hardcovers.” He grabs a paperback dictionary from a stack of fifty or so against the far wall and then gestures for me to follow him down a steep staircase. “Dictionaries are a really popular request so we get them wholesale. The rest of the books are donated.” He hits a button and the basement illuminates in a crackle of dusty, mismatched bulbs. It’s a lot cooler down here, and it smells like mold.
“All the shelves are labeled by topic. Fiction’s upstairs and nonfiction’s down here.” He points to the right. “World War II” is written in faded blue bubble letters on a sign laminated with tape.
“Rafe, what is this? Why are these people sending books to people in prison?” I’m overwhelmed by strangeness. Like I’ve gone to sleep and woken up somewhere I shouldn’t be.
“Well, people in prison want to read too, Colin.”
“Aren’t there libraries?” I know I’ve seen that in movies.
“There are. But they’re extremely underfunded and very small. And copies of popular books—dictionaries, popular fiction, anything with sex or violence in it—have a way of disappearing. Besides, a lot of incarcerated folks have read everything in their prison’s library, so this gives them a chance to request things they couldn’t get otherwise.”
Rafe’s voice is animated, passionate.
“I get that,” I say. “But, I mean, aren’t they supposed to be being punished?”
Rafe pulls himself up straight and it’s only then that I realize how often he leans in toward me. He seems more remote, and when he speaks, he sounds impatient.
“People make mistakes, Colin. That doesn’t mean they deserve to suffer forever. Besides, self-education will be an advantage to them when they’re released.”
I nod, feeling like I’ve waded into waters that are deeper than I suspected.
“I didn’t mean to piss you off,” I say. “I just didn’t know this was, like, a thing.”
Rafe touches my shoulder lightly, turning me toward the books.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Do you want to pick a book for him? A softcover.”
I don’t really get what we’re doing here, but I flip through a few books on World War II, looking for one that doesn’t seem too dry. Finally, I find a good one and hold it out to Rafe.
“He said he wanted pictures,” I say, and Rafe smiles.
Upstairs, Rafe grabs us the corner of a table and shows me how to respond to the letter and package the books for mailing. The other people at the table all seem to know each other, and Rafe introduces me.
“So,” a girl with artfully styled hair says, “do you live in the neighborhood?” She’s just trying to be polite, I know, and make conversation, but though the people don’t all look the same, they all look different than me and I’m hyperaware that I don’t know what I’m doing.
“No, I live in South Philly,” I say. Then, because these are Rafe’s friends—or acquaintances, at least—I add, “You?”
“Yeah, I live at 48th and Kingsessing.” She points south. “So, like, what’s your story? I haven’t seen you here before.”
I fucking hate that question. What’s your story, like the person expects you to entertain them or something. I think of all the conversations I could start, the topics I could bring up, and the jokes I could make to get in with them and find that none of them really seem suited to this crowd. In fact, I have no idea how to make them like me.
“Um, no story, man. I’m an auto mechanic.”
“Oh. Cool. I’ve always wanted to do a skillshare about how to fix cars. Neat.” But she keeps looking at me like she’s waiting for me to explain myself and my presence here and I don’t know what she expects. And what the hell is a skillshare?