Music in My Heart: My Journey with Melody

That night, Melody and I stay up way too late talking about Rosa Parks and what she said about role models and leaders. It reminds me of Dad, always pushing me to get involved in things I care about. Somehow, it’s suddenly Monday morning.

Melody nudges me awake. It’s time for the bookmobile, a library on wheels that she and Lila discovered this summer. They go every Monday morning. She grabs a book bag from her closet, and after I dress, we hurry downstairs, where Lila’s finishing her cereal. Melody’s mom asks us to take the dog too. He could use the fresh air.

Outside, Bo takes the lead, sniffing every bush along the way. Lila walks with her nose in an open book, struggling to keep pace. When Melody asks if she’s read it before, Lila shrugs. Yvonne says we all need to read more books by Black authors, and this is the only one the bookmobile has, by Langston Hughes. I mention that Mom gave me a book of his poems. Melody has one too, signed at Hudson’s downtown.

That’s so cool, I’d love to meet a real author. Then it hits me: the bookmobile has only one book by a Black author. Lila and Melody nod, not surprised at all. I own plenty of books by Black authors, Mom even helped me write a letter to one once, but would Lila recognize any of those names? Their books might not even exist yet in 1964. I keep my mouth shut.

The bookmobile looks like a long white ice cream truck, with a line of kids waiting to get in. Melody and I stay outside with Bo while Lila goes inside, and when it’s finally our turn to board, I’m amazed. It feels like a real library, with shelves of books on either side. Melody searches one shelf while I check the other. 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 and ask if there are any books by Black authors.

The librarian says the only one is poetry by Langston Hughes, just returned. She asks if I’ve heard of him. My hopes sink. Of course I have, but that can’t be the only book. I ask if there are others. She shakes her head.

Publishers just don’t put out enough books by Negro authors, though it does the librarian’s heart good to see me asking for them. If enough people ask, publishers might finally listen.

When I ask if we could sign a petition, the librarian brightens and says yes. With more children like me asking for these books, she’d start one herself. As she turns to help another kid, my mind races.

After Melody chooses her books, we step back outside, where the line has grown around the corner. Lila’s ready to go, and Melody nods, but my feet are frozen to the sidewalk, most of the kids waiting are Black, and don’t they want more books by Black authors too? I tell Melody we have to do something. Confused, she listens as I explain that enough kids asking for books by Black authors gets the librarian to start a petition, so we need to spread the word fast. Dad does it with the Internet, videos, blogs, but none of that exists in Melody’s time. Suddenly, Bo barks.

That’s it, I don’t need the Internet, I can spread the word with my own voice! I step up to the first kid in line, a boy about my age, and tell him to ask the librarian for books by Black authors, if enough kids ask, they’ll petition the publishers to print more. Pass it on. He raises his eyebrows, then cups his hand and whispers to the girl behind him. Seeing what I did, Melody starts talking to kids in the middle of the line.

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