Age Bias in the Neighborhood Library

In one quiet neighborhood, nestled between homes and corner stores, sits a small library that serves as a hub for the community. It has just one large room available for events, and most days, that space is filled with the sounds of children reading, laughing, and playing. Rightly so—it houses the children’s book collection and hosts cherished storytimes. But once a week, for just a few hours, that room transforms into something different: a gathering place for older adults, many of whom come with walkers instead of strollers, stories instead of picture books, and a deep need for connection.

Lately, that brief transformation has sparked complaints. Comments have surfaced suggesting the library should find “somewhere else” for adult programs and stop closing the children’s room—implying that the seniors are an intrusion, not part of the library’s intended community. The language isn’t always direct, but the sentiment is clear: the elderly are no longer welcome. They are inconvenient. They take up parking. They take up space. They move slowly, speak their minds, and remind us of time passing—something many prefer not to confront.

Watching this kind of exclusion unfold is painful, especially when there are so many beautiful examples show how much stronger communities are when all generations are welcomed. One such example that touched my heart deeply comes from the Netflix series North of North. In one of my favorite episodes, the lead character Siaja invites children to attend a weekly gathering traditionally reserved for Elders. What unfolds is pure magic—children laughing with the Elders, listening with wide eyes to stories of the past, and Elders glowing with the joy of being seen, heard, and appreciated. It wasn’t just a program; it was a bridge across generations. The warmth, respect, and togetherness depicted in that scene felt like a glimpse of what society could be if we truly made room for one another.

That episode reminded me of the power of shared space—not just physical space, but emotional and cultural space. It affirmed something I’ve always believed: that libraries, more than any other public institution, are uniquely positioned to embody this vision. When we make room for everyone—from toddlers learning their ABCs to seniors tracing their life’s arc—we don’t just fill a room, we fill a community with understanding, connection, and purpose.

Yes, space is limited. But when we allow age bias to determine who belongs and who doesn’t, we’re not just closing a room. We’re closing a chapter on empathy. Libraries were never meant to be places of exclusion, but of expansion—where every voice has value, and where generations can sit side by side and remind each other that we all still matter. Like in North of North, when we make space for everyone, we create something far greater than a program. We create belonging.

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