I have a complicated relationship with the concept of libraries as neutral entities. Labeling the life-enriching work we do as neutral can at times rhyme imprecisely with half-truth or falsehood. Neutrality is a protective smokescreen I can weave around myself when a patron questions the need for a pride display.
“This is grooming!” a concerned old woman will inevitably plead with me every June when the pride display takes center stage. “You’re corrupting the children.”
What can I do in response? It would be too brazen, too forward, to take her by the hand and ask if she truly wishes her grandchildren to snuff out their own lives rather than exist as the queer youths they could become, regardless of whether they’ve read This Book is Gay or not.
Instead, I’ll smile indulgently. I’ll empathize. “Not every book is appropriate for every family,” I promise through my teeth. “We rely on parents to select the right books for their children.” I point to the Matt Walsh books on the third floor, to the other numerous alt-right leaders whose books we’ve catalogued as carefully as All Boys Aren’t Blue. “Libraries invite people to form their own opinions. We don’t have a stance.”
The woman will be satisfied, or she won’t be. I’ll have done my best to protect this last bastion of democracy, as libraries always term themselves. But the veil of neutrality will crumble in my hands later that same day when I observe teens clustered around the pride display, excitedly chattering amongst themselves. The lifeline we’ve tossed to them in a virulent sea of bigotry and regression will be latched onto, cradled.
As the clock turns back and our political leaders follow the tired playbook of fascist cultural suppression by challenging books, we dig our heels in. We brandish our shield of neutrality. “We have books for everyone!” we’ll cry. “We even have Ben Shapiro!” It might be enough to placate them for a while. It might not be. I have to believe it will be enough to protect the work we do.
On any given day, the unsheltered can find solace and warmth in our halls. There is no hostile architecture to be found on our couches. We print paperwork patrons need to file for social services for free. We proudly make library cards for immigrants new to our country. I tell them enthusiastically, truthfully, “Welcome to our library. I’m so happy you’re here.” The scattered threads of supposed neutrality fall apart in my hands, but I do my best to sew them back together when someone demands to know why there are so many homeless people in the library.
“Everyone is welcome here,” I say. I leave off the whole truth I hold closest to my chest. “Even and especially those you want to eliminate.”
