I remember the first time I stole a book.
I was at the school library —hello, I was a teacher— completing some lesson plans while the students around me finished some homework they forgot to do at home. I stood up from my desk and took a little stroll around to stretch my legs.
I was shaking my head.
There sat shelve after shelve of abandoned books. It was rare for someone to check them out, so whenever a new shipment arrived, the librarians would place them wherever. This is why you ended up finding Chemistry textbooks next to novels or short story collections.
I’m sad to say that this school library had become nothing but a charade. Sure, there were books, and technically, students could use them. However, in reality, this had become a place where students came to use the few available computers and finish school projects, sometimes leaving a glittery mess behind.
In a way, it was good such a place existed. After all, many students didn’t have internet access at home, or their family dynamics did not allow them to do their schoolwork in peace.
Still, I found it heartbreaking whenever I grabbed a random book from the shelves and realized I was the first person ever to open it.
My first time.
On that particular day, as I perused the shelves, I found a Spanish translation of Boy by Roald Dahl, a book in which he describes his early childhood. I grabbed the book and started reading and was instantly captivated.
Eventually, it came time for me to leave for my next class, and the idea of placing the book on one of those chaotic shelves, uncertain of whether I would be able to find it again, made me sad.
So I went to the librarian and told him I was going to take the book with me.
This is the point where I should tell you that this library was stuck in the dark ages. It had no digital management system —the ancient computers in the facilities were just for students to do their homework— so everything was done through some paper forms that clearly had been photocopied hundreds of times.
I completed the necessary paperwork and went to my classroom. The librarian told me I had seven days to return the book, and I was confident that was enough time to finish it—I did it in three. However, in the busyness of my work, I forgot about it and ended up keeping the books until the end of the semester…and no one said a thing.
Interesting.
I got bolder.
I kept the book, and I’m glad I did. My reasoning was that as long as it lives with me, there will always be someone to love it. I know I’m simply justifying my committing a sin, but I felt no regret, so I don’t know what that says about me.
And now that I knew I had gotten away with it, I had all the motivation to get bolder.
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