Book people and their books

When I was a boy, libraries were my cathedral, books my sanctuary.

I come from a family that saw reading as something more—much more—than a pastime. It was a launch pad, an escape hatch, a ladder out of a deep hole—pick your metaphor.

My grandfather on my mother’s side was the first member of his family to attend and graduate from college. He became a small-town schoolteacher and principal.

On pleasant evenings, he and the young minister of his church would get together to discuss a book they’d both read. More likely, they’d argue, genially, respectfully, about it, because the minister was a New Deal Democrat and my grandfather was a dyed-in-the-wool Republican.

Nearly 20 years after my grandfather’s death, the minister married my wife and me. He told me at one point about how much he enjoyed those debates with my grandfather about books, how much those long-ago evening discussions meant to him.

My father was the first member of his family to graduate from college. The son of a day laborer of immigrant stock, Dad wasn’t as bookish as my grandfather or my mother.

But my father read nonetheless, devouring the sports section of the newspaper every day.

My mother, herself a schoolteacher, taught me the rudiments of reading before I went to kindergarten.

When I started attending school, I discovered the library there. I began taking out as many books as the school librarian would allow.

As we got to know each other, she pointed me toward books I would like. It was years before I figured out that she was directing me toward more challenging work, stretching and expanding my young mind.

Back then, I just thought she was a nice lady who knew a lot about books.

Obviously, she knew a thing or two about young boys with curious minds, as well.

Before long, I began to haunt the public library, too. The librarian there soon knew me by name. Noting my interest in biographies, she, too, began to push me toward more demanding material. When my reading interests expanded, so did her recommendations.

My family was of modest means. We had a few stray volumes, but no real book collection of our own.

So, the library was a lifeline.

The message—never explicit, but real nonetheless—my parents sent was that, if I wanted to make anything of myself, I needed to learn more than others did.

That message backfired when, during my junior high and high school years, I took to reading books that interested me while I was in classes that didn’t. I’d sit in the back of the room with a tome wedged between my lap and desk, turning the pages surreptitiously and glancing up every now and then to try to fool the teacher into thinking I was paying attention.

That rarely worked.

But I also rarely got into any genuine trouble.

Most teachers didn’t want to discourage a student—any student—from reading.

For years, I thought it was the books alone that taught me and helped me build what’s been a satisfying career.

Lately, though, I’ve come to realize that the other people who valued books and reading—my parents, the librarians, the teachers—made an enormous difference, too.

They all knew that I was reading omnivorously and therefore indiscriminately. They also knew this meant that, from time to time, I would encounter ideas that were troubling, even offensive.

But they understood something important—namely, that a mind or, for that matter, a values structure can only hone itself by encountering notions that challenge it.

We’ve just started Banned Books Week.

Normally, we’re encouraged to show our commitment to free expression by reading a banned book. That’s fine, but this year we should do more.

There are people in this country now—including Indiana’s Republican candidate for lieutenant governor—who want to restrict access to books and ideas. They think their judgment is superior to that of the librarians, the teachers and the readers themselves.

That’s left our librarians and teachers under siege.

So, this year, in addition to reading a banned book, find a way to let a librarian or teacher know you value what they do.

Make a donation.

Send a thank-you note.

Or just give them a pat on the back.

You’ll be glad you did.

There are young minds out there counting on these people.

This post was originally published on here