My Library Story

Just like the books lining a library’s shelves, everyone who loves libraries has a story to tell. This is mine

This November, the small neighborhood library where I work will celebrate its 70th anniversary. To mark the occasion, I’ve been planning a program called Share Your Library Story, inviting our customers to share their favorite library memories and reflect on what libraries have meant to them. As I imagined the stories they might tell, I found myself reflecting on my own—and how, at two very different stages of my life, libraries helped me discover something far more meaningful than books: a place where I belonged.

Books have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. However, my love affair with libraries began with my first college work-study job. I was a 15-year-old freshman at Emerson College in Boston when I received my first work-study assignment at Abbot Memorial Library. Somewhere along the way, a wise and intuitive college counselor must have recognized that a quiet teenager with dreams of writing and directing for television and film might be perfectly suited to working in a library. After all, writers spend a great deal of time doing two things: writing and observing people. And what better place to do both than a library? As it turned out, that counselor may have known me better than I knew myself! I only wish I could thank the person whose simple decision would have such a lasting influence on my life

Abbot Memorial Library was a wonderful place for a young introvert to find her footing. Housed in a three-story Back Bay residence, Abbot Memorial Library felt less like an institutional college library and more like an old Boston home filled with books, its mahogany paneling lending warmth and character to the rooms. Even the creaking 19th-century elevator seemed part of its personality, carrying Emerson students through a setting where history and everyday college life comfortably mingled. The atmosphere was relaxed, the pace comfortable, and the people welcoming.

My job was simple. Check in books, check out books, shelve books, and help students find resources. The bonus was meeting almost everyone on campus, enjoying spontaneous conversations at the circulation desk, and making unexpected friendships. In fact, one of the college’s popular basketball players, a senior, used to hang out in the library to get away from the dorm. Unexpectedly, he took me under his wing and would warn the guys not to mess with the 15-year-old library girl. For a young freshman finding her way in college, having an unofficial big brother was perfect.

What I remember most about those years wasn’t simply the books or the work. It was the feeling of belonging. I could be quiet when I wanted, sociable when I felt comfortable, and curious about the world around me. Nobody expected me to become someone else. Those were great times.

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Fast forward several decades, I began another chapter of life. I was in my 50s, pursuing graduate studies in library science, and newly arrived in Charlotte, North Carolina. I knew few people and was rebuilding my life after a difficult personal experience. Although I was older and more experienced, I was still the same reserved person, trying to find my place in unfamiliar surroundings. And once again, I found a sense of belonging in a library

During my early years at Myers Park Library, I encountered people whose kindness made an extraordinary difference in my life. My branch manager, Harold, became a wonderful mentor who encouraged my graduate studies. A thoughtful colleague, Carl, frequently invited me to share holiday dinners with his family. Another coworker, Madhuri, introduced me to Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights, which has since become part of my annual celebrations.

And then there’s been the wonderful library customers. Through conversations about books, shared interests, and occasionally their personal stories, I began developing a connection with the surrounding community. Little by little, Charlotte began to feel less like a foreign place and more like a place I could call home

Looking back, I realize that libraries have played an extraordinary role in my life. Whether academic or public, they have offered much more than access to books, research materials, and technology. They have been places of discovery, friendship, cultural exchange, and sometimes emotional refuge. These experiences continue to shape how I approach my work today. I want others to experience that same sense of welcome and belonging, whether they’re searching for a book, learning something new, seeking companionship, or simply looking for a peaceful place to spend an afternoon.

Here captures the experience of being surrounded by people and activity while feeling completely out of place. It’s about wanting to escape an environment where the conversations, noise, and social expectations don’t quite fit who you are. I suspect many introverts will recognize that feeling.

But Wild Things tells another side of the story. It celebrates individuality, friendship, and finding the people and places where you can be unapologetically yourself.

And that’s an important distinction. Introverts aren’t necessarily antisocial, shy, or opposed to having fun. Many, like me, love dancing, sports, music, laughter, travel, and lively conversations. We enjoy those experiences on our own terms and with people who understand us. We want to find our tribe.

If you’re unfamiliar with these songs, I encourage you to listen to them or look up the lyrics. You may discover that they speak to something you’ve experienced yourself. For me, the two songs capture different sides of the same longing: the desire to belong without surrendering our individuality.

I also highly recommend Susan Cain’s book, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking, to anyone who identifies with the introvert experience—or who wants to understand the quieter people in their lives better. Cain challenges the assumption that being outgoing, assertive, and constantly sociable is the ideal personality. Her book thoughtfully explores the strengths introverts bring to relationships, workplaces, and communities, and reminds us that there is more than one way to live a rich, engaged, and meaningful life

I’m sure that’s why I’ve always had a particular affection for smaller libraries. There’s something wonderful about walking into a neighborhood branch where the staff recognizes familiar faces, remembers favorite authors, and takes time for an unexpected conversation. Small libraries can foster a sense of intimacy and community that’s difficult to replicate in larger, busier institutions. They’re places where a shy child can discover the perfect book that sparks their lifelong love of reading, a teenager might find quiet refuge from the pressures of school, and an older adult might enjoy a friendly conversation that becomes the highlight of the day. They can also be places where overwhelmed people can take a moment just to breathe.

I’m always saddened when small neighborhood libraries disappear through consolidation, closures, or changing community priorities. While I appreciate that larger, modern facilities can offer extraordinary resources and services, I hope we never underestimate the value of small neighborhood libraries and the personal relationships they nurture.

Some library customers thrive in lively programs, makerspaces, and collaborative activities. Others seek quiet reading areas, independent exploration, or the simple pleasure of being around people without feeling obligated to interact. Many of us enjoy both, depending on the day.

A truly inclusive library makes room for all of us.

As Myers Park Library celebrates seventy years of serving its community, I find myself thinking about the countless stories that have unfolded within its walls. Mine is only one among thousands. Perhaps a library helped you discover a passion, meet a friend, learn a new skill, or navigate a difficult chapter in life. Perhaps it was simply a place where you felt safe, comfortable, and accepted.

Those experiences matter.

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When I think about the libraries I’ve loved, I remember the books, of course. But even more vividly, I remember the people, the conversations, the kindness, and the freedom to be myself.

I think about the quiet teenagers, the curious adults, the dreamers, the readers, the unconventional thinkers, and all the other wonderful people who sometimes struggle to find their place in the world.

And I think about the title of this reflection: Living Life Out Loud, Quietly.

I hope libraries will always be places where people have the freedom to do just that.

Because somewhere, another 15-year-old needs to discover a place in the world where they belong.

And like me, they’ll discover that place in a library.

For the love of libraries.

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Notes

Abbot Memorial Library opened on November 5, 1961
https://www.nytimes.com/1961/11/05/archives/library-for-emerson-college.html

The Library occupied the converted Back Bay residence at 303 Berkeley Street from November 1961 until the Fall of 1982.

The building that housed Abbot Memorial Library has an interesting history.  To read about it, visit https://backbayhouses.org/303-berkeley/

Emerson College Boston Campus’ library is now named the Iwaaki Library after environmentalist and benefactor Dr. Shoo Iwasaki and is at 120 Boylston Street on the third floor of the Walker Building.