The Library as Sanctuary
And what we stand to lose when they are threatened.
While my daughter was out from school with strep, we received a note from her school librarian. She’d noticed that Wonder Girl had missed the book fair and asked if she could purchase some books for her, knowing how much W.G. loves to hoard graphic novels. I waffled, “Well, only if you have time.” But of course, when W.G. returned to school, her books were waiting, along with a hug. “You’re a lovely family,” the librarian wrote. Such big, impactful words. To be seen in this way is an act of community and deep care.
A week or so ago, when I was browsing our public library, I ran into a librarian who led the toddler story time back when W.G. was a baby. She shared that she’d recently been promoted and had to move her office art—including some of W.G.’s crooked rainbow drawings. She knew W.G.’s name, age, and even her taste in books. She’d kept the scribbles pinned to her wall, years longer than I—as her parent—might have.
All this to say that libraries—and librarians—are the stuff of a utopian society. They feel downright miraculous in our current world. I saw a tweet that read, “If public libraries were invented today, they'd be decried as radically socialist, economically unfeasible, and the certain end of the book publishing industry.” I felt dread sinking into my gut at those words, true as they were. They felt like evidence of a seismic threat to a sacred space I’ve always held dear.
Recently, I participated in a panel for librarians with three incredible authors and we all had a chance to share stories about what the library has meant to us over the years. I included librarians in my book dedication. If you’re a reader, you know. You’ve smelled the must of the yellowing pages, watched tiny dust motes swirl through the sunlit windows, found “your” chair, that seat that feels grooved for you. Maybe you’ve taken your kids to story time, planted criss-cross applesauce on the patterned carpet, clapping as you marvel that all this is free for a haggard parent. Maybe you were a kid sprawled on the sofas in the teen room, shifting between homework and chatting with your friends. For a time in college, I lived in an apartment without internet—wild!—and I spent much of my time in the public library, doing research, printing resumes, or checking out CDs (again, wild!). (The New York Times recently published a moving photo essay about libraries across the country!)
When I go to the library today, I’m baffled by the sheer amount of resources. A magician in the evenings; workshops for young writers; authors giving talks; a full-on craft studio with a Cricut and sewing machine patrons can borrow. Audiobooks that come with the audio player itself. At one library we loved, there was a fat gerbil you could feed. And the books—oh the books! The abundance of a library is in direct contrast to the scarcity we encounter elsewhere. Sure, you may have to wait a few weeks for a new release or a popular Nintendo Switch game. But it’ll come your way eventually.
Granted, I’m fortunate enough to live in a district with a thriving library system—at least, for now. At the library, there’s no demand on your wallet. It’s just all there for the taking—and the giving. As perfect a place as I can imagine. And radical, indeed. As Elisabeth Egan writes in that NYT essay, “What we borrow from [libraries] pales in comparison to what we keep.”
When I first arrived in America, I didn’t speak a word of English, but began attending school immediately afterwards. I fumbled with everything—the schedule, the schoolwork, communication. I’d go through the days in a fog, listening to shapeless words I couldn’t catch, as if they were butterflies flitting beyond my reach. It felt as if I would never catch up. But then I learned to read, and it felt like putting on a pair of glasses. The world cleared and sharpened. Things made sense.
The library quickly became a place of safety, and one of great adventure. I’d browse the racks, piling my arms high, oblivious to check-out limits that the librarians overrode for me. I could go to the Island of the Blue Dolphins or to the upside-down world of Wayside School. I could migrate through fiction, nonfiction, poetry. The librarians acted as my personal book concierges. They let me stay for as long as I wanted and never made me feel unwelcome. For a Person of Color, a gawky kid without pocket change, this was enormous. It gave me a taste of the privilege many of my peers enjoyed, that of inhabiting spaces without shame.
In second grade, our school librarian sat us down to read Baseball Saved Us, a moving picture book about Japanese internment camps. I still remember what it felt like to crane my head forward, trying to catch every detail drawn on the pages. That was the first time I’d seen an Asian American protagonist in a book, and I was riveted by the story, which described injustice and hope in equal measure. I identified with the isolation and discrimination, even if I’d never experienced anything like an internment camp myself. There were very few other AAPI kids in my school at the time, so it meant something, that connection. I can only imagine what it might feel like as a child who is LGBTQ, neurodivergent, or disabled, to have so little access to representation back then.
Our library has reduced its hours twice in the past two years. I imagine that resources are difficult to muster, especially with the kind of innovative programming they plan. Allison*, a public librarian, says, “Libraries are always expected to do more with less; we're no longer expected to just circulate books as we were in decades past. We have had to expand our services to meet the needs of our communities. And these are all wonderful changes! But often they don't come with budget increases, which can lead to shortages in other areas and burnout from staff.”
Funding isn’t the only roadblock to the health of a library system. The attempts to ban books are manifold and deeply troubling. Though most of the country is opposed to book censorship, a vocal and well-funded minority still seeks to make decisions for other people’s children. They use catchphrases like “innocence of children” and “the woke agenda,” focusing much of their efforts on CRT studies and books with LGBTQ characters. The conflation of access and indoctrination is a deliberate one, meant to prey on fear of knowledge. Because a well-educated and empathetic public is, in some circles, a dangerous one. Of her own library, Allison says, “Knowing how widespread [book challenges] have become, we have spent a lot of time examining our policies and training our staff to ensure that we're prepared in the case that it happens.”
