A Writer Grows in Brooklyn

Season 1, Episode 9

There’s something about Brooklyn that makes you want to write. “Everything is alive here,” says poet Mahogany L. Browne. And thank goodness we have writers to capture that. In this episode, we share an interview with Mahogany Browne and Brooklyn poet laureate Tina Chang, plus a story about the classic novel A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

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Episode Transcript

Felice Belle This is the story of a book. You’ve probably heard of it. You may have even read it. The story of this book starts with its author. 

Nancy Pfeiffer She had one room in her house lined with bookcases and she had her writing desk in a corner. She had a typewriter, she didn’t even have a typewriter table, and she worked with four fingers, hunt and peck. I watched her write this book and I remember when she sent it off to Harpers, she sent it off as a memoir. It was called “They Lived in Brooklyn.”

Krissa Corbett Cavouras That book never made it to print. Instead, the writer was asked by her editors to turn her memoir into a novel. What she wrote would be published as A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

Nancy Pfeiffer She began, “Brooklyn is just plain full of stories. That’s the thing. You can turn around anywhere and there’s some fantastic story.”

Felice Belle This is Nancy Pfeiffer, the daughter of Betty Smith, who wrote A Tree Grows in Brooklyn in 1943. The novel takes place in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, from the turn of the century into World War I. The main character, Francie Nolan, is extremely smart, and a voracious reader. She goes to her neighborhood library every weekend and has an ambition to read every book in the library—which she imagines must be just about every book in the world, starting with the A authors right down to the Zs. 

Krissa Corbett Cavouras Chapter two begins: “The library was a little old shabby place. Francie thought it was beautiful.” That library is still standing today. It’s Leonard library, in Williamsburg.  

Nancy Pfeiffer, daughter of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn author Betty Smith, greets people after a unveiling a plaque
to designate Leonard Library as a significant literary place. (Gregg Richards, Brooklyn Public Library)

Antonio Reynoso Someone told me that the Tree that grew in Brooklyn is in Williamsburg. 

Felice Belle That’s Antonio Reynoso. He spoke in front of a crowd at Leonard Library a few months ago.  

Antonio Reynoso And I remember walking the streets, trying to find the house. I never found it, I was very young when I went after it. But it was so important to me. It was an honor to know that in a book like this one that is famous around the world, that it would speak about my neighborhood, Williamsburg.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras Antonio’s fourth grade teacher was there too, at the library, clutching a first edition copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Ms. D’Angelis lives in Williamsburg, in the house her great grandmother bought in 1908. Her grandparents walked the same streets that Betty Smith and her character, Francie Nolan, walked in the novel. They used the same library. The book is very real for Lorraine D’Angelis. Just like it was real and important for Antonio Reynoso, who, by the way, is now a New York City council member representing Williamsburg, Bushwick and Ridgewood.  

Felice Belle The councilman, his fourth grade teacher, and Betty Smith’s family members—they were all there to dedicate a plaque for Betty Smith in honor of the book’s 75th anniversary in 2018. Now it’s hanging outside Leonard Library to honor the library as a significant literary place. When you walk into that branch, you become part of the story. 

Krissa Corbett Cavouras Books can have so many lives. They start in the mind of one person and go out into the world. They end up on library shelves where kids and teachers pick them up, read them, think about them, and bring the story to life again. 

Mahogany Browne I love books. I found friends in books and at an early age, about seventh grade, I was going to the library compulsively and taking books out.

Felice Belle This is the story of another Brooklyn writer, Mahogany L. Browne. 

Mahogany Browne You know, one of the librarians was really kind to me and she was like "Okay, you can take more books than normal." And I think I got up to a 500 dollar bill before they called my mom. And all I remember is her screaming in the background and me sitting in my room, reading the books. And at that point I had created a make-shift library. It had book cases out of milk crates. And she slammed the phone down and came in and she’s like, “Why are they calling me about 500 dollars worth of books?” And she looks at me and looks at the book shelf I'd created and she was like, “Absolutely not.” She’s like, “Grab these things, we are going back right now.” So I had to take them all back, and I was devastated. Because my little book case only had two magazines left after that. 

Felice Belle Now, Mahogany has four walls of books in her apartment, and she writes stories and poems of her own. She’s a writer and activist, and we had her in our studio to talk about the writing life, poetry and living in Brooklyn.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras Today, we’re bringing you two interviews with Brooklyn writers living and working in the borough: Mahogany Browne and Tina Chang.

