Best in the West: Fort Washakie School/Community Library

Barreling down this twisting Wyoming road in a big, white Chevy Blazer, I feel like Billy Crystal in the movie City Slickers—a New Yorker completely out of his element. For starters, it seems like every other male is wearing a Stetson and a pair of cowboy boots. As for the scenery, there’s not a single Starbucks in sight. Instead, I’m surrounded by herds of glossy Black Angus cattle and brown-and-white Herefords. Wheeling around a bend, I scoot by a handful of horses and a roadside sign that praises the incomparable taste of locally raised beef.

What’s a guy like me doing in the heart of Big Sky country?

I’m here visiting one of the nation’s most impressive libraries, the Fort Washakie School/Community Library and Technology Center, cowinner of this year’s SLJ/Thomson Gale Giant Step Award. Nearly four years old, this combination school-and-public library is located in the town of Fort Washakie, on the Wind River Indian Reservation, a vast 2.8-million-acre tract about a three-hour drive southeast of Yellowstone National Park. As it turns out, I’m about to meet a Wyoming librarian who speaks with an authentic Bronx accent.

Dressed in a Western-style blouse, Robin Levin, the library’s director, looks right at home in her immediate surroundings, which include an enormous, roly-poly stuffed bear named Slim, a genuine Buffalo head, and a tiny teepee that sits atop the Native American collection for young readers. Although Levin didn’t have much say in creating this bright and airy library, she’s definitely set its tone. And, not surprisingly, it’s a lot like her: energetic, disarmingly friendly, and wildly optimistic.

The other thing you should know about Levin is that when it comes to her students, she’s “almost obsessive”—meaning, Levin explains, “I want the best for them, and I want it right away.” When she says this, Levin sounds like a typical New Yorker—and for good reason. She was born in New York City and raised in the Bronx and Teaneck, NJ.

Levin is thrilled that the library has won a major award, but she pooh-poohs her own contributions and is eager to introduce her staff. There’s Dana Harr, a librarian with a gift for storytelling, who moved here from Virginia in June 2005; Cathy Gervais, helpful and soft-spoken, who began working in the library last July and whose grandchildren Jaylea and Michael attend school here; and John Washakie, an assistant librarian who is the great-grandson of the Shoshone chief for whom this town was named in 1878.

If you’re wondering how a nice Jewish girl like Levin ended up working on an Indian reservation out West, well, it’s a long story. The short version is that she got tired of living in New Jersey and, in 1981, sent a batch of résumés to schools throughout New Mexico, Arizona, and Wyoming. Then Levin hopped in her tiny Toyota Starlet, visiting the places to which she’d applied.

When Levin finally reached Fort Washakie, she looked around and in front of her was the Wind River Range. Several of the Winds, as they’re known locally, soar above 13,000 feet, and the entire range stretches nearly 140 miles along the eastern edge of the Continental Divide. Something about these vast snow-covered peaks and the palpable beauty of the place touched Levin’s heart—and she accepted a job offer on the spot.

It’s mid-afternoon, and eighth graders Justine and Juston are parked in front of two of the library’s 12 networked computers, working quietly on a PowerPoint presentation on winter ecology and animal adaptation for Mark Roy’s science class. Both students wear baggy T-shirts, and Justine’s black iPod is loaded with songs by Akon, her favorite rapper. When the two students are asked what they like best about the library, they share a secret smile—as if they can’t believe how dense some adults can be—and answer in unison, “The computers.”

Moments later, a large group of semi-stoked first and second graders charges eagerly into the room. They’re here to listen to Levin read David McPhail’s Those Can-Do Pigs, and other picture books. Amid the controlled chaos, several sixth graders drift in to take advantage of the library’s online databases, which include eLibrary Elementary, EBSCOhost, and Wilson Web (available through the Wyoming State Library). Dressed in their Old Navy sweatshirts, bright tops, and sneakers, these students are hard to distinguish from their peers nationwide.

But the 320 students who attend this K–8 school—nearly all of whom are members of the Shoshone tribe—face some stiff challenges. At one time or another, virtually all of them have struggled with reading and English-language skills. In fact, when Pat Smith, the school’s reading coach, first arrived here from Minnesota three years ago, she noticed that almost half of the incoming kindergartners were significantly lacking in vocabulary development. And according to the results of state tests taken two years ago, more than three-fourths of the school’s third graders were reading below grade level.

Most of these students come from very low-income families. Although the rate of unemployment statewide is just three percent, more than 60 percent of the roughly 3,400 Eastern Shoshones, 7,200 Northern Arapahos, and 2,800 other Native Americans who live on the reservation are unemployed. And according to a recent census report, the median income of Fort Washakie’s 432 households is a paltry $18,906. Further complicating things, substance abuse on the reservation, Levin says, is “notoriously pernicious.”

Six years ago, when then-District Superintendent Karl Berlin came up with the idea of building a new library, he knew there were problems. The school’s media center was squeezed into a space about the size of a cold-storage locker. With just four computers, a limited collection, bookshelves that blocked the sunlight, and a recessed reading area nicknamed “the pit,” the library wasn’t the kind of place where visitors liked to linger. But Berlin’s vision went beyond simply creating a more inviting space for students. “I wanted to do something for the community,” he told me.

