Elegy for a Library

Amidst the discomfort and strangeness that has become our every day, I sort of hate to write something melancholy, but I wrote the title to this post over two weeks ago after a trip to our public library and it’s still on my heart. Turns out that trip was to be our last visit to the library for an undetermined amount of time, and that makes this even sadder to me somehow.

My earliest clear memory of a library is of the one in my elementary school, Southwood Valley Elementary. Posters of award-winning books decorated the walls, tables were in the middle of the stacks for classes to sit at during instruction. There was this awesome loft you got to by climbing a ladder. Up there, I remember brightly colored floor cushions and wooden racks of Highlights Magazine. Besides coming here with my class to check out books, we sometimes had instruction from the librarian. This was the first place I learned about Francisco Vasquez de Coronado and his fruitless search for the Seven Cities of Gold.

In 5th grade, our library was in the center of the school. Windows were set into the walls of the three hallways surrounding the library, and it was impossible to walk by without turning to look in to see the books and other kids learning from the librarian. At least it was for me. 

In my 6th grade library, we sat at bulky, gray computer monitors and puzzled through Accelerated Reader questions about chapter books we had checked out and read, hoping we would accumulate enough points to win the limo ride. I also found a favorite book that year, Someone Was Watching, about a big brother who solves the mystery of his little sister’s kidnapping and rescues her when no adults believed his hunch. Years later, working at Barnes & Noble, this was one of the first books I looked up in our system and ordered. It was just as good, ten years later.

In high school, the library was my refuge. I was a library aide my senior year and it was my favorite place to be. Checking books out for other students, shelving, and also doing research for classes. I would read Stephen King novels in my downtime. It was my home base at school. Among the books, I felt most myself. 

And then the public library. So many memories made there. Throughout elementary and early middle school, I systematically read my way through every single book the library had to offer on unicorn lore. I was convinced, and still somewhat am, that if I could just learn everything I could about them, I could prove they were real. Christopher Pike, Lois Duncan, Joan Lowry Nixon, Meredith Ann Pierce, and eventually Harry Potter. Staples of my adolescence, books that shaped my life, lived at this library. I did my homework here. I smuggled snacks into here. I spent hours and hours reading and reading here.

I inhaled the quiet, dusty magic, again and again, and always came back for more.

And yet, all these memories, and I’m ashamed to say that I have very few memories of specific librarians. I couldn’t tell you any names... but maybe what I can tell you means more. 

I remember warm smiles when I walked in the doors. 

I remember the gentle hand on my shoulder when I was having trouble with the card catalog (yes, I still remember those.)

I remember the confidence with which they would find whatever I needed, as if they knew what I’d ask for before I even knew.

I remember their shepherding presence. Sometimes scolding you for being too loud. Often leaving you alone when you needed space. But always nearby to help you. 

Or maybe memory isn’t always a reliable thing. Our brains often construct past realities, but sometimes I think our memories of the way we were made to feel are just as important. 

So you can understand why my experiences at our new local library have left me cold and disillusioned. 

As my kids and I walk into the children’s section (well, I walk with the baby in the stroller and they run like wild animals), the librarian behind the small desk does not look up. She does not even glance our way. In fact, during the hour to hour and a half that we typically stay, our existence is only acknowledged if I walk up, stand beside her desk, and start to ask a question. And then there is no smile, no enthusiasm, certainly no feeling of welcome. She never seems to recognize the titles I ask her for, and typically resorts to Google. She then points in the general direction of the book I’ve asked for and goes back to her computer screen. 

This is not nearly the only, or even the worst, experience I’ve had at this library, and if I’m honest, at the public libraries in the last two cities we’ve lived in. But I don’t want this to become a rant session. This isn’t really even about me. It’s about my children. 

A selfish, needy (unrealistic) part of me hopes that my husband and I will always be enough for our three kids. That we will be their confidants, friends, their safe place. That they will need nowhere else but our home to feel complete. But the rest of me realizes that, eventually, they will need to find other homes, other meaningful places to find fulfillment, as we did. And it is my hope that a library might be among them. 

But is our world moving on from libraries? That thought makes me die more than a little inside.

And honestly, this really isn’t about our rapidly digitizing world. I think the last several years in the book industry has proved that paper books are still in demand, even while digital platforms have carved out their place. They can coexist, and indeed, complement each other.

But a library is about more than just the books. It is one of the last places in our society that spans generations, socioeconomic status, personality types, and purposes. It is a pure beacon of knowledge, not-for-profit, solely for the betterment and enrichment of people... or it should be. 

Perhaps my children are untouched by the negative experiences I’ve had at libraries since becoming a parent. They jump up and down and shriek with pleasure when I tell them that we are going to the library. But perhaps one day, an apathetic librarian will dim their light when they should be helping to enrich their love of stories. Perhaps one day, the dusty magic will become lost on them, and they’ll finally have to admit that unicorns don’t exist. It’s hard to express just how deeply this cuts me, both as a parent and as a lifetime lover of libraries. 

So if this reaches any librarians, please know this: YOU. MATTER. 

You make impressions so profoundly on people’s souls, and there’s simply no way that can be overstated. We may not forever remember your names, but we will always remember your vast knowledge, welcoming spirit, hard work, and your love of stories. We will remember how you made your library into a home and quietly shared it with us, and anyone who needed one.