It was the 1960s. The librarian sat behind a large circular desk in the center of the library’s main reading room. Peering over her reading glasses, which were attached to a chain around her neck, she smiled at the child.
“I’d like to read about Indians,” the ten-year-old child announced to the librarian.
Paula Cordeiro
“Would you like to read about Indians today or Indians of the past?” she asked.
The child was perplexed.
“But they’re not really alive today,” she replied. Then she paused. Perhaps the man who played Tonto on The Lone Ranger was a real Indian. And he was certainly alive.
“Well,” the librarian said, “let’s start with the past. And let’s begin with the Indians who lived right here in our town, on Cape Cod, and in Massachusetts and Rhode Island.”
“Okay,” the child replied, “so we’re starting with the Indians who died a long time ago and are gone.”
A huge smile appeared on the librarian’s face. “Oh no, my dear. They still live here.”
And with those few words, a librarian opened a door that would never close.
The library was the magnificent Millicent Library in Fairhaven, Massachusetts, one of the most beautiful libraries in the country. That day, the librarian led the child upstairs into the stacks, where she began introducing her to books about the Indigenous peoples of New England.
The Millicent Library in Fairhaven, Massachusetts
Over the following months and years, the child returned to the library nearly every week, often seeking out that same kind woman. She learned about Massasoit and his son Metacom, about the Wampanoag of southeastern Massachusetts and Martha’s Vineyard, and about the many Indigenous people whose histories were woven into the region’s landscape. She read about the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) and later learned about the Mohawk ironworkers who helped build New York City’s skyscrapers.
Each discovery led to another question.
One day, the child mentioned that she and her mother would soon be visiting an aunt in Florida. “Well, then,” the librarian said, “you should learn about the Seminole.” Imagine that! Florida had Indigenous peoples, too.
The child’s world kept expanding. As the years passed, that curiosity never disappeared. The child grew up, became a teacher and a school leader, and eventually lived and worked in countries around the world. She learned about the Wayuu (Guajira) of Venezuela, the Amazigh (Berber) of Morocco, the history of the indigenous Guanches of the Canary Islands, and the rich cultural identities of communities she encountered while living and working in East and West Africa.
Her professional work was not primarily about history or cultural studies. It was about education, leadership, and creating opportunities for others. Yet she found herself repeatedly drawn to questions that had their beginnings in that library: Whose stories are told? Whose histories are overlooked? How do communities preserve their identities in the face of social, political, and economic pressures? And how can education help people understand cultures and experiences beyond their own?
Looking back after all these years, I realize that what made this librarian so extraordinary was not simply that she introduced me to Indigenous peoples or challenged my assumptions about the world. It was that she recognized something in a curious ten-year-old child and chose to nurture it. She took my questions seriously, encouraged me to ask more, and challenged what I thought I knew. Every time I returned to the library, she was there to introduce me to new ideas, histories, and people I had never imagined.
She saw my curiosity as something valuable, something worth her time and attention.
I have spent nearly all of my professional life as an educator, and I now recognize how profoundly important that simple act was. She didn’t just introduce me to books. She helped me develop the confidence to ask questions, explore unfamiliar ideas, learn about things that weren’t part of the school curriculum, and remain curious about the world.
Some of the most influential educators in our lives are people we encounter outside formal classrooms. I don’t remember her name, but I remember how she made me feel: that my questions mattered and that there was always more to discover. I wonder how many other children she encouraged over the years. How many lives did she influence without ever knowing it?
Nearly fifty years later, I still remember her smile.
And I still remember her words:
“Oh no, my dear. They still live here.”