During the times in my life when I felt the most vulnerable, libraries were a place for me to hide out and escape. Our mom took my sister and I to the library as long as I can remember. We regularly checked out new books and participated in community events and children’s theatre. Librarians were helpful people who, with a little information, could point me to exactly where I wanted to go. I specifically remember being in a Halowe’en play where I played a witch and my sister was a black cat. We danced to Monster Mash at the end of the show. I adored the reading spaces in the children’s library- everything was my size. The walls were painted with colorful murals of popular characters.
Twenty years ago, I used the library to check out books on CD that I could (at the time) listen to in my car. I now have an app that I use to check out virtual books, movies, and TV shows on my cell phone. I don’t have to go to the library at all, except to use the printer and scanner there; it’s not cheaper than going to one of the major office stores, but I feel better about supporting the library when I need these services. It’s also a place of quiet, which seems like something difficult to find sometimes. It’s a place to discover new stories or peruse a pop-up community art exhibit.
Eight years ago this summer, I used a library to escape my abuser. I didn’t have any personal spaces in our home, as he had systematically taken away all my privacy. He didn’t like libraries, he was offended by the smell of books. The library was just half a block up the hill, so I didn’t need to ask for a ride. He wasn’t interested, so I would go any time I needed some time to myself. Because I wasn’t being watched, I felt comfortable making the plans I needed for my escape. I used the free internet at the library to contact my people for support and to purchase the tickets home. I spent hours at the Withers Library, sometimes reading magazines or drawing pictures in my notebook, but always feeling more myself than I had in years. I was surrounded by books and people who also liked books. People whom I was not even obligated to speak to, or give my attention to. I had a favorite chair, and sulked when someone beat me to it. At times, I would read and re-read the positive messages painted on the wall.
Thank you, libraries, librarians, and all lovers of books and stories. Thank you, mom, for taking us to the library when we were so little, I learned how to read before I went to school.
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