Felice Belle First up is my conversation with Mahogany. I’m Felice Belle.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras And I’m Krissa Corbett Cavouras. You’re listening to Borrowed. Stories that start at the library.


Felice Belle The first thing I asked Mahogany to do when we sat down in the library together, of course, was to read us one of her poems. She chose “Kerosene Litany” which is in her recently published book of poems, Kissing Caskets.

I wish I knew how

It would feel to be free

I wish I could break

All the chains holding me

—Nina Simone


today i am a black woman in america

& i am singing a melody ridden lullaby

it sounds like:

              the gentrification of a brooklyn stoop

              the rent raised three times my wages

              the bodega and laundromat burned down on the corner

              the people on the corner

                          each lock & key their chromosomes

                          a note of ash & inquiry on their tongues


today i am a black woman in a hopeless state

i will apply for financial aid and food stamps

          with the same mouth i spit poems from

i will ask the angels of a creative god to lessen

          the blows

& i will beg for forgiveness when i curse

          the rising sun


today, i am a black woman in a body of coal

i am always burning and no one knows my name

i am a nameless fury, i am a blues scratched from

the throat of ms. nina—i am always angry

i am always a bumble hive of hello

i love like this too loudly, my neighbors

think i am an unforgiving bitter

            sometimes, i think my neighbors are right

            most times i think my neighbors are nosey


today, i am a cold country, a storm

brewing, a heat wave of a woman wearing

red pumps to the funeral of my ex-lover's


today, i am a woman, a brown and black &

brew woman dreaming of freedom


today, i am a mother, & my country is burning

           and i forget how to flee

from such a flamboyant backdraft

                       —i’m too in awe of how beautiful i look

            on fire

Felice Belle Wow thank you so much. So there’s a quote from William Carlos Williams that I think a lot of poets say: “It is difficult / to get the news from poems / yet men die miserably every day / for lack / of what is found there.”  And I think of you as a poet who, in your poems is giving us food for thought. It’s not just about the flowery nature of the language, but it’s speaking to real immediate concerns of people on the street. So I wonder if you might be able to say a little bit more about how the personal and the political interact in your poems, if there is a distinction for you?

Mahogany Browne It’s funny… someone… I went to this conference, a poetic protest in response to the non-indictment of Michael Brown’s murderer, and I remember someone said, well you know, poems aren’t political in response to “Black Poets Speak Out” existing. Which I thought was amazing. I was like you have such a privileged life that you don’t even have to look to your left or your right. You just get to stand still in this one place and if you’re not affected, then nothing else matters, and it’s not happening, it’s all in your head. Which is what that poem, "Kerosene Litany" is about. Because I’m talking about ... just because you don’t feel like you’re on fire—maybe you’re watching the fire happen—does not mean the fire isn’t happening on your block. Your neighbor is on fire, and if you can’t see that the house that is burning next to you can jump and start burning your roof, it can start burning your house down, then you’re not really prepared to live, to exist, to stay. You can’t just water your lawn and think that, "all right, I watered this, so the fire won’t get over here." It’s impossible. And so I don’t have the capability of writing from a space where I’m not informed by the politics of my Black, woman, mother body. I just don’t. I wish I did, I wish I could. I love flowers, they’re beautiful. But I also think about the people who planted the flowers and I think about the people who are, as Jive Poetic would say, cloning the flowers to make them accessible to people that can afford the flowers. And now we’re talking about capitalism, now we’re talking about gentrification, now we’re talking about all of the politics that inform how I live and breathe every day. 

Mahogany L. Browne, reading from Walt Whitman's "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" poem in Central Library.
(Brooklyn Public Library)

Felice Belle I love that metaphor, the extended metaphor of the fire and seeing your neighbor's house on fire, because I feel like we're having a lot of conversations culturally now about America, specifically. And I have a lot of friends who are like, "this is the worst time for America," and I'm like, the worst? You know what, actually in the history of this country, it's never been better for me as a Black woman. I've never had more rights or more freedom or more access to any and everything. So I think there is a revolution happening in consciousness, right? I also think more and more people are saying my garden's awesome and there's a house on fire and maybe I should do something. Verses just sort of barbequeing as the flames are happening. And so, I know part of your passion is working with young people to write poetry, specifically young women of color. And so I’m wondering how you got started writing poetry, what are the things that encouraged you early on…?

