They said our library was poisoning kids with pages, that ink could corrupt faster than drugs or TikTok; I unlocked the doors and put every book on trial.

I’m Tasha Green, the high school librarian. I file dreams by Dewey and teach freshmen how to fact-check a meme. Most days, my job is whispering. Tonight, it was a microphone.

At noon, a Facebook post went nuclear. A parent leader, Diane Porter, wrote that our shelves hid “graphic smut” and “radical propaganda.” The screenshots she shared were ripped from context—single panels, one paragraph. But screenshots move faster than context. By three, I had angry emails. By five, a sincere one from a custodian asking if he should cover the display cases “so they don’t break.”

I brewed coffee, straightened my cardigan, and taped a handwritten sign to the door: OPEN SHELF NIGHT — ASK ME ANYTHING.

The first to arrive were the quiet ones—teachers after grading, a pastor, a grandparent who’d donated the quilt hanging above the reading nook. Then came the heat: a camera on a selfie stick, four men wearing the same patriotic T-shirt, a handful of parents holding printed screenshots like warrants. And Diane, with her son, Evan. He hung back, hoodie up, sketchbook under his arm.

“Thank you for coming,” I said. “Here’s the plan. We’ll start with how selection works, then we’ll look at any book you want. Nothing hidden. No trick questions. I’ll answer, and if I don’t know, I’ll say so.”

“Do you have a parental control option?” someone called.

“Yes. Opt-out for specific titles or genres. We keep it on file and respect it. Your kid doesn’t check out what you don’t approve.”

Murmurs. A few nods. A camera light brightened.

I clicked a slide: our policy language. Age ranges. Professional reviews. The reconsideration form for challenges. The timeline. The committee membership: teachers, a counselor, two parents, a student, and me. No secret society, just paper and meetings.

“Let’s see the worst of it,” Diane said, waving a screenshot. “Page 147.”

“Great,” I said, and retrieved the book. I passed copies to the front row. “Page 147 is a panic attack scene. Two paragraphs later, the character asks for help. Please read the whole chapter.”

A man scoffed. “So it’s mental-health propaganda.”

“It’s a kid learning a word for what he already feels,” I said. “Names are flashlights.”

We kept going. A graphic novel with a same-sex crush—chaste, awkward, sweet. A memoir with a cuss word that earned gasps. A history book labeled “anti-American” for including the internment of Japanese Americans. I didn’t argue. I contextualized. Where it fit in curriculum. What students had written in reflection. How many checked it out. Where parents could opt out. I pulled the circulation stats. I explained that we shelved a Vietnam novel with both heroism and horror because truth rarely comes one flavor.

Halfway through, a voice behind me: “Do you have anything about feeling… stuck?”

Evan. Hoodie down now, curls showing. Diane reached for his sleeve, then stopped, unsure.

“Stuck how?” I asked.

“I draw,” he said, lifting the sketchbook—a city of windows and empty rooms. “Sometimes it’s like my head’s a house with the lights off. Mom doesn’t like me reading about… that.”

The room softened. Even the camera operator shifted.

I walked to the YA graphic shelves and pulled a book about a teen who uses art to climb out of a dark place. No lurid panels, just a staircase drawn one step at a time. “This one’s helped a few of our quiet kids,” I said. “You can read it here, with the door open. Your mom can sit next to you and veto pages she hates. I’ll bring tea.”

Diane flushed. “I’m protecting him.”

“Of course,” I said. “Protection is a verb with more than one method.”

We moved to Q&A. A pastor asked if faith books were welcome. “They already are,” I said, showing him the small religion shelf: C.S. Lewis next to a Quran next to a book about doubt. A grandfather asked about World War II narratives that don’t skip the ugly parts. I handed him three.

At the end, the room smelled like coffee and nervous sweat. I gathered the challenge forms, thanked everyone for coming, and kept the lights on for late browsers.

Diane lingered near the circulation desk. “I posted before I read,” she said finally. “It felt good to be sure.”

“It always does,” I said. “Certainty is the fastest drug.”

She looked at Evan, who was three chapters in, boots on the rung of his chair, breathing easier. “If we read it together?” she asked.

“Best policy I know,” I said, and checked the book to “In-Library Use” so they could share it without a fight at home.

We closed at ten. I erased the whiteboard and stacked chairs while the quilt on the wall glowed in the lamplight like a campfire. I thought about bans and algorithms and how loud fear gets when it’s fed.

Books don’t fear questions. They open at the spine and say, ask. The only stories that demand silence are the ones afraid of being read.