When I was growing up, my public library had special bags just for books. Everyone got one.

You could fill it.

I had my own card. My number was 141.

Photo Courtesy of Meredith Public Library

The librarian squealed when we came. She ran out from behind the big desk and hugged us.

The books in the library were covered in clear film and smelled like tape.

They crinkled when you opened them, like some ancient, priceless tome.

I thought they were just for me. But they were for everyone.

Because anyone could go to the library.

You didn’t have to be rich. You didn’t have to be a certain age. Anyone.

Later, when my mom worked at the library, she used to tell us that a man would come and wash in the bathroom. Then he would spend the day in the warm reading room, catching up on the news. Sometimes he was loud. But they just asked him to talk more quietly. They didn’t ask him to leave.

Because anyone could go to the library.

My mother was the children’s librarian way up in the renovated attic.

She read to the kids at story hour. And all the young mothers.

Sometimes, the moms talked too loud. But it was OK. This was the one place they could come throughout the year where they didn’t have to buy coffee or a book in order to stay. In fact, they could leave with a huge stack of books to read to their kids until the next story hour. And it was free!

Young, young single moms. Grandparents becoming parents again. Moms the third time around. Tired, tired dads. It didn’t matter. Everyone was welcome.

Because anyone could go to the library.

And even later, when I got a job in a tiny public library, I would wait for the after school crowd to show up. All the kids who didn’t play sports. Or have a parent waiting at pick-up to bring them home. Kids who could go home to a cold, empty house, or come to the library instead.

Which would you choose?

So I waited and made piles of books I thought each kid would like. And I’d hand them over and sometimes help with homework. And give my library “shush” when they got too loud. But they didn’t mind. They were at Hogwarts and Terabithia and Narnia. Inside books that I knew would change and shape their lives just like they did mine. All for free. Sometimes they didn’t return them on time. Sometimes they’d come back smelling like peanut butter and jelly. Sometimes like cigarette smoke. Sometimes I’d cringe. But I’d still be so glad to know the words of that book were now in the soul of that child. That child that probably didn’t own a single book, and yet, owned thousands.

Because anyone could go to the library.

And then later still, when I had my own baby, I would take him to the library in town. He wanted to chew on the board books. He wanted to check out all the Thomas the Tank Engine movies we’d already watched a hundred times. I’d chat with the librarian about YA books that we both loved while E happily crawled on the floor, then toddled, then walked. I made friends with other moms. We started a book group. Anyone could go.

Because anyone could go to the library.

Only now. Now I read about budget cuts. School libraries laying off their librarians. Closing the library doors altogether. City libraries shutting down. Library systems disappearing. New York. New Jersey. California. Pennsylvania. No more free books for people desperate to put a picture book in their child’s hand. No more computer access to the kids who don’t have them at home. No more wireless for the people who’ve lost their jobs and need a place to hook up to job search. No more free access to newspapers for the people who don’t have TV and can’t afford the paper. But want to know what’s happening in the world, in their state, in their town. Who want to make informed voting decisions. Who want to understand what’s going on.

Libraries aren’t just about book lending. They are the heart of most communities. They are the one place in any community that you can go all year, rain or shine, rich or penniless. They are the one place in communities that provide fair and equal access. They don’t discriminate. They don’t judge. They give over and over and over.

And now is when they are needed most desperately. Now is when they provide the most valuable services. Now is when, even if a state or county is so far in the red they feel they’ll never get out, now is when libraries should be getting the green light to extend their hours, not have them taken away. Without libraries, the economic divide in our communities grows even wider. Please. If the library in your community is in danger, speak up. If you can help any library that’s in trouble, please do it. This is about kids, babies, new moms and dads, unemployed parents, a lonely retired person who needs weekly or daily interaction and reading material to get them through the week. It’s about keeping communities intact. Your community. My community. It matters.

About Jo Knowles
Jo Knowles is the author of Lessons from a Dead Girl and Jumping Off Swings (Candlewick Press). She teaches writing for children in the MFA program at Simmons College.

This post originally appeared on Jo’s website http://jbknowles.livejournal.com where more than 50 comments appeared on the original post.