Mahogany Browne How I started writing poetry is pretty funny. Because I was told to shut up a lot, is when I decided to write it down because the page doesn’t tell you to shut up. It doesn’t tell you to stop or be quiet or slow down. it’s there, it’s bare and whatever you write, you are your editor, you are your audience until you share it. So that was my writing inspiration, no one could tell me to be quiet.

Felice Belle So you have a children’s book that just came out called Woke Baby. I mean, you’re doing it all!

Mahogany Browne I had no idea it was possible!

Felice Belle And so just for those who may not know what "woke" means or what "wokeness" is, I would love if you could give a definition for us and then talk about the book Woke Baby.

Mahogany Browne Well, I’ll give you the definition a young person told me. I think they were four or five. and I do a lot of storybook readings now at preschools, daycares, and indie book stores. And I asked them before I began, "what does woke mean?" And a little girl stood up and said, “Woke means you open your eyes and you realize you can see everything.” The poems that I write normally are for adults and I thought, I wanted Woke Baby to exist in a space where we’re talking to the next generation. If we start early, then they will never have to wake up.

Felice Belle So, okay, Woke Baby is speaking to the young, young people. And you have a new book that’s forthcoming called Woke: A Young Poet’s Call to Justice and so that seems very much like it’s part of a continuum. Can you speak to that new book?

Mahogany Browne It is the older sibling of Woke Baby. so now we’re doing middle grade and I was able to commission two amazing writers to anthologize work with me. So it includes Elizabeth Acevedo who is a New York native now living in DC, an amazing YA novelist. And Olivia Gatwood who is also a poet, has a new book coming out, is touring nation-wide, internationally, and selling out everywhere. And we’re having this intersectional discussion about social justice themes from three different perspectives of women. And we have a forward by Jasonc Reynolds which was such a gift because he's, you know, a literary dons. He's one of those folks who makes sure the doors are open for the next generation of voices.

Felice Belle And when can we expect to buy that book? 

Mahogany Browne You can pre-order it now, but it will be out March 2020.

Felice Belle Great, thank you, looking forward to that. So you’ve been looking in Brooklyn for over a decade now.

Mahogany Browne Twenty-one years.

Felice Belle What! So over two decades. Do you feel like a New Yorker?

Mahogany Browne I do.

Felice Belle Tell us about being a writer in Brooklyn, what does that mean to you? How does the place affect your work? 

Mahogany Browne Everything is alive here. Everything is alive. Everything had a heartbeat. Everything is moving, everything needs attention, and I feel like I am here to record that. So I never, I never have those moments where, people are like "Oh, writers block..." I can just go sit on a stoop and watch the city pass me by, and come back with stories and stories and stories. I started this series called "Brooklyn Tongue" where I would I would watch the cigarette lady sell cigarettes, I would watch the tow truck man ride around looking for cars to tow. I would watch the bodega owners clock in, people clock out. And all of their movements was a story in itself. And I think Brooklyn is like no other city in the world when it comes to that.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras You know, that's such an eloquent idea and it is so true, that Brooklyn is full of stories and movement. Thank goodness we have writers to capture that.

Felice Belle Some might say it’s the job of the poet to capture life as it’s happening.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras And… Brooklyn actually has its own poet laureate. Our current poet laureate is Tina Chang. She grew up partially in Elmhurst, Queens and partially in Taiwan, but now lives in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. And, just like Mahogany, the library was a really special place to her growing up.

Tina Chang I was eight years old and O still didn’t know how to read, and that’s why the library actually means… I can’t even go there, how much the library means to me. But that was kind of where I grew up, like where I learned my real place in the world and where I felt at home, was the library. And I was like, "oh there are other stories outside of the stories that my mom is telling me." Which is like, I realized, as much as I love my mother it was very limited and limiting.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras Tina came into our studio here in the library to talk to us about her newest collection of poems, called Hybrida. The book contains poems about language, the lives of young Black and Brown boys who have been killed by police. And, throughout the book, Chang reflects on what it’s like to be mother to her son Roman, who is Haitian and Taiwanese.