The sight of empty bookshelves in Florida libraries is bleak and arresting. In the county where I grew up—the site of my first sanctuary—teachers must get their books approved before including them in classroom libraries. In one compelling TikTok video, a speech language pathologist films herself vetting the books that have been approved for classroom use vs. the ones that aren’t. The list of censored books is much higher than the ones that are permitted. Baseball Saved Us is among the list of children’s books that legislators have attempted to ban. Other frequently challenged titles include The Handmaid’s Tale, The Bluest Eye, The Hate U Give, and Two Boys Kissing.
I’ve spoken to educators in Florida who have quit their roles due to the fear of retribution. I imagine librarians may feel a similar uneasiness. Marjorie*, a librarian who works on a college campus, says, “[We] educate people who make [funding] decisions [to understand] that libraries are still vital to the public and the community as a whole. It has been all too common for people outside of the library realm to think that our jobs are or should be considered ‘obsolete’ because of the internet."
The challenge to books and book access troubles me on a systemic level, but also on a personal one. To imagine growing up without a library is for me to return to a world where everything is blurry and inaccessible. I’m privileged enough to provide my child with any books that may be challenged, should that ever happen in our community. I can drive her to another library if ours closes (heaven forbid). I can also buy her books from a store. But this is not the case for all families. Somewhere out there will be another child who will desperately need the book that legislators are trying so hard to keep out of their hands.
If you are invested in protecting these sacred spaces, here are a few things you can do:
Speak up in your own community. If you see or hear of book censorship or threats to access, talk to your neighbors and friends about it. Contact librarians to ask how you can support them. Read up on the ALA code of ethics.
Get in touch with legislators and leaders. Here are some talking points to help.
Report censorship. Here’s a form to use.
Patronize your local library. Check out books, donate books, attend programming. Allison says, “Statistics from item checkouts, program attendance, and other types of library usage are often reported to the board/city/state and can impact the funding that the library gets.” You can also donate time or monetary resources via Friends of the Library groups. Keep the system thriving by investing in it. Marjorie adds, “Public libraries typically have open board of trustees meetings which allow community members to find out where their tax dollars are being spent. Attend those meetings. Bringing your ideas to the public discourse will allow the library to maintain its [place] at the heart of the community. ”
Talk about libraries on social media. Share the love and tag your local libraries. Follow them on whatever platform you frequent and leave messages of support.
* Names have been changed.
You can also request Banyan Moon from your local library, if you’d rather!
Recent Notables
I goofed and sent out last week’s (unedited, eek) newsletter super early, without the Recent Notables attached, so now you get a giant version this week!
Writing
“The 29 Burritos That Pulled Me From Postpartum Despair” (Simply Recipes): On friendship and other ways to be nourished.
Reading
Books:
This Must Be the Place by Maggie O’Farrell: I love O’Farrell's deeply descriptive writing and always devour her work. The plot here feels slightly quieter than her other books, but the writing is always unparalleled. This novel travels back and forth through time, tracing the impact of the choices we make. It follows Daniel Sullivan, a man who’s made many mistakes, and yet cannot grapple with the consequence of those mistakes. Embedded here is a touching love story, made all the more so because it feels so tenuous.
I Have Some Questions for You by Rebecca Makkai: I joked that getting my hands on this book (especially at the library) feels like winning Taylor Swift tickets. Makkai’s latest (a bestseller already!) is a fast-paced look at the true crime genre. Bodie, a podcaster and college instructor, returns to her high school boarding school to teach, only to face unanswered questions about the murder of a classmate that occurred during her senior year.
The Family Izquierdo by Rubén Degollado: These linked stories have the brevity and pacing of a short story, but the satisfying focus on one family. Here, the Izquierdos battle a curse placed on them by an ill-intentioned neighbor. They suffer losses that reverberate through the generations, testing their faith in each other, as well as their religion. I liked this, though some stories felt stronger and more impactful than others.
Revival Season by Monica West: I didn’t think I’d be super-invested in the subject matter (a Baptist preacher traveling with his family for revival services around the country), but I was deeply engrossed by the tender and treacherous tale of religious fanaticism, feminism, and startling beauty. Miriam witnesses her father’s declining abilities as a faith healer around the same time that she discovers her own nascent (and forbidden) gifts. What follows is a tense push and pull of wills between father and daughter.
How Far the Light Reaches: A Life in Ten Sea Creatures by Sabrina Imbler: Imbler is a marvel. By using mostly obscure sea creatures as a way to talk about topics as diverse as LGBTQ identity, their own history as a biracial person, and finding joy in community, they are able to convey a sense of contemplation for timeless mysteries, while also creating a work that’s rooted in the here-and-now. Urgent, gorgeous, and timely. I loved this collection of essays so much!
Shorter Work:
“The Puzzling Gap Between How Old You Are and How Old You Think You Are” (Atlantic): I’ll always be 27 in my head.
“Welcome to America’s Most Elite Girls Boarding School. Let the Hazing Begin.” (Narratively): a horrifying look at the perils of group think, privilege, and living in a world without adult oversight.
“The Places That Save Us” (Caroline Donofrio’s newsletter): A thoughtful post on home—and the reasons we choose to stay.
“The Secret to Loving Winter” (The Atlantic): “There’s a misconception on the coasts, I think, that the default state of a midwesterner is one of resignation. That midwesterners are stuck there.”
Loving
A twitter thread on kids’ reluctance to attend school (Naomi Fisher): “What would happen if we saw school-related distress as feedback on the system?”
Oh my heart! Today’s post went right to it ♥️