A Living Room for Learning: The Story of the De La Salle Library

When Elaine Seed arrived at De La Salle, the library was a relic of another era. Built in the 1960s, it still wore its dark wood paneling proudly, with long tables, packed shelves, and an old sofa that practically invited students to nap. There were card catalogs, microfiche, newspapers stacked in back rooms, and very little that felt warm or inviting.

Brother Robert gave Elaine a simple but ambitious charge: take what had become a “dead zone” and turn it into a place students wanted to be. Elaine later summed up that challenge simply: “It couldn’t just be a place to sit quietly. It had to feel human.”

That mission would guide the next 28 years.

Early on, Elaine realized she wasn’t just managing books, she was learning the culture of an all-boys school from the inside out. Her desk sat in the middle of the library, and within weeks she was introduced to student humor in unforgettable fashion. Surprises hidden throughout her desk drawers became her unofficial welcome gift. “I remember thinking, welcome to an all-boys school,” she laughed later. Elaine leaned in, learning how boys learn, how they communicate, and how much they need spaces where they feel seen rather than controlled. As she put it, “Once I stopped being shocked, I started listening, and that’s when everything changed.”

By the late 1990s, it was clear that the library itself needed more than cosmetic change. While public libraries had moved fully into the digital age, De La Salle’s catalog was still wooden drawers and index cards. Elaine began the long process of putting the collection online, teaching information literacy, and helping students understand how to research, cite sources, and avoid plagiarism; skills that would later set them apart in college classrooms. She often reminded students, “Google gives you answers. Research teaches you how to think.”

When the new library opened in 2001, it didn’t just change the look of campus; it changed the academic and cultural heartbeat of De La Salle.

Designed with natural light, open sightlines, and flexible spaces, the new library reflected Elaine’s belief that a library should be “lively, current, and connected to the culture it serves.” Students helped shape it, scribbling ideas on posters set out for feedback. The result was not a silent monument to books, but a shared space that belonged to them. Elaine liked to say, “If students see their fingerprints on a space, they’ll take care of it, and each other.”

The impact was immediate. The library became a gathering place, one with clear expectations, but also warmth. Elaine believed that if students were going to ask for help, whether with a citation, a research question, or even a borrowed tie for Mass, they had to feel welcome first. “If a student doesn’t feel comfortable,” she said, “I’ve lost my teachable moment.”

Programs grew alongside the space. Information literacy classes became a cornerstone of the academic program, especially for freshmen and juniors. Research scavenger hunts turned databases and Dewey numbers into games. Spartan Guides (digital research hubs curated for specific classes) gave students a head start before they ever typed in a search term.

The library also quietly met needs that went far beyond academics. When Elaine noticed the same boys repeatedly forgetting liturgy clothes, she suspected the issue wasn’t memory, it was access. What began as a simple clothing loan program grew into a lifeline for students who needed it, reinforcing the idea that the library was a place of dignity, not judgment. Elaine explained her philosophy this way: “You can’t separate learning from life. If a student is worried about what he’s wearing, he’s not thinking about Plato.”

Under Elaine and her colleagues, the library also became a hub for creativity and fun: book clubs for struggling readers, STEM activities like bristle-bot races and Lego days, comic book weeks, and hands-on science programming that invited students to explore without fear of being graded. One book club selection, The Hate U Give, became a badge of pride. Students carried it across campus a little taller, a little more confident.

Even in moments of crisis, the library proved its value. During 9/11 and later during a nearby gas line explosion, it served as the campus’s information center—the only place with outside phone lines and real-time updates. In emergencies, the library wasn’t just a room with resources; it was the nerve center of the school.

Looking back, Elaine sees the library not as a building, but as a promise. “Every exemplary school has a strong library program,” she said. It’s where students learn how to think, how to question, and how to find their footing, academically and personally. It’s where they learn that no question is stupid, that help is always available, and that they belong.

More than two decades after the new library opened, its furniture still holds up, its shelves still reflect the curriculum, and its purpose remains clear. It is, as Elaine intended from day one, not just a place to study, but a place where young men feel valued, heard, and at home.