Music in My Heart: My Journey with Melody

That night, Melody and I stay up way too late talking about Rosa Parks. I can’t stop thinking about what Mrs. Parks said about role models and leaders and how my dad is always encouraging me to get involved in the things I care about. I don’t think I’ll ever fall asleep, but suddenly, it’s Monday morning.

Melody nudges me and says it’s time to go to the bookmobile. I ask what that is and she says it’s like a library on wheels. Lila and her found out about it this summer, and they go every Monday morning. Melody grabs a book bag out of her closet. After I get dressed, we hurry downstairs where Lila’s finishing her cereal. Melody’s mom asks us to take the dog, too. He could use fresh air.

When we get outside, Bo takes the lead, sniffing every bush along the sidewalk. Lila is holding an open book as she walks. She has trouble keeping up with us because she’s reading at the same time. When Melody asks if Lila’s read that book before, she shrugs and says that Yvonne says that we all need to read more books by black authors. And this is the only one that the bookmobile has. It’s by Langston Hughes. I tell them that my mom gave me a book of his poems. Melody says she has a book by him, too. He signed it at Hudson’s downtown.

That’s so cool! I would love to meet a real author. And then I realize what Lila said a minute ago. I ask to confirm that the bookmobile only has one book by black author? Lila and Melody nod, not looking surprised at all. I own a lot of books written by black authors. Mom even helped me write a letter to one of them once. But would Lila recognize any of those authors’ names? I don’t even know if their books would be around in 1964. So I keep my mouth shut.

The bookmobile looks like a long white ice cream truck with a line of short kids waiting to get in. When we get there, Melody and I stay outside with Bo while Lila goes inside. And when it’s our turn to board the bookmobile, I’m amazed. I feel like I’m in a real library, standing between two shelves of books. Melody searches one shelf while I stepped toward the other one. The librarian, who is white, asks if I need help finding anything. I’m about to say no, but then I decide to speak up. I ask if there are any books by black authors.

The librarian says that there’s only one that was just returned. Poetry by Langston Hughes. She asks if I’ve heard of him. My hopes sink. I’ve heard of him all right. But that can’t be the only book. I ask if there are any other others. The librarian shakes her head and says publishers don’t put out enough books by Negro authors. But she smiles and says it does her heart good to see me asking for them people. If enough people ask, publishers would listen. I ask if we could all sign a petition? She cocks her head and says yes. If she had more children like me asking for books by Negro authors, she would start the petition herself. When she turned the way to help another kid, my mind is racing.

After Melody chooses her books, we step back outside. The line of kids has grown, sneaking around the corner. Lila asks if we’re ready to go, and Melody nods, but my feet are frozen to the sidewalk. Most of the kids waiting in the line are black. Don’t they want to read more books by black authors? I confess that we have to do something. Melody is confused. I tell her that the librarian said more kids have to ask for books by black authors. Then she will start a petition to send to the publishers. But we have to get the kids to ask for those books. I think about the way my dad spreads the word when he’s campaigning. He uses the Internet. He makes videos, posts on blogs, and emails people. But I can’t do any of that Melody’s time. There are no computers, and there’s no Internet. Suddenly, Bo barks.

That’s it! I don’t need the Internet. I can spread the word using my own voice! I step up to the first person in line, a boy about my age. I tell him to ask librarian if they have any books by black authors. If enough kids, ask, they’ll petition the publishers to print more. Pass it on. The boy raises his eyebrows in surprise, but then he cups his hand and whispers to the girl behind him. When Melody sees what I did, she starts talking with kids in the middle of the line.

Then, we stand back and watch the kids, whispering, each one turning towards the next. I feel a huge relief. We actually did something. Rosa Parks words whisper in my head. Anyone can lead. I’m not a politician like Dad. I’m just a girl. But like Melody and her gardening, I planted a seed, and now I’m watching a it grow.