A love letter to the library

It’s 2004, and I’m in fourth grade. It’s the middle of summer. My grandfather, my mom, my sister, and I are on our weekly trip to the library. We get out of the car and swim through the hot, humid air. The library doors open, and we feel the cold air-conditioning hit us like a jarring but refreshing wall. I return the heavy load of chapter books I finished that week, and I go to find the next book in the series I’m reading. I want to jump in and start it now. So I plop down right where I am, in the middle of the aisle, and open to page one. I’m so happy. I love the library.

Over twenty years later, I’m on the way to the library again. This time with a crying toddler in the back of my car. Stressed and over-stimulated, I throw open the car door, and the dry, hot air of Salt Lake City’s summer instantly sucks the moisture from my skin. I grab my son and carry him inside. We step through the doors, and both of us take a deep breath. As I set him down, he beelines straight towards the picture books. “WALK,” I whisper-yell at him as I follow. Before we can make it to a chair, he opens a book and pulls me down. Like twenty years before, I plop down right in the middle of the aisle and start to read.

In every city I’ve moved to, getting a library card is one of the first things I do. And the library has been with me through all the different versions of myself.

As a broke intern in D.C. I could only afford to do free things. So I’d go to the Library of Congress and romanize my work as I sat under its painted dome. As a slightly less broke but still broke intern in Philadelphia, I’d walk to the Parkway Central Library from my sublet in Fairmont. I’d wander the marbled halls to escape the summer heat and read in the heavenly air-conditioned rooms.1

Then, as a new grad working my first job in Seattle, I’d go to my neighborhood library in Magnolia.2 I’d see kids picking out books after school and join them in scouring the aisles for my next read. I eventually moved to Phoenix during COVID. By then, I was in my late twenties, working a corporate job and trying to make sense of everything. So, I’d put on my mask and go to the library. During one of the most uncertain times in the world, the library was still there.

Now, I live in Salt Lake City, and the library is still a huge part of the new stage of life I’ve entered. I take my kids to the storytelling times and meet other moms. I check out books for my book club. I’ve even got my sons’ passports with help from the SLC library.

The Salt Lake City library also has a seed library, where you check out actual seeds, grow a garden. They provide free language learning through Rosetta Stone. They host STEM workshops, tinkering labs, yoga, and story times. And when the heat settles over the valley during summer, the library opens its doors as a cooling center.

If the library just did books, that would be enough. But they do so much more.

I’m currently getting my master’s in creative writing for children and young adults. I am spending my free time learning how to write stories that open new worlds for kids, help them feel less alone, and teach them important life lessons.

And this all feels particularly precarious because right now it feels like books are under attack. Especially in Utah.

Utah has banned more than thirty books from school libraries. The list includes Forever... by Judy Blume, The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison, Looking for Alaska by John Green, The Handmaid’s Tale, by Margaret Atwood, The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky, and Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher. Utah now leads the country for the most books banned by any single state.

I can understand why parents want to limit what content their kids consume. I 100% monitor and limit what books, shows, and music my kids consume. But just because content is heavy or sad doesn’t mean kids shouldn’t experience it. In fact, I think if something makes you uncomfortable or forces you to face hard truths, it’s more of a reason for kids to read it. By reading it, you learn how to move through trauma, grief, hardship, belonging, and identity.

The library has given me a lot. So, the least I can do is show up for it.

In February, my sons and I joined about 300 people in the Utah Capitol Rotunda for a read-in. Organized by the coalition Let Utah Read, it was exactly what it sounds like. People gathered in the rotunda and read aloud from banned books. I held my son on my lap. Librarians were there. Teachers were there. Parents like me were there.

Just like the planet, the library is easy to take for granted until it’s gone. So I keep showing up. I check out the books. I take my kids to story time. I sit on the floor in the aisle. I fight for the place I’ve felt connected to in every city I’ve lived in. Because I know just as it shaped me, it will be so valuable in helping me raise thoughtful, empathetic, curious boys. So how about you? Do you love your library too? Have you gotten your library card yet?

2

The Seattle library was the first library I connected to my e-reader. And a whole new world was unlocked. Books now could magically appear on my Kindle. The fact that I can get library books on my e-reader is one of my favorite things in the whole world.

Thanks for being here. If you know someone else who likes to ramble about parenting, would call themselves a treehugger, or loves a good book, forward them this newsletter so they can join us too.

Until next time, take care of yourself, your people, and the patch of earth around you.