I Grew Up In Libraries
On learning how to read
Before she got her Master’s in children’s literature, my mother was a reference librarian at a public library in Montreal where her job was to be the internet before the internet. People would call the desk and ask her a question, and she would walk the aisles to find the book or the periodical with the answer. “What time is it in Newfoundland?” “What is the difference between an alligator and a crocodile?” “What is a p value in research?” I’d often go to work with her on Sundays. I was free to roam around by myself, and there was a cafeteria with snacks, which is all kids really want — a sense of independence in a well-lit place, and snacks.
Before he retired, my father was a philosophy professor. I went to libraries with him too. Unlike my mother’s modern bungalow set back on a patch of grass, my father’s library was a stone building, dimly lit with dark wood and tall shelves stacked with solid-colored spines. I went to this library less frequently. I remember looking up at the books piled so high you’d need a ladder and thinking to myself, “One day I will read every single book in the world.”
I have never taken my son to a library. He was two when the pandemic hit, and he was loud before that (he is still loud), so it’s on my to-do-later list. But our apartment is full of books. Art books, picture books…
