Loving Your Library After a Public Trauma

This morning, Decaturish published a letter to the editor that I wrote in response to security changes at the Decatur Public Library following a shooting that took place there on February 2. Below, I've taken the liberty of posting the original, longer editorial on which the letter to the editor is based.

Photo by  Holizz (CC BY-SA 3.0)

Eleven years ago I fell in love. We were looking for a place to live in the Atlanta metro, and friends had suggested Decatur. Walking around downtown, I marveled at the MARTA station across the street from a beautiful church and the friendly facade of the Decatur Public Library. We walked in and were greeted by a cheerful scene: teenagers studying, curated book displays, and kids reading picture books with their caregivers. Up a flight of stairs, a variety of people sat at public computer stations while staff fielded questions. This library was walking distance from the house we were looking to buy. I knew I’d come home.

In the decade since, my children have learned to read here, toddling between the stacks and the circle of low tables and cushions with puzzles and games. When they were old enough, we got them their own library cards, and it was a regular weekday ritual to come to the library after school so they could pick up their holds and select from the serendipity of the shelves. I’ll admit that when I had to park my car downtown, the library became my home base, where I would start and end my errands for the day. I enjoyed the ease of passing through from the back door to the front and back again. On weekend afternoons, we’d toggle between the library and the recreation center playground next door, never worried about the vicissitudes of Georgia weather. 

On my own, I looked forward to Georgia Center for the Book gallery openings and book launch lectures. I enjoyed seeing what the librarians selected each month to celebrate everything from gardening to queer history. The library was the heart of our community, and so we decided to give back. We made a monthly donation to the Library Foundation and contributed books for the county-wide book sale. In fact, I had a large box of books in my trunk on the afternoon of February 2 and had just stepped out of my car to deliver them when I saw people streaming out of the library’s back door. It was a little after 5:00 p.m. and a man had just shot his acquaintance after an altercation near the internet computers. I turned around and drove away.

When I came back to the library twelve days later, new security protocols were in place. The front door was locked, and bag inspections and metal detectors slowed entrance and egress at the back. The mood inside the building was somber; it was almost empty. 

Leaving the building that afternoon, I felt sad. A delicate balance had shifted. Our library, which worked so hard to welcome everyone, including those who really needed somewhere else to go during the day, had been wounded. Now, with security measures in place to try to ensure the safety of the staff and patrons, members of our community would think twice about spending time there. Young families might opt for another option, knowing how hard it can be to wrangle kids through security and leave snacks behind. Elderly patrons and folks with prosthetics might not want to be bothered with the hassle of explaining their metal body modifications to the officers on duty. 

When I reached out to the head librarian to ask what the community could do to show our support for the library, she said she hoped we’d all come back. People need to check-out books,  attend events at the library, sign up for programs, and keep showing up.

I want to show my support in that way, but I also want us to think critically about what it means to create a place of welcoming and belonging that is also safe and secure. So often, standard security measures are implemented forever, changing the experience for everyone when other ways to manage the causes of that insecurity are not considered. (When I worked at the 9/11 Memorial Museum in New York City, the advent of modern security measures everywhere in the wake of the terrorist attacks was discussed by the curatorial team as something worthy of interpretation near the museum’s security line. Those security measures have not changed in 25 years.) 

The elephant in the room is the population of unhoused people who find shelter at the library. Although I applaud Dekalb County for taking measures to address the needs of this population, a day shelter located far from the Decatur MARTA seems unlikely to meet the needs of the people who came to this place specifically. Perhaps there are other ways for the county to invest in meeting the needs of this community. Social workers could be hired to offer resources and get to know them as individuals. PAD units could patrol the library on a regular basis, monitoring the environment for behavioral hazards and concerns. 

Security is essential, but so is an approach to public spaces that allows them to remain exactly that-- public spaces. I want the library to belong to all of us without making anyone feel unsafe or unwelcome. We need to find the right solutions to our collective problems that don’t drive those who can afford it to seek private spaces (like book stores and member-based clubs), leaving our public spaces to serve mainly those left behind. A solution that meets the educational and community mission of the library will take hard work and commitment from all of us. We may need to respond more proactively to behavior that deviates from expectations (like panhandling, bathing in the public bathroom, spending more than a few hours in spaces at a time). We may need to invest in more personalized solutions to avoid one-size-fits-all security measures that limit opportunities for enjoyment and ease of use for all. 

Together, we can love our library by showing up and insisting that it remain an open and welcoming place for everyone seeking to benefit from its essential offerings.