Library Awards and Gorilla Suits

“Just one more question,” she said. “How do you feel about dressing up in a gorilla costume?”

“Ummm…” I said.

I was in my early twenties, fresh out of college with a Bachelor’s of Science degree in Anthropology. I had an acceptance letter to Spalding’s MFA in Creative Writing program and the same part-time job I’d maintained through the last half of my college career.

I loved my part time job (tour guide on an educational farm with part time dairy maid work thrown in when they needed it) but as autumn approached and the weather turned cold and our bills piled up at the same time the work was slowing down, I knew I would need to find something else.

I’d always found good luck in the non-profit/education sector. I grew up in the arts and I’d worked with kids since my first full-time-hours summer babysitting gig when I was twelve. So, I started combing through the “Available Employment Opportunities” pages on every museum, arts organization, and library website. I got lucky and found an ad for a “Children’s Programmer” at my local library. I didn’t know what a “Children’s Programmer” but I was game to find out. I applied that same hour, got a call the next day, and went in for a meeting.

My interview went great. It was clear that with my arts/english background, great references from the educational farm, and high enthusiasm (brought on partly by genuine dedication to literacy and excitement about working with kids and partly by molar rotting away in my skull that I needed dental insurance to fix) it was a perfect match.

The last question came at me like a curveball.

“How do you feel about dressing up in a gorilla costume?”

I was sitting across from the branch manager and the children’s librarian and I looked at both of them, confused.

“A… costume?”

“The thing is,” the children’s librarian said. “We do a lot of school visits to get kids excited about the library.”

“Okay.”

“And, well, you know Koko the Gorilla, right?”

I was raised on public television of the 80s and 90s so… yes, I definitely remembered Koko. Koko’s sign language. Koko’s paintings. Koko’s kitten.

The Children’s Librarian continued, “See, our last children’s programmer… well, I got this wonderful gorilla costume. And she would wear it and we would do these school visits where I talk about the fall library programs and then Koko comes out and, I mean… the kids just LOVE Koko. So we just want to be sure that you’d be okay with being Koko.”

My tooth—and indeed my whole face; I wasn’t yet aware that the molar infection had spread into my jaw bone—throbbed but I grinned to the best of my ability and said, “Yes, of course. I’d love to be Koko.”

And that was it. I was hired. Within days I was standing outside the door of a packed auditorium while the librarian hyped up the libraries various kid-themed offerings and I pulled a gorilla mask over my head. I had some doubt as to whether a bunch of modern, internet savvy kids would really LOVE Koko as the librarian had said but I was 100% wrong.

The first time I loped—great ape style—into a gymnasium in full Koko get-up, those kids lost their ever-loving minds. I was the Beatles. I was Elvis. I was Freddie Mercury and this was Live Aid. They screamed, they laughed, they wiggled and inched closer and were reminded over and over not to rush Koko.

And, man, I was just a girl with a toothache in a second-hand gorilla suit but, on the days where I was Koko, I was the object of an unhinged, frenzied adulation the likes of which I’ve never known before or since. And that was just the start of my time at the library.

I ended up spending three years there. In addition to my stints as Koko, I hosted Baby Time and Toddler Time and Play Art with Preschoolers. I manned the reference desk and restocked shelves and cleaned peanut-butter smeared board books and handed out hot coffee when a winter storm knocked out power for most the surrounding neighborhood. I did outreach to local Head Start programs, Day Care centers, and Kindergarten classes. (Not unrelated: I caught the croup, the flu, strep throat, and scarlet fever.) But, I also developed lasting friendships with some of the moms and librarians who—two decades later—showed up at the launch for The Witch’s Orchard to support me.

All this is to say that a few weeks back when I discovered that The Witch’s Orchard had been named Best Mystery on ALA’s RUSA Reading List I was… floored. Having worked in libraries, I know how hard librarians work, how hard they fight against the tide of growing illiteracy and shrinking funding and how so, so many of their choices are driven by passion, love of their community, and the stalwart belief that everyone should have free access to information, a friendly learning environment, and the healing power of stories.

I don’t know if some new batch of kids back in that town—kids likely more savvy and jaded than the ones of fifteen years ago—are still enjoying visits from some new Koko. I don’t know if that librarian is still there. But I’ll bet that whoever is shlepping out to those same gymnasiums now, with a cart full of stickers and books and whatever else, has it all figured out because they’ve put the time in and they care.

I’m honored to have been named on the RUSA list. I’m honored because I put my own time in. And, in my experience, I know there’s no more valuable book recommendation than the one you get from a librarian.