The Buzz: The Library

Every family has at least one story. For some, that story is a defining moment. For others, it’s their origin story. For many, like myself, there are a series of stories that when strung together, become an explanation and create an understanding. One story, no matter how magical or bold, when held alone, is limited. There are obvious pieces missing. But when the stories are melded and meshed, they become a seamless flip book. They paint a more complete picture of lived experiences. 

My family’s stories are plentiful and rich and, often, funny. There are many that I adore, and some I like less, but they make things make sense. Our book is filled with laughter and sorrow and success and failure. Our book is filled with art and music and travel and bike riding. Our book is filled with children and lost love and abuse and redemption. Our book is also filled with books.  

My family is, at our core, readers. Not just any readers, either. We are the particular kind of bibliophile that favors the library. The library. A sacred space. So, once upon a time, when we first moved to Hauppauge, New York, a somewhat sleepy town on Long Island, my mother, Susan, flitted about town familiarizing herself with all the happenings. She returned from her adventures forlorn. Alas, this town had no library. Her family would have to move. They could not live in a town with no library. The very thought was appalling. The library isn’t just a place for books. It’s a place for music and film and education and community. The library is the heart of a place. How could we live in a place with no heart? 

However, a house had been purchased and a dental practice established and the reality of seeking abode elsewhere was unlikely. Still, there were tears, and there was outrage. Don’t fret just yet. There was a compromise! Just one town over, in Smithtown, New York, there was a library, one that the people of Hauppauge were free to use. It wasn’t the same, but it was something, and so, Susan agreed to settle down. It certainly didn’t hurt that there was a promise of a future library in town.  

We spent many years frequenting the Smithtown Library. I remember the creaking sound the card catalog drawers made as one carefully extracted a card for check-out. I remember reading circles and drivers’ education sign-up sheets and passes to Long Island places to see. I remember the smell of the newly paved parking lot in the summer and the young adult reading list published in the fall. I remember running my fingers along the plastic-encased spines and being chastised – not to finish my chosen book on the car ride home. I remember world maps and cultural celebrations and the overwhelming sense that everyone was welcome, always. You see, the Smithtown Library is part of my story.   

So, might you imagine how I felt earlier this week when I learned of the Smithtown Library Board of Trustees ordering the removal of all “Pride displays, in addition to…books of the same subject” from the Children’s Room?  

Devastated. Gutted. Horrified.  

How could they? How could they take one of my favorite places, a place of education and warmth and love and escape, and make it a place of hatred and exclusion? How could they allow ignorance and fear to penetrate walls lined with, well, stories? 

Spoiler alert: The “situation” was “fixed.” The community raged and the Governor stepped in, and the directive was rescinded. That’s wonderful, right? Yes, but also, no. This was a breach of trust. It was a betrayal. They took a place where all were always welcome, even those from other towns with no library at all and made it a place where some are welcome. Some who share the same viewpoints. Some who share the same sexuality. Some who share the same gender identity.  

I have never been of the belief that things are hopeless. To the contrary, I have always imagined the world getting better all the time, even when there is overwhelming evidence to the contrary. And yet, never in that paradigm did I imagine the library, my library, used as a weapon of mass destruction. 

What now? Is all hope gone? No. But that part of my story has been reopened and awakened. I realize that we have these precious gems and places and spaces in our hearts and in order for them to remain as such, sometimes they need nourishment and sometimes, they need us to fight like hell. Today, it became clear to me that this particular story of mine, well, it needs a fight. One that I’m prepared to take on because, quite frankly, the stakes are too high.  

I’m not going to move or be grateful that I live in a different town now, in a different county. I’m going to sort out the best path to preservation and then, I’m going to set off on it, immediately and without delay. I don’t know what that looks like just yet, but I know one thing for certain: the library should always, and I mean always, be a safe space for everyone.  

The Not-Quite End