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Last spring, I took a trip up to Cedarburg, Wisconsin, to visit my cousin Margaret. It’s one of those postcard-perfect towns with historic brick buildings, hanging flower baskets, and a main street that hasn’t changed much in fifty years.
One afternoon, we stopped into the public library, a small but neat building tucked behind City Hall. Margaret wanted to return a gardening book, but we ended up staying longer than planned.
As we were walking in, we overheard a heated conversation at the front desk. A group of three women, well-dressed, polite but firm, were asking the head librarian, a woman named Susan, to remove a particular book from the children’s section. They said it didn’t align with “community values.”
Susan, who looked to be in her early sixties with silver hair and wire-frame glasses, listened carefully, nodded respectfully, and then said plainly, “We follow the guidelines of the American Library Association. I’m afraid we won’t be removing any books based on personal preference.”
The women didn’t raise their voices, but you could feel the tension. One of them said, “You’ll be hearing from the school board.” Susan just replied, “That’s your right.”
After they left, I asked her quietly if that kind of thing happened often.
She smiled and said, “More than you’d think. But my job isn’t to protect people from ideas. It’s to make sure they’re available, even the ones I don’t agree with.”
Margaret looked impressed. “Aren’t you afraid of losing your job?”
Susan shrugged. “I’m more afraid of losing my backbone.”
That stuck with me.
Not every act of courage comes with headlines or applause. Sometimes it’s just a woman in a small town, standing her ground behind a library desk, quietly refusing to let fear decide what children can learn.
