I have one of the U.S.’s most controversial jobs. Moments like this make it all worth it.

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It was a quiet evening at the library, which isn’t always a given. I work at a busy city library in the Boston area, located directly across from a high school, so we spend a lot of time helping people print and scan documents, apply for jobs, and look for housing, and in between all that, we try valiantly to get the teens to please, please stop vaping.

So, this evening, keyboards clicking softly and the faint smell of Coco Loco vapor lingering, it was perfect timing when I was approached by a boy looking for book recommendations. He looked about 12 years old, with a round face and his library card at the ready. I’ll call him Jay.

“Excuse me, do you have the book Heartstopper?” He spoke quickly, more out of enthusiasm than nervousness. Heartstopper, by Alice Oseman, is an immensely popular web comic that became a published series, then an even more popular Netflix show. It’s about two teen boys who fall in love, and though they have ups and downs, the tone is romantic and sweet.

“Sure!” I said, typing the title into our catalog. “Though I don’t know if we have the first volume right now. It’s usually checked out.”

“That’s OK—I’ve already read all of them. I just want to read them again. Do you have any more books like Heartstopper?”

This is a relatively frequent request from teens and tweens, and I’ve found that when a kid asks for Heartstopper, it can be a code word—a way to seek out LGBTQIA+ titles without having to spell it out. So I began asking Jay more questions about what he was looking for to try to narrow things down.

“Are you down for books that aren’t graphic novels? There are Heartstopper books that are novels too.”

“No, I don’t like those books. They take too long to read.” Fair enough.

“Do you like books where girls are the main characters? There’s a series called Lumberjanes that’s about a group of girls who have adventures.” Also queer characters, but we’re feeling things out.

“No, I want books about boys.” Copy that.

“So there’s one called Check, Please! It’s about boys, but it’s also about hockey.”

“… How much hockey?”

“I think, like, a fair amount? They’re in college—”

“No, thank you.”

Through some trial and error, we determined that Jay was looking for exactly this: graphic novels, about boys, who are in high school, who fall in love with each other. (Thanks to the growing popularity of manga and web comics, which can run for dozens of volumes, there are a lot of options!) And for any title I suggested that fit these requirements, he would ask: “But do you think they end up together? Is it a happy ending?”

Looking at the titles I hadn’t read, I searched plot summaries and reviews, until I could say, “Yes, I think this one has a happy ending.”

“OK, I would like that one too.”

Any titles that we didn’t have in the library I placed on hold for Jay. And as the list grew, I could tell what he was looking for from these books: a sense of hope. He wanted stories of reassurance, proof that high school could be a place of acceptance, and romance, for boys who like boys. And he wanted as many of these stories as he could find. (He told me his mom had limited his book holds to 15 at a time.) So I found 15 books for him, about boys in high school who fall in love with boys, and, as per his request, “only ones with a happy ending.”

Toward the end of my conversation with Jay, which lasted for at least 30 minutes, a lanky older boy walked up and familiarly ruffled Jay’s hair—his brother, I figured. I paused for a moment, because I didn’t want to assume that Jay was OK with our conversation continuing as it had been in front of someone else.

But the older boy looked at the stack of books already in front of Jay, titles with covers of softly lit high school boys holding hands, and gently nudged Jay in the ribs, smiling.

“Don’t forget Mom’s 15-book limit.”

Jay rolled his eyes, already annoyed. “I won’t. Now go away!” Jay’s brother strolled off, and Jay turned back to me. “When I finish reading these, can you help me find more books?”

I felt a small rush of relief. Jay’s choice in books seemed to be no surprise to his family, and his brother’s teasing was about how many books he wanted to read, not their content. This was a kid whose family knew who he was, and there wasn’t a hint of embarrassment.

“Of course,” I told Jay. “I’ll keep thinking about more titles while you’re working your way through these.”

“It won’t take long,” Jay said, matter-of-factly. “I read a LOT.”

When I first made the decision to become a librarian, during COVID, I knew I wanted to help people, to provide access to books, information, and services that might enhance their lives. In hindsight, I had no idea what that would look like in practice, but the reality is that suggesting books is just a small part of what I do. I’ve helped people set up hearing aids, cancel an $80-a-month Hulu subscription that their husband with dementia had accidentally signed up for, and apply to work at Taco Bell. I’ve proofread letters painstakingly typed out to an incarcerated partner and helped an elderly woman open a tin of cannabis gummies. (She didn’t have the hand strength to bypass the child-safety lid and said she wasn’t sure who else would help, so she came to the library.)

I had no concept of how the world would change so significantly as I became a librarian. Public libraries are often first on the chopping block when towns and cities are looking to decrease their budgets. Somehow, it’s easier to argue for more police than more books. Libraries are enduring book bans, mental health crises, drug overdoses, and more as we try to provide resources and assistance far beyond our means, both fiscally and emotionally. (We can stock Narcan and take de-escalation training, but nothing prepares you for standing over a slumped, unresponsive person praying that they wake up, or a stranger yelling in your face that you’re a clone sent by Obama.) And during all of this, librarians like me, who help young patrons find books that reflect their inner lives, have been called pedophiles and harassed into resigning, if not fired.

I’m grateful that I work in a community where I still feel able to help kids like Jay find exactly the stories that they are looking for, but I don’t take it for granted. My heart breaks for the kids who are living in areas experiencing widespread and harmful censorship, and my heart breaks for the librarians who I know want to help them. My ability to provide all members of the public with diverse, inclusive narratives is, to me, a crucial part of librarianship. Because, like Jay, we all deserve to see ourselves in happy endings.

For all of the difficult moments I may experience during a week (being screamed at, disrespected, or having to play our least favorite library game: What’s That Smell?), I usually find that there’s at least one moment, once a week, that makes it all worth it.

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One evening, before the neighboring high school’s masquerade-themed homecoming dance last year, a teen was making small talk with me at the information desk. He was tall for his age, handsome in his black suit jacket and dark blue jeans, with his hair in neat cornrows. I found it sort of curious that he was killing time with me instead of heading over to the school, but he said he needed to stay at the library until just before closing to change his shoes.

Five minutes before close, he ducked into the bathroom as staff began to gather around the front door, getting ready to leave. He then emerged after all the other patrons had left, wearing his suit jacket, jeans, a beautiful black masquerade mask with an elegant feather, and a pair of 4-inch black stiletto heels.

Our staff immediately began to exclaim and snap in appreciation as he smiled, somewhat shy (and a little wobbly). After the library closed, we walked with him over to the high school and continued gassing him up as he crossed the street, his walk turning into a strut.

To be that place, where it is safe to wait until you can change into the right shoes, where it is safe to ask for books that feel like you. To be the people who are safe, who will find those books, who will send you off to homecoming with confidence. What a joy. What an honor. What a thing worth protecting.

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