Tina Chang Even today when I was riding the train with my son, he was like, "Mom…" he was trying to explain to his little sister, he’s like, "Mama’s kind of been writing this book since I was born." [Laughs.] And I was like "yes, I’ve been sort of writing the story of your life since you were born without ...  thinking that I was."

Krissa Corbett Cavouras I’m going to play a bit more of my interview with Tina. We started by asking her to read a poem from her new collection Hybrida. This one is called “Milk.” 

Milk in the batter! Milk in the batter! We bake cake!

And nothing's the matter!

--Maurice Sendak, In the Night Kitchen


In every definition of home, my son conjures

milk. The sun as milk, milk spills through open

doorways, bed of warm milk, face of milk,

milk trousers, a truck full of milk. A milky light

passes through the lens of my camera.


All of his young life, my son thought of milk, 

and he asked for it each night. In every memory 

I have of him, his hands are outstretched

and he is asking for his last bottle.

In every version of a life, I never refuse him.


On the television, the nation listens to the story

of Leiby Kletzky. Today, I think of his mother

who waited for him, allowing him for the first time

to walk home alone. That morning, he held a key,

heavy and shining, made especially for him.


In the ancient story of boys, he headed up 

the street past the lone dog barking near

the fire hydrant, past the circle of children

careening into their own shadows.

In the ancient story of boys, he walked through


his front door and this was his rite of passage.

He placed his book bag on the coffee table,

and the boy and the mother sat together

in the large reading chair, in the living room light.

But this version isn't true.


Tonight, I hold my son closer. As I put on his night 

clothes, I'm afraid of the world. I find all the stories

horrifying. In the book of nursery rhymes the old woman 

sends her son to bed without food, a king beats

a knave for stealing pies, and the dog cannot find his bone,


though he runs in circles day after day. Perhaps

if I rewrite all the old stories, a new era will begin. 

Era of the Forgiven. Era of Redemption. Era

of Safekeeping. Tonight milk stains my blouse,

love so deep, it runs from me. After the old stories


are finished, my son says, The story, again. I open

the book. The owls life from the pages. The lake 

is a bowl of night milk. And this, a place so safe,

we are weightless, buoyant in its murky sweetness.

Free from a promise that each new day startles us alive.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras That was beautiful. There’s just so much in this poem that struck us. As I was reading, I was thinking about how old Roman would have been when you wrote that. That he is in it, that Maurice Sendak, that the story of this night milk and this very sweet, domestic moment but also Leiby Kletzy, who was eight years old when he was murdered in Borough park in 2011. You also wrote in your afterward about how he was practicing with his parents this passage, this walking home by himself, and what it means to be safe and what it means to be in danger. Can you talk about that theme and how it came to you?

Tina Chang Yeah, you know, I think that so much of this book was almost resisting the book. Because there was so much story, so much that I was perceiving either on social media or in newspapers or on television, that oftentimes I felt like it was a story of other people. But I also realized that in the creation of the book that mother, this kind of mother language that I was talking about, mother language means also, in our imaginations with all the time that we have nursing our children, caring for our children, staring off into space while we’re waiting for them in a playground... there’s so much of that empty time where we’re trying to fill it up with what we’re imagining. And I realized what I was imagining was so many things that I had taken in during the day via media. So the stories of these young children eventually became, in some way, my stories. I started to envision their stories almost interweaving with the stories of my children. Then when I read Maurice Sendak’s In the Night Kitchen, at the time it was my daughter’s favorite book so she made me read it every single night … after reading it, I was like oh, "milk in the batter, milk in the batter, we bake cake and nothing’s the matter." And I was like, "oh my gosh, everything’s the matter!"

Then at the same time I was taking in these stories of Leiby Kletzy and at that time it was very present on the news. And I really ... I think the day that I wrote it was the day that I actually saw on the news the entire Hasidic community had gathered around the family, and they were just embracing the mother and the father. And the mother and the father were just filled with so much grief, and the whole community just got together and embraced them in this cloud of compassion and love, and all they wanted to do was just touch the coffin. So as the coffin was being passed, everyone was gathering together to just touch it. And I think it was this kind of compassionate movement that made me really feel compelled to write a different kind of poem that really didn’t speak to his actual death, but to his life and possibly the moments that he had with his parents, and this possible kind of other life when he came back.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras This pathway that he was anticipating taking...

