On Saturday night, amid the maelstrom of far-right violence spreading across the country, Spellow library in Liverpool was torched by rioters. Hundreds of books were destroyed, and those of us who love the city and its many libraries are grieving.
Some of my earliest memories were made in Liverpool’s libraries. I remember being four years old, visiting Garston library with my parents, where my mum used its one-stop shop service to seek advice about council tax. A tiny Alice tumbling down her first literary rabbit hole, enchanted by the spines on the shelves, I chose a tattered Percy the Park Keeper novel – only to be told off by my dad moments later for pulling the book’s protective plastic off. Oops. Once we got it home, my dad promised, he would give it some minor surgery: tweezers to tauten the staples, a discreet dab of PVA glue, and it would heal up fine.
My father’s own relationship with Garston library extends back to the 1970s, when he used its resources to study when he was training as a printer. He became one of the youngest printers in the industry – hence his expertise in how books are made, and how to fix them. We protect books, he taught me that day, especially library books, because they expand our otherwise limited horizons, and it’s only fair to the readers who come after us that they should expand theirs, too.
When we moved from Garston, my new local library was Wavertree. My mum would take me there after school, leaving me poring over Anthony Horowitz’s books and Star Wars novelisations while she attended the library’s study sessions that accommodated her dyslexia. Guided by librarians, I discovered new authors such as Lewis Carroll and Roald Dahl, and my passion for reading grew. Somewhere deep in the city’s archives, there may still exist a tape of my 10-year-old self, fervently monologuing about how much I loved Dahl’s Matilda.
When I was entering my teenage years, the 2008 financial crash struck. Digital technologies upheaved the printing industry, my father was made redundant and we entered into what we call our “chicken noodle soup years”. Libraries were my sanctuaries during that period of financial struggle: austerity gnawed us, but I was rich in literature. I devoured Keats, Shelley, Wilde, Stoker, Austen and Shakespeare, never having to pay a penny. It was these books that equipped me for my application to study English at Oxford, and it is libraries that I have to thank for my getting in. The statistical improbability of a working-class, mixed-race Liverpudlian girl attending Oxford University was defied because of these places. They helped to fend off my impostor syndrome, too. I could belong in Oxford’s libraries because I already belonged in Liverpool’s, as all libraries share a simple, profound paradigm – the generosity of knowledge.
Before I learned how to love literature academically, I loved it practically, for what it could do for people. In Toxteth, my adult cousin attended literacy classes, acquiring reading skills that childhood deprivation had stymied. Friends of mine have attended group PTSD sessions in libraries, while others have used their services to enhance their IT skills. In retirement, my uncle researched our family tree using the records office on William Brown Street. Thanks to my own adolescent involvement with the Windows Project, which ran writing workshops in the city’s libraries, I witnessed primary children and disabled adults celebrate their multicultural scouse identities via poetry.
Recently, during a spell of serious illness, the third floor of Liverpool’s central library, where the city’s archives are kept, has been my convalescent haven. I’m of Chinese descent, and while developing a project about Liverpool’s immigration history, I have delved into the lives of those who came to the city from China, learning about their experience of racism, assimilation and acceptance. The library has been a vital reminder that we may always return to our roots to grow again.
On Saturday, when a friend called to advise my family to stay indoors because violent racists were prowling the streets, I had been planning to go to central library to return books. Instead, I stayed at home. That night, Spellow went up in flames, and my father reminded me of all the ways he taught me how to salvage damaged books when I was a little girl. How many now lie in ashes on County Road, beyond hope of repair?
These violent acts of hatred have broken my heart – but the coming days have brought a small semblance of hope. The immediate community response, including a viral gofundme campaign, has been a heartening reminder that there are so many of us who want to protect our libraries, not destroy them. Libraries are not only repositories of knowledge, they stand as citadels of human empathy and hope – and I know first-hand that they have the power to transform lives for the better.