This story is very personal, and I’d like to dedicate it to Mary Baxter – retired CEO of Georgina Public Libraries.
I’ve written before about my love of books and libraries, and why serving on my local library board meant so much to me. But there’s a story I’ve never really shared.
I’ve alluded to the fact that I was homeless as a teenager. What I haven’t shared is one particular night that stayed with me forever.
At the time, I was an outpatient at Scarborough General Hospital, being treated for severe depression. The story of how I became homeless — and how I ended up there — is one for another day. But on this particular evening, after my appointment, I had nowhere to go.
At the corner of Lawrence Avenue and McCowan Road in Scarborough — and yes, I still spell Scarborough the old way — there was a small old brick library. It had brick steps and a tiny porch.
As night fell, I searched for somewhere safe to sleep.
The streets aren’t safe at night. Parks, despite their benches, can be even worse. So, I curled up in the corner of that little porch and prepared to spend the night there.
A librarian — whose name I no longer remember — must have been working late. When she came outside and saw me, she had every reason to tell me to move along.
She didn’t.
Instead, she did something extraordinarily brave.
She took me home.
Even now, writing those words brings tears to my eyes.
She fed me and gave me clean clothes. I hadn’t eaten properly in quite some time, and although I loved the meal she made, my body couldn’t keep it down. But none of that mattered as much as this: she gave me safety. She gave me kindness. She gave me a place to sleep.
I never forgot her.
That night deepened something I had already begun to believe about libraries and the people who work in them. Librarians understand humanity in a very particular way. They see people from every walk of life, and somehow they manage to meet them without judgment.
They simply help.
People say it takes a village to raise a child. She was part of mine.
If memory serves, she later helped connect me with a shelter — Stop 154 on Spadina Avenue. That, too, is a story for another day.
So do me a favour.
Go to your local library. Speak to a librarian. Tell them they matter.
Because they do.
My sixteen-year-old self knew it then.
And I still know it now.