What Berlin had in mind was a hybrid—a school-and-public library. Although unorthodox, the plan made perfect sense, especially since the closest public library was 15 miles away in the neighboring town of Lander. That meant that families who lacked roadworthy cars or the money to fill their tanks had no access to a library. And since few families could afford home computers, it also meant that the vast majority of students couldn’t use educational resources beyond the standard school day.

Thanks to the school board and its chairman, Richard “Dickey” Ferris, Berlin’s idea was an easy sell. Together, they approached the Wyoming Department of Education, the Shoshone tribal government and business councils, and Fremont County School District No. 21 to construct a new 10,000-square-foot addition to the school. The $500,000 wing (financed mostly with state funds) would house a research center devoted to the study of Shoshone culture, a distance-learning lab, and an 8,000-square-foot library that would be open to students and the public. It was Ann Hicks, the school’s longtime librarian who retired in May 2005, who came up with one of the most inspired ideas—that the new library’s staff should include a tribal member who wanted to become a certified librarian.

In October 2003, the new library opened with a party that attracted more than 120 people, including Governor Dave Freudenthal. By that time, Levin, who had been working across the reservation at St. Stephen’s School, was firmly onboard. The new library would offer extended hours—8 a.m. to 8 p.m., Monday through Friday, and 9 a.m. to noon on Saturdays—and additional bus service. Everything seemed perfect. But privately, Levin and her staff were anxious: Would the presence of adult visitors disrupt classes in the library? Would kids really be safe in this shared space?

Levin and her crew needn’t have worried. In the weeks that immediately followed, few grown-ups set foot in the place.

As assistant librarian John Washakie talks, it’s easy to understand why the parents and grandparents of today’s students ignored the library, an institution that’s intimately connected to public education and, by association, a painful past.

Long before Washakie studied American history at the University of Wyoming or got heavily involved in local politics or wrote Yuse: The Bully and the Bear (Painted Pony, 2004), a children’s book that was distributed to third graders statewide, he went to school here—and his memories of those early days are disturbing. He recalls, for instance, as a first grader, in 1949, watching a teacher strike some of his classmates with a wooden ruler, simply because they had spoken in their native language. Students with dirty fingernails were routinely humiliated in front of the class, and those who were found to have head lice had their heads shaved and treated with a harsh, lye-like solution. Local parents were also strongly urged not to speak their native language in front of their children or to teach them Native American customs.

All of these indignities, explains Washakie, were part of a systematic attempt by the federal government to assimilate Native Americans into the dominant white culture. As early as 1879, children as young as six years old were, in some cases, forcibly separated or abducted from their families and made to attend Indian boarding schools, where they were often severely punished, abused, and inadequately fed. The motto of the very first boarding school, the Carlisle Indian Industrial School in Pennsylvania, was “Kill the Indian and save the man.” Although the school closed in 1918, Washakie says the mistreatment of Native American students continued into the 1960s.

Levin and her staff have made remarkable strides since her arrival. On an annual budget of $5,200—buoyed by grants from the Institute of Museum and Library Services and others—they’ve beefed up their Native American collections for adults and young people, created a series of popular backpacks filled with curriculum-related titles that students can take home, hosted exhibits by local artists, and, as the school’s headquarters for the national program Reading Is Fundamental, given away thousands of free books to kids, many of whom had never owned one. The library also offers senior citizens instruction in basic computing skills and adult education courses in Shoshone language and culture.

Word slowly spread that the library was a decent place and, little by little, people began to come: tribal elders came to share their tales with young children as part of a summer reading program; a grandmother sent an e-mail message to her grandson serving in Iraq; and parents came to consult the ever-growing Native American reference collection. As for the problem of adult library users upsetting students, it never materialized.

As the library’s circulation steadily increased, so did student achievement. Remember those ill-prepared kindergartners and struggling third-grade readers? Washakie says that now most of the youngest students are doing just fine. And this year more than 50 percent of third-grade readers (more than twice the previous amount) scored proficient or above on state exams. “We have a long way to go,” says Smith, the reading coach, “but we really feel there’s steady progress.”

As impressive as those achievements are, I can’t help thinking that the library’s most significant accomplishment is something far less quantifiable and, perhaps, much more valuable. By being welcoming and supportive and genuinely respectful of its visitors, the library has become a place of healing for this often mistreated community—a safe haven where three generations of Native Americans can come together to share their experiences and stories, where they can be proud of their heritage.

With his goatee, gold earrings, and ponytail, Gene Meier could pass for a member of the rock band Los Lobos. But that’s not what makes the assistant district superintendent so distinctive. What sets Meier apart from most administrators is that he’s open to innovative ideas and unusually thoughtful, says Levin. Meier directs the state’s only online high school, and many of his students use the library’s computers. When asked if he thinks the library is a salutary place, he thinks for a second and says, “It’s healed education.”

When I share that comment with Levin later the next day, she says, “If that’s true, it’s the greatest compliment we could ever receive,” and flashes one of her trademark smiles.

Then, just as I’m about to leave, Levin looks me straight in the eye and says in that big-city voice of hers, “I know you’ll be back.”

“I hope so,” I say, and the funny thing is, I really mean it. Only the next time I visit, I’ll be sure to pack a Stetson and a pair of pointy-toed boots.