Tina Chang This pathway that he made it back home and he made it to his parents. But then I realized midway through writing it ... the poem kept surprising me because I wanted to live in that fantasy where he made it home, but I was like, "that version isn’t true." And I sort of had to write that down, that this version actually isn’t true.

Tina Chang, reading from Walt Whitman's "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" poem outside of Central Library.
(Brooklyn Public Library)

Krissa Corbett Cavouras We were thinking about the idea that you are the poet laureate of Brooklyn, that it is this enormous borough. W e always talk about diversity here in the library, and what is diversity verses real justice. What is… Park Slope verses Gerritsen Beach verses Williamsburg. You know, Brooklyn is this enormous patchwork of neighborhoods and they are really so different from each other… how do you see your band of influence in that, in terms of poetry and in terms of being a Brooklynite?

Tina Chang You know, so much of the time, I’m asked the question, "well how are you creating change?" And I was like, wow, I feel that with this role for the past ten years it’s been such a lesson observing the good work that all these communities are doing. It’s almost like I come into this space and I’m bearing witness.

A really good example is, you know, I went to visit this community called Still Waters in a Storm and it’s this wonderful storefront. It’s right in the middle of Williamsburg and it’s a neighborhood that’s changed. Williamsburg is not the Williamsburg that it was 20 years ago. And so this particular writers' comuninuty, it's like a little store front where a man ... it started out as a book store, then it became this book store that hung out with the local children. Their parents were going off to work, and a lot of this was Mexican American communities. They would start dropping off their kids there, and he started creating a space where it wasn't just the kids hung out and read books, but that authors would come in. So I found the time one day, and I just had never experienced anything like it. Seeing what somebody’s presence as an author could do, just for an entire day, working. He really asked, you work with each individual child, and the children range from like eight years old to eighteen. 

So being in this one space with this little boy, who was kind of studying with me that day... hee was very sad. And I walked up to him and I was like, "what’s wrong?" And at first he didn’t want to talk about it. He was really upset. So I just sat with him for a little while and I was like, "Do you want to talk about it?" And he was like, "I just don’t feel like writing." And I was like, "Well, you don’t have to. Can we just talk?" And he was like, "Sure what do you want to know?" I was like, "Why are you so upset? And he’s like, "Well, my family and I are moving because we can’t afford the rent here anymore. So the landlord asked us to move away. So we really dont have a place to live because all these other people are coming in, they have more money." And so he's like, "We have to go." 

I sat with him for a long time, we were just hanging out together and was like, "I’ll be right back, but I'm just going to be over here for like a second." And I came back because this is an all day thing, and he just started writing about it. He just felt compelled after we talked about it, to write about it. And then he shared his experience with the rest of the class and afterwards there was this huge physical embrace of him to try to understand his stories. And I realized, again, that’s not my experience. It’s not what I did for the community. It was a witnessing of what consistently the leaders of this community do all the time. 

Students read from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn during an event at Leonard Library in 2017.
(Gregg Richards, Brooklyn Public Library)

Felice Belle You know, Krissa, I bet after hearing these stories, a lot of people are going to be inspired to write. And the library, in addition to being great for reading, is also a pretty great spot for writing.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras And it’s happening all around us. We just listened to two published poets, but there are so many people even just in this building right now putting pen to paper.

Felice Belle Exactly. So, before we end this episode, we’re going to listen in on a pretty special kind of writing that's happening at the library…

Ben Dolnick Hi, are you here for a writing workshop? This is it. Take a seat anywhere. We’re just doing free writing for a couple of minutes.

Felice Belle Every Monday afternoon at Central Library, a dozen people from across the borough meet in a room overlooking Eastern Parkway. One by one, people trickle in, nod hello, exchange updates and greetings, and sit down to write. 

Krissa Corbett Cavouras After a few minutes, the workshop leader, novelist Ben Dolnick, gives the writing prompt.

Ben Dolnick It’s a prompt to help celebrate or praise. "Allow yourself to find in your present or past experience, something to celebrate..."

Felice Belle Amid the sound of rustling paper and keyboard clicks, each writer enters their own world. After fifteen minutes are up, the spell breaks and writers look around. Some volunteer to share what they’ve written.


