Last night I read a blog post written by Tricia Brown at 49 Writers. She’s a writer who lives in Alaska. She romanticized the librarians of her Midwest childhood who spent all their days surrounded by stacks of books. What truer pleasure could there be in life for a bookish child, an avid reader, than to spend eternity within the rooms of a public library? I know I did. I sought books there for they offered me escape from my loneliness and boredom as a latchkey child. Then as an adolescent, my junior high school library offered me a haven from the bully who accosted me at lunch one day. I avoided the lunchroom and starved myself of food, but fed my mind with words, sentences, paragraphs. Somewhere along that time I read Gone With the Wind.
The only “stereotypicalness” depicted in Brown’s ode is her mention of the shushing her childhood librarians did. She was happy for it, because those loud kids bothered her, too.
Naturally, the sentence I liked was this:
Every librarian I met was so smart and adept, so worthy of my worship.
That was her relationship with librarians as a child. But what of her experience as an adult?
As a writer she works closely with them arranging book signings and events at their libraries. Her esteem for librarians has only grown. And while she’s mainly speaking about public librarians, children’s librarians, she describes them as wonderful.
And I’m still in awe of their earnest love for books and how they encourage children to read. In every state where I’ve traveled to speak, I see librarians who are selflessly hustling—trying to bridge the budget gaps, shoehorning special events and fairs into a full schedule, scrapping on behalf of the voices on their shelves, and especially working for the kids who visit their libraries every day.
Then she gives librarians a standing ovation. Well-deserved, methinks.
Anyway, it’s rare to read blog posts lauding librarians. I wanted to share.