Paul Laurence Dunbar, The Magic of the Los Angeles Central Library, & The Irrefutable Truth of Joy
A short story about hope, resistance, and the power of stories.
When hatred stirs and our communities suffer it can be tempting to abandon all joy and challenge those who refuse to let it go—but let me tell you a little story about a man named Paul Laurence Dunbar, the magic of the Los Angeles Central Library, and the irrefutable truth of joy…
On summer roasted days I always found myself at the Los Angeles Central Library among the cool stacks of well loved books. But that day happen to be one of those days when nothing quite fit my mood. looking back now, it must have seemed a crime to walk out of the library without a book in hand, so I stood conspicuously in front of a kiosk, or some kind of vending machine for story snippets, or so I thought. Though I’d never seen anyone use it, the worn button promised me a short story in exchange for my curiosity…
I eyed this kiosk on many visits, but today? Today, in the hushed quiet of the fiction section on the highest floor of the library I wouldn’t allow myself to be embarrassed as the machine whirred to life. I smashed the button demanding that it worked because I’m sure the Librarian keeps looking over eager to step in to help but I won’t let her down—I must prove I know how buttons work. It releases with a click and I waited with the reverence of shuffling a deck of tarot cards—shuffling on my feet. The machine spits out a story with all of the fanfare of a receipt but still just short enough not to be mistaken for evidence of a CVS purchase.
“Oh. Cool.” I mouthed to myself, shrugging one shoulder and folding the narrow piece of paper 3 ways. I didn’t even glance at it as I ushered it into the back pocket of my jeans. In fact, it would be another 17 months before I would read it.
Today is June 8th 2025 and my city is edging on those summer roasted days that invite me to the calm cool of my favorite library. I’m a writer now and that feels wild to say to anyone, even myself.
The sun is blaring in the way that only California skies can compose—but so are the sirens wailing through the streets. The maestros orchestrating the symphony of a mad man who thinks himself a king. Each note chips away at hope. Each fracture becomes a crack in the mantras that have held me together this far. I seek refuge where I always do—among a stack of well loved books. My books.
I dust the shelves with blurry eyes, each spine that I place back on the shelf becomes a declaration of so many powerful fictional women… I silently pray to the names of my favorite authors that one day I can weave hope so deeply into a character that they become comfort and confidant in times like these. I manage to keep the dam of emotion behind the levy of my eyes until I reach the bottom row…
Wedged between that shelf and the backing of the bookcase is a yellowing piece of paper—folded three ways—and covered in dust…
The dust dances in the rays of light escaping from the sun beams spearing through my window. I dismiss my chores, arrested to the floor in front of the bookshelf as I unfold the story—as it unknowingly unfolds me. The words are cracked and completely faded where each crease meets but the title at the top reads Invitation to Love…
The levy breaks, my vision swims, and my heart lassos around the tattered paper holding on for dear life before I even know what it means.
I read the poem aloud, each syllable knitting me back together. I breathe through the pain as the sonnets find a resonance in me as hushed as a whisper.
The sirens fade, my shoulders drop, and I take the deepest breath I have all day. At the end of the poem, I am left with a name I have never heard and one I know in this moment I will never forget.
Paul Laurence Dunbar.
Born 1872. Died 1906.
My mind does a quick sweep of everything that a Black man’s life would have looked like at the time and it’s like staring into a shower fogged window. I don’t dare wipe away the condensation half afraid that the pane of glass would give way to a mirror.
I read on instead. Paul was one of the very first African American authors to be published and read internationally—one of the firsts to make a living from his writing.
An author.
A chronically ill author who lost his battle to tuberculosis and yet somehow he thrived enough for his story to make it into my hands from the bottom of my dusty bookshelf…
I don't reread it. I just hold the story and allow myself to sit there for a moment longer.
Silent.
Reverent.
The tears come easier now. Buoyant with the scent of joy—slow and unhurried like honey.
I don’t question how long this story held on to my bookshelf find me when I needed it the most. Instead I grab my phone and I devour poem after poem until I can feel my body again. Til I hear the birds sing—til I become the bird singing. Not because the cages have collapsed but because I can hear them out on the streets—beneath the symphony of sirens is the song of many birds caged and yet free. I read on and I realize that sound of those red lights is the last of a dying breed because the bars to these cages are rattling and they’re up against the determination of a generation fluent in latches and keys.
I read and I read until I get to the bottom shelf of all my rage, my hurt, my pain—
I read until I find it—dusty, faded—wedged between heartbreak and hope…
Joy.
I will never get to thank Paul for finding me this afternoon. I try to envision where he sat what he wore and how he may have taken his coffee the afternoon he wrote the words that reached me—no held me across generations.
I return the missive to its weathered folds, vowing to keep it as evidence that people like me have always existed—we will always exist. And not only exist—we can and have thrived in so many ways even when the world tried to erase us…. A new mantra brands itself to my soul: I can because he did. The same man who wrote the famous line, “I know what the caged bird sings…” also wrote “Come, O love, whene’er you may, And you are welcome, welcome…”.
My smile spreads across my face like a banner of victory as I dry my eyes one final time. I crack open my laptop heart hammering in sync with the blinking cursor on an empty page. The sound of clicking keys clack against the walls of my small studio apartment as I write, “When hatred stirs and our communities suffer it can be tempting to abandon all joy and challenge those who refuse to let it go—but let me tell you a little story about a man named Paul Laurence Dunbar, the magic of the Los Angeles Central Library, and the irrefutable truth of joy…”
Author’s Note: Not even six months ago I watched beautiful and historical places in my hometown like Altadena be razed by fires. Now Los Angeles is fighting back against fascism and the unjust treatment and harm of our diverse citizens. I grew up in south central where my friends at school taught me how to cuss in Spanish before I could even string together a coherent sentence to navigate to the bathroom. I grew up giggling with friends calling each other cousins regardless of our skin color… I grieve the loss of those childhood moments where we fought over swings and crayons—when the world smelled like public pool days and the only sound wailing down our streets was the ice cream truck.
The simple truth is this: No one is illegal on stolen land, built by enslaved people, and upheld by Latinx and POC communities.
And it is up to us to resist the expansion of the invention of Whiteness and the supremacy it seeks to hold on to.
At times like these, we feel guilty to expressing joy—for finding it—but we must understand what joy is; it is endurance. It is an honorable strength. Joy does not demand that we look away, it demands that we look long and hard until we see the way through. I demands that we smile at the possibility of hope. It demands that we hope.
Joy is the endurance of hope.
So if you’re reading this, I hope that you learn why the cage bird sings—but I also hope that you RSVP to the invitations to love.
Here are some resources if you would like support Americans fighting to keep our democracy:
ACLU ~ https://www.aclu.org/issues/immigrants-rights
A compiled list of resources from CHNGE on Instagram ~
Also if you’re interested in the works and words of Paul Laurence Dunbar, you can find some of his poems here!
I went to both middle and high schools that were named for Paul Lawrence Dunbar, in Fort Worth, Texas. Like any of the other schools, we never learned anything about the namesake. Growing up, it also never occurred to me to read on my own. Now, at the age of 55, a powerful woman like yourself has brought this name to my attention and reignited an interest to learn. More of the history that was withheld, ignored or left behind from my schooling. Thank you for sharing this! It not only gives me something new to explore and learn about US history, but also takes me back to memories of my own adolescence and life since. And it is continued reinforcement of the importance of sharing these stories and reminding us all of the larger context of our lives in this country, as we watch the country slide (further) in front of our eyes. Thank you for sharing! You never know who it will reach and the effect it will have.
This was amazing