Two Libraries

A couple of stories about me and libraries...

When I was six, I read more than 100 books one summer as part of the Downey City Library’s summer reading program. Got my picture in the paper, (“Boy, 6, Avid Reader”) and like to think it jump-started my language skills in elementary school. Yeah, some of the books were the sort of picture readers you’d expect at that age. But my mom’s attitude was always: If you want to read it and it’s too hard, we’ll do it together.

Boy, 6, Avid Reader probably knew more about the Bataan death march than most first graders.

Fast forward to the late 1970s. Mom, ever on the hunt for free things to keep me busy, dropped 14-year-old me at the Pomona civic plaza in the morning and picked me up near the end of the day.

There were two things to do at the plaza: Hang out in the library and read or wander over to the superior court building and sit in the gallery listening to trials. I spent most of my summer weekdays, for a couple of years, doing both.

I read everything. Stuff that made no sense at the time. Stuff that was profane. Stuff that wasn’t particularly Christian. Illustrated medical guides to (and here I reflexively dart my eyes around, even today) women. Science books that happily taught you exactly how to make a working X-ray emitter from vacuum tubes.

A lot of it was useless, I’m sure. Dangerous? Some of it, absolutely.

The two libraries anchoring my childhood served different roles. For young Greg, in a family without money or interest in summer camps, bespoke experiences and such, the library was an educational leg up.

In a house where no one made it past the 10th grade, it made a difference.

Tween Greg used the library to learn as well, but also as a tool to figure out who he was and who he wanted to be. I taught myself things. Started to figure out why history mattered.

Started to figure out why I mattered.

I mention these stories because it’s the calmest way I can frame my thoughts on this nonsense in Missouri, where House lawmakers stripped state funding from public libraries in a moment of political tit-for-tat.

They’re political actors acting politically, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Sign up to try and win stupid prizes, and no one should be surprised when you’re roped into playing stupid games along the way.

I also recognize the disconnect between my libertarian-ish ideals and a full-throated defense of public libraries. On that front, I can only say: I’ll be first in line to buy my Walmart-sponsored Great Value private library card once we’ve addressed a few bigger issues.

For now? Libraries are important, full stop. (I’m sorry it took me so long to get to the point.)

Yes, they should have mechanisms to reflect community input—but a bunch of GOP legislators anywhere from a few dozen to hundreds of miles away are not the community.

Republicans used to know that. They used to reject the idea of statehouse or Washington one-size-fits-all solutions. Then we figured out a stupider game—moral panic—with stupider prizes.

If you’re scared of what’s at the library, go with your kids or don’t let them go. And if you’re a legislator? Embrace the idea that not everything you disagree with needs to be legislated out of existence and not every tit needs a reciprocal tat.

Leave the goddamn libraries alone.

Greg W. Brooks. First published on Facebook, April 12, 2023.