The Only One: Representation, Libraries, and the Power of Being Seen

January 10, 2025 at 1:52pm. That’s when I learned I’d been selected as a 2025 Library Journal Mover and Shaker.

The annual recognition doesn’t just highlight individual achievements—it also underscores the transformative role libraries play in shaping communities and advancing learning. It aims to showcase some of the brightest minds and most passionate advocates in our field—people driving positive change through creativity, vision, and unwavering commitment.

The news came during a particularly trying week, both personally and professionally, and it was a welcome way to close things out. These days, I rarely look for external validation. But I’ll be honest—it feels good when it comes.

I had to sit on the news until May 6, 2025. And I did—quietly—sharing it only with the CEO of my organization and my immediate family. Even then, I wasn’t sure if I’d make a big deal about it once the announcement dropped. Those who really know me know that I tend to downplay accomplishments. I’d rather celebrate the success of others. But receiving this recognition from Library Journal was significant.

For nearly four months, I waited, wondering who the other 49 individuals might be. I’ve always loved seeing the recipients—most of whom I don’t know, but every so often, someone I do. I’m not a trained librarian. In fact, I’ve never fully felt comfortable calling myself one. I prefer the term “library professional.” And because I don’t have a traditional library background, I’ve often found myself studying library websites, planning documents—and yes, recipient profiles from recognitions like this one.

This year was no different—except this time, my name was there.

As I browsed this year’s recipients, I was just as inspired as always. There was a government relations specialist (advocate) working to get literacy resources into the hands of new parents. A branch manager (change agent) who helped create a theme song for her branch and co-produces a podcast featuring longtime community members. A school librarian (educator) who designed homeschool curricula for Texas families based on both state requirements and parental input.

And then there was my favorite recipient of the year: my good friend Wang-Ying Glasgow. I had the privilege of working alongside her during my time with Memphis Public Libraries. Her official write-up is beautiful—but it still doesn’t fully capture how incredible she is. Her community engagement efforts are unmatched. I’m pretty certain that her signature event, BookStock Memphis, draws one of the most diverse audiences in the entire city. BookStock is the largest annual local authors festival in the Mid-South and, over more than a decade, has engaged over 600 local authors.

This is the joy and inspiration I’ve come to expect from reading the Library Journal Mover and Shaker profiles each year.

As I scrolled through the profiles with admiration, a quieter thought pressed in.

There was one glaring issue that stuck out to me as I browsed this year’s class.
I was the only Black male.

A Familiar Place: Being the Only One

This has been a familiar place for most of my life.

In middle school, it was an after-school writing club.
The comic book club at the local library.

In junior high, it was the marching band.
Karate class.
The hobby shop.

My graduate degree program.

And countless experiences between the first and the last.

There was nothing inherently wrong with any of those moments. There was no discrimination or barrier—aside from maybe the cost of graduate school. I was simply a kid—and then an adult—who found joy in an odd combination of interests. And while I suspect there’s someone out there who may take pride in being “the only one,” that’s never sat comfortably with me.

As I’ve shared before, I officially joined Memphis Public Library (MPL) in 2017 as a Senior Library Manager. Working alongside me was a small staff of three Black women—all of them incredible at their jobs. And once again, I was the only Black male.

Over my five years with MPL, I led dozens of community engagement events—efforts designed to show our community what the library made possible. Time and time again, I’d hear: “I didn’t know the library offered that!”

Sometimes they were referring to newer tools, like podcasting equipment or video editing software. Other times it was resources we’d offered for years—genealogy databases, job training tools, or even free meeting rooms. And yet, no matter how long we’d had them, the surprise was real.

But what mattered even more was what came after the surprise—when people began to engage. When they realized the library wasn’t just about books, but about building something with them. I watched that shift happen often: from disbelief, to curiosity, to belonging.

Still, there was another phrase I heard that stuck with me even more:
“Oh, I didn’t know Black men worked in libraries!”

According to the Department for Professional Employees, AFL-CIO, the lack of racial and ethnic diversity in the library profession has barely shifted in the past 15 years. In 2023, just over 81% of librarians identified as white. Seven percent identified as Black or African American. And if I had to take an estimated guess I’d say that less than half of that 7% were men.

What people were saying to me wasn’t based on stereotype—it was a reflection of the profession.

During my outreach efforts, I met young people—and a few college-aged and middle-aged Black men in particular—who had never imagined themselves working in libraries. But they resonated deeply with the mission, the impact, and the stories of library professionals. Because of the way I shared my own journey and intentionally created space for them, a few of those men are now part of the library system—one of them even holds a management role. I’ve also had the opportunity to speak with undergraduate students considering a Master’s in Library and Information Science, and more than once, I’ve heard this: hearing from a Black man already working in the field made the idea feel not just possible, but necessary.

Representation Is Not a Bonus—It’s the Work

Please know: I’m not writing this to disparage Memphis Public Library or Library Journal. I think both have done - and continue to do - meaningful work to create pathways for hiring, training, and elevating Black voices in this field.

I’m writing because, in a time when anti-diversity, equity, and inclusion efforts are on the rise, what I know for sure is that representation matters—especially in the library profession.

In a field where Black professionals still make up just a small fraction of the workforce, this isn’t just a diversity issue. It’s a structural gap. It affects cultural connection, public trust, and innovation. When staff don’t reflect the communities they serve, it becomes harder to build relationships that lead to real impact. It’s harder to design programs that resonate. It’s harder to co-create spaces that feel safe, relevant, and inspiring.

Representation matters because it shows people that they belong. It challenges outdated ideas about who gets to steward knowledge and lead community learning. And it matters because diverse leadership has a multiplying effect—it shapes policy, influences hiring, and inspires future generations to step into the field.

At a time when conversations around diversity, equity, and inclusion are becoming more polarized, it’s important to remember the heart of this work: ensuring that everyone has a real seat at the table. Some of the current pushback reflects deep questions about identity, belonging, and fairness—questions that deserve thoughtful engagement. But rather than retreating from these efforts, we need to double down on the kind of representation that transforms—not just who is present, but how systems operate, whose stories are honored, and what possibilities we make room for.

Because when we talk about representation in libraries, we’re not just talking about staffing.

We’re talking about the future of public trust.
About what democracy looks like in practice.
About how we build civic spaces that reflect the fullness of our country’s story—and its possibilities.