Taking drag story hour to the library board, the right way

Commentary. This piece argues a position, and says so.

Quick answer: Don't go in angry and don't go in alone. Get the library's actual programming policy, decide with your wife what one change you want, and ask for that change by name in three minutes or less.

Why so many parents object

Start with what the objection isn't. Most parents who push back on drag story hour aren't claiming the picture books are filthy. Many events are tame on the surface: a costume, a rainbow wig, a children's book read aloud.

The objection is about the choice. Drag grew up as adult nightclub entertainment, and its stock in trade is exaggerated, performed sexuality. Parents ask a fair question. Out of every possible way to get a four-year-old interested in books, why was this one picked? Public libraries have a long list of people who read to kids beautifully. A retired teacher. A local fireman. A grandmother with a voice for the wolf.

The second objection runs deeper, and I'll state it plainly. We believe boys are boys and girls are girls, and that small children shouldn't be taught otherwise by a taxpayer-funded institution. A child of four or five can't weigh competing ideas about sex and identity. He takes what the grown-up in the room tells him. When the event is built around the performer's persona rather than the book, the lesson is the persona. Call that what it is: an idea being handed to your child, and nobody asked you first.

The third is simple. It's your kid. Parents don't owe a library board their reasons. The board owes parents an explanation.

None of this requires contempt for the person in the costume. He or she is somebody's neighbor. Argue against the program and the process. Leave the person alone.

Find out what you're actually dealing with

Anger is cheap, and boards have heard plenty of it. Facts are rare. Spend a week getting them.

• Who runs it? Is it a library-sponsored program, or an outside group renting a meeting room? The answer changes everything. A library has broad discretion over its own programming. A public body that rents rooms to outside groups generally can't turn one away based on its viewpoint. That's general information, not legal advice. If it comes to that, talk to a lawyer in your state.
• Who approved it? Ask the children's librarian, politely. Was it the director, a committee, the board?
• What's the written policy? Libraries typically have a programming policy, a meeting-room policy and a collection policy. Ask for all three. If they won't hand them over, your state's open-records law will.
• What's the age range? Events marketed to toddlers and kindergartners are the ones that draw the strongest reaction, and for good reason.

Write down what you find. Dates, names of documents, exact wording on the flyer.

Know how the board works

Library boards are public bodies. They post agendas ahead of time, usually on the library's website, and most set aside a public comment slot. Three minutes is common. Some require you to sign up before the meeting starts. Check yours.

Some trustees are appointed by the city council or county. Some are elected. Either way, they're mostly volunteers who took the job because they like libraries, and many have never faced a packed room. That's your opening and your responsibility. A packed room full of shouting gets headlines and gives the board a reason to call you a mob. A calm room gets a vote.

Settle it at your own table first

If you're married, do this before anything else. Sit down with your wife and agree on three things: what you object to, what you want changed, and who speaks.

If you two aren't aligned, the board will find the gap in about ninety seconds. I wrote about what to do when you and your wife don't agree. The subject there is money, but the method works for anything. Disagree in the kitchen, not at the microphone.

Then keep it a family matter. Holding the line at home means you decide what your kids see, calmly and consistently, whatever the board decides. Leave the kids home on meeting night.

Write your three minutes

Three minutes is about 400 words at a normal pace. Write it out. Read it aloud once with a timer.

Open with who you are. "I'm a father of three and I've used this library for eleven years." Specifics work. Then make one ask. Not five.

Good asks sound like this:

• A written policy that sets age-appropriate standards for programs aimed at children under eight.
• Advance notice to parents of who the presenter is and what's being read.
• Board review of any program for young children that isn't led by library staff.
• Programming for that age group focused on reading and language, with the book as the point.

Then tie it to the library's own purpose. A children's story hour exists to build vocabulary and a love of books. Ask whether this event does that better than the alternatives. You're not demanding anything unreasonable. You're asking the board to apply its own stated mission.

Leave out names of performers, screenshots of their social media, and anything you can't source. If you can't back it up, don't say it. One careless exaggeration lets the board dismiss everything else you said.

What to do when they say no

They might. Boards often side with their staff, and some will cite professional library associations that oppose restricting programming. You can disagree with those associations and still be told that's the policy.

You have more moves than the microphone.

• Follow up in writing. A two-paragraph email to every trustee the next morning does more than people think.
• Come back. Show up to the next meeting and the one after. Most opposition disappears after one night. Regulars get remembered.
• Apply for a seat. Trustee openings often draw almost no applicants. A man or woman who shows up with a clear head and a calendar wins more fights than a crowd.
• Offer something better. Propose a father-and-kids reading hour on Saturday mornings and volunteer to run it. Leaving a place better than you found it applies to institutions too.

And the last move belongs to you alone. You can skip the event. Your kids can read at home, at a different branch, or in your living room with you. The board controls its calendar. You control your own front door.

The line worth keeping

A public library is a public servant, and servants answer questions. You don't have to shout to ask yours. You just have to ask, clearly, in person, with your wife beside you. Most people never do.