“It was either find that picture of Janet Jackson’s boob or put the whole place on lockdown.” I nodded as the head librarian finished filling me in about the morning shift.

I was “outside the bubble,” a new intern at a library in Grafton, Ohio. We were standing in the sunlight just outside of the library, kibitzing with our patrons as they wandered back from chow. Across the yard a baseball game was trying to take shape.

Once we heard the bell she stubbed out her cigarette and unlocked the library. The little group that had gathered by the door filed in. Our patrons signed in and I stood at the desk, taking their badges while they borrowed newspapers and magazines.

So, I had missed a lot this morning. A boob picture escaping into the population and the ensuing search and rescue. Honestly, I kinda wish I had been there.

I’d been an intern there for a month or two. It was different than some of the libraries I’d worked at, but not too much. It was located in a prison facility and there was a law library sort of jammed into the back of it. Like many underfunded libraries the collection was primarily donated, which led to a largely random collection where maybe 30 percent of the collection actually circulated. (If you think that people will read anything if they’re bored enough, think again.) I weeded a lot of books while I was there—books that must have been sent there after being rejected for donation absolutely everywhere else. The Horse and Buggy Doctor. A Day in the Life of a Family of Badgers. A whole series of books about how to prepare for Y2K.

I thought a lot about my personal politics while I was there. I was trying to weed some of the collection and replace it with books the patrons requested—some books in Spanish, some true crime, books about sports. I had a lot of power in that role because what I took out and brought in affected individuals who completely and utterly lacked access to other materials. In effect, I could dictate the direction of the collection and my views of the prison system could affect that. For example, if I was a big fan of the rehabilitative model of prisons I could fill the library with self-help and religious books and take out all the romances and gangster novels. If I was into the punitive model I could just take whatever people offered and offer it as an undeserved gift. I didn’t want to be either. I just wanted to be a librarian.

Librarians have a code of ethics. Really. It’s all spelled out by the American Library Association, but for me it sums up like this: serve everyone equally and to the best of your ability. Don’t censor or permit censorship. When you are serving your patrons, don’t let yourself or your political views get in the way.

I didn’t want to let myself get in the way. I had my opinions about the prison system. But those opinions really, really needed to be irrelevant.

I learned so much at that library. I loved being there. It was a crazy, crazy mess a lot of the time, with no computers and a bunch of index cards in a box for the catalog. The staff was amazing, stretched way too thin but doing the best they could. I think my favorite event was the concert we threw for national library week; a bunch of our patrons brought guitars and sang their own songs, including a version of “Free Bird” that got everyone choked up. The head librarian thought it would be funny if I was the MC and told blonde jokes between each set (because I’m blonde. Get it?). God, I was nervous, in front of a huge crowd of tough-looking guys saying things like, “Why did the blonde turn left? Because her blinker was on.”

I stood up there that day thinking, “a library is a library.” Some are in schools and some are in prisons. But only one ever gave me a standing ovation.