Mothers, geezers, students and the unemployed explain why we need this place

The large crowd clustered outside the doors of Main Library at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday is mostly just folks–ordinary people—and that comes as something of a surprise, given the city’s claims that Main Library is too big and used only by the homeless.

The homeless are there, too, of course, and since I’ve passed through Lincoln Park on the way to Main Library, I’ve seen a lot of them. They’ve been up for hours, naturally, because the sun wakes them. One of them is using a mechanical claw to pick up trash. His name is Robert, he says, stooping to pocket a penny wet from the sprinklers. No last name given, although he’s still talking as his voice trails off, and he does, too.

But Cal State Long Beach student Joshua Suarez, 22, is prepared for a long stay. He is a Mass Communications major, who has come to Main Library to research a paper on “multi-media,” which is what he says the various media used to be called before the Internet.

Suarez says Main Library has what he needs for his report–unlike libraries in cities like Cerritos, with its gleaming, titanium-clad monument to the printed word. “They’re more about money than other things,” Suarez says about those other libraries. “This library is better. Here, I’ve been able to find what I need.”

I tell Suarez I’ll be spending the entire day at Main Library, writing what I see—providing a living, breathing account of an institution that lately has been discussed mostly theoretically as the city considers closing it to save an estimated $1.8 million.

(Long Beach City Council will further consider the city’s proposal, in a budget meeting about Main Library, in Council Chambers today at 3:30 p.m.)

Suarez, who’s aware of the city’s plans, says darkly, “You should write a lot. Let’s put it that way.” I can do that; on Tuesday and Thursday, Main Library stays open until 8 p.m.

Dona Cruz, whose jet-black hair has a few streaks of gray, is anxious for Main Library to open, too. She has come because she’s back in school at Long Beach City College, and realizing how much it will cost—her most expensive law text is $140, used. “I’m just praying to God I find this book here,” she says.

A few minutes before 10 a.m., the non-sworn Long Beach Police officer who is stationed here, unlocks the sliding doors. As we enter, it feels as though we disappear. Main Library is 135,000 square feet, and librarians say it can look nearly empty even on busy weekends, when a headcount will turn up nearly 200 people.

After unlocking the doors, that non-sworn officer, Edgar Manipon, lingers outside for a moment and surveys the landscape. Then he jogs back inside to ensure, among other things, that Lincoln Park’s homeless population doesn’t besmirch the restrooms.

Their daily ablutions are a major source of irritation at City Hall, but Manipon says he doesn’t begrudge anyone a shave.

“We tell them ‘You can’t do that,’ and then we let them finish what they’re doing,” he says of the homeless he sometimes finds bathing in the restrooms.

Maybe there is a filthy restroom somewhere in the Main Library, but I don’t find any during my visits between hours of roaming the stacks. They are all small, modern and spotless.

The one nearest the entrance features automated urinal, faucets and hand-drier. Once, in the late afternoon, I notice a small puddle of water and pee on the floor–but in that moment the door opens widely, and an employee arrives to clean it up.

The city has this routine down cold, because homeless people have been congregating in Lincoln Park at least since Ronald Reagan was governor, back when Long Beach still had its stately Carnegie Library.

They’ve been here longer than our current civic center, and as long as there’s a Main Library here, it’s as if everyone inside has a home where they can wash their hands and faces, surreptitiously nap, or read the day away. Some people think that’s fine; if anything, they say this building–and the city–should do more for our homeless who live downtown.

“Shut down one of the small libraries,” suggests Will Nave, who’s using the library’s online jobs search kiosk to look for work. When I tell him the city doesn’t just want to close a library–they want to close this library–Nave suggests, “Open it in a larger building, and make this a homeless shelter.”

That’s the first time I’ve heard anyone suggest using Main Library to solve Lincoln Park’s homeless problem. But Nave isn’t the only one with ideas.

Carl Finch, who is reading the New York Times, makes possibly the clearest case yet for cities paying as they go–and not trying to play catch-up with ballot proposals like Mayor Foster’s $571 million infrastructure bond.

“The city let it fall apart,” says Finch, taking aim at the library’s many years of deferred maintenance–which saved the city money at the time. “It’s ridiculous, but they don’t care. They bring things here that don’t work, like The Pike [at Rainbow Harbor]. There’s nothing here.”

That’s not quite true. There’s Tiny Tot Story Time, in the children’s auditorium. I haven’t been in here since I was a kid, but watching a dozen babies teeter up and down its wide, carpeted stairstep seats makes me realize how perfect it still is.

“It’s very important, especially if they aren’t in daycare,” says Kami Mushel, as her daughter Kalaya wanders about, meeting other babies. “They need the interaction with other children.”

“We come here every Thursday,” says Lynn Leinonen, whose 21-month-old Axel Krantz proudly climbs up and down the steps. Axel’s newborn brother, Thor, has been coming to Tiny Tot Story Time “since he was prenatal,” Leinonen says proudly, cradling him. “We walk in and everyone says ‘Hi!’ and it’s just a great environment to be in.

We hear librarian Laurie Anderson read Peggy Rathmann’s “Good Night Gorilla,” we learn the second verse to “The Wheels on the Bus,” and we finish with a sing-along. Anderson is working the first half of a split shift, but you’d never know it from the way she leads the chorus:

“The more we get together, together, together,” Anderson sings with feeling, holding a Cabbage Patch Kid on her lap, and a dozen voices–mostly parents–join her. “The more we get together, the happier we’ll be.”

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