Boyd Perez The first time I came, I saw a whole bunch of writers sitting there who love writing. And I said, "This is where I have to be every Monday for the rest of my life." My name is Boyd Perez. I’ve been coming to this writing workshop for about four years now. The title of my book is "Tito’s Travails." Its about me but I have to fictionalize it. I have to add in a lot of... what do you call it... sensational stuff.

Michelle Lane All my American life, since I’m 14 or 15, when my family life was really difficult, I used to come here with two dogs, two poodles, Brisbee and Lady, attach them to the box outside, walk in, get a book and go in the park and read all day. A friend of mine knows that I’m so frustrated about writing and did research on writing groups that were going on, and found this one. And it was love at first sight, or first bite, I don't know.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras Boyd Perez and Michelle Lane are two participants in Ben’s writing workshop. Both are Brooklynites, and both came in looking for a place to feel inspired. Here’s Ben.

Ben Dolnick You know, being a writer can really be hard and forcing yourself to produce even fifteen minutes of writing in a day sometimes can be a big struggle.

Felice Belle Lots of different people come through the library, and the workshop reflects that. There are teenagers, and people in their 90s, people with MFAs in writing, and people who are learning English. And the really wonderful think about this writing workshop, according to Ben, is the space it gives people to connect with each other.

Ben Dolnick Being listened to is a giant deal. I think there are just not that many settings in life where you can... delve into yourself and describe something that really matters to you and makes you feel things and a room full of people are silently attending to that, closely. I think that is in itself just an extraordinary luxury.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras And then there’s the added benefit of writing in a library—which, for somebody who works in words, is the ultimate place to be inspired.

Ben Dolnick Just as a space, I use it somewhat like a lot of the people in my workshop. When I want to get out of the apartment and be sort of quietly peer pressured by the environment into doing some writing, I'll come here. I mean, I actually was just looking online this morning and I have 44 books out at the moment. So it’s sort of the the dream infinite book store aspect of the library I use a lot as a writer.

Felice Belle So go to the library, your very own dream infinite book store.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras …and if this episode inspired you to write, we have dozens of writing workshops. The one Ben runs is organized by New York Writers’ Coalition, and they run other workshops in our branch libraries, too.

Felice Belle But we also have laptops that you can check out and use in the library, we have writers’ talks, and of course.. literal tons of books. 

Krissa Corbett Cavouras And we just talked about a lot of them. So, instead of a BookMatch segment, Felice and I are going to recommend to you the books by the Brooklyn authors you heard in the episode.

Felice Belle Mahogany L. Browne has a wonderfully-illustrated children's book called Black Girl Magic, created from one of her poems.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras Tina Chang’s latest collection of poems is Hybrida.

Felice Belle Ben Dolnick, the leader of the library workshop, has several novels published. The most recent one is The Ghost Notebooks, and you can check it out from your local dream infinite book store.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras Tina Chang mentioned In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak, another Brooklyn author.

Felice Belle And finally, the book that started us off on this journey—A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. 

Krissa Corbett Cavouras So, that should keep you busy for the next couple of months.


Krissa Corbett Cavouras Borrowed is brought to you by Brooklyn Public Library and is hosted by me, Krissa Corbett Cavouras and Felice Belle. You'll find a transcript of this episode at our website, B-K-L-Y-N Library [dot] org [slash] podcasts.

Felice Belle Borrowed is produced and written by Virginia Marshall with help from Fritzi Bodenheimer, Jennifer Proffitt, Meryl Friedman and Robin Lester Kenton. Our music composer is Billy Libby.  

Krissa Corbett Cavouras We are recording from Central Library’s Information Commons Recording Studio. And guess what, if you have a BPL library card, you can reserve time here for free and make your own podcast.  

Felice Belle And as long as we’re recommending books on Borrowed, why not recommend another podcast? But That’s Another Story is a podcast about the books that change our lives… it’s hosted by author Will Schwalbe and produced by MacMillan Podcasts. Check out their episode with author Jen Doll, who talks about the book that changed her life: A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. That’s the podcast But That’s Another Story.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras And while you’re there in your podcast app, leave a rating and review for Borrowed. We really appreciate it. 

Felice Belle Next week is our last episode of the first season, so you don't want to miss it. We’ve got a really interesting topic coming up—it’s all about language access at the library, and stories of immigration in Brooklyn.

Krissa Corbett Cavouras That’s it for this episode. 

Felice Belle Thanks for listening, book worms.