This morning, I was offered a job at the library, and I haven’t stopped crying since.
There’s a multitude of reasons why: because I desperately needed a job that wasn’t at a restaurant, because I was offered another, better paying position elsewhere, because it means that so much is going to change in the coming weeks and I do not handle change well.
But mostly, I’ve been crying because … it’s the library.
My earliest, softest memories happen there. I remember exactly what my first library card looked like. How excited I was to get to see my name on the back, written in my mother’s beautiful, rounded handwriting, her keepsake from growing up in the 80s. I remember excitedly sliding my books in the drop off box and making a beeline for the children’s section, but only being allowed to check out a few books so we don’t lose them. That’s okay, we’ll be back next week anyway.
When I start kindergarten, I can already read. (Thanks, Mom and Dad!) In fact, I can read at a 3rd grade level. I like the reading corner during Specials the most. It has a bean bag chair. But none of my friends go to the reading corner, so I feel lonely. I ask to change my Specials to the Make-Believe corner so I can play with my friends. I can read at home.
In the first grade, we moved, which meant the library I used to go to was too far away. It’s okay, school has a library too. I love library class. I’m an Accelerated Reader. I love taking tests on what I’ve read. I love that my teachers let me check out books way beyond my reading level. I can read at a 5th grade level now. I want to read the Guinness Book of World Records. The librarian doesn’t have any of the new ones, just the old ones. They’re not as exciting, but I look at them anyway. My mom offers me the Harry Potter series. I look at the pictures, then give it back to her. Even though I can read well past my grade level, I still like books with pictures.
I visit our new library. It’s not as nice as the old one, but there’s still books, so I don’t care. I read everything. I realize there’s more to the library than just fiction books. I check out cookbooks. I check out craft books. I check out how-to-draw books. I try so many things, and give up so many times.
But I keep reading. I have my library card number memorized so I don’t even have to pull it out of my mom’s purse when I eventually learn how to place holds online. I beg my parents to drive me to the library so I can pick up my holds. I complete every Summer Reading Program weeks before they end. I eat a lot of personal pizzas.
I start drifting out of the children’s area into … the Young Adult section. I read books about teenagers falling in love, making out, talking about s-e-x. I am raised Catholic. I can’t believe these kind of books are at the library. I keep reading them. My parents have no idea. It feels like a sin, but I got these books at the library, so how bad can it be?
I learn about banned books. I’ve read a few for school. In the sixth grade, some parents were concerned that we had to read The Giver. My mom told me not to finish it until she had read it too. After she did, she said it was okay if I wanted to finish it. I already had. Besides, I was reading The Hunger Games, and that was way worse. Tumblr tells me about a banned book called Looking For Alaska. It’s not at my school library, so I place a hold on it at the public library.
I realize that right next to the YA section is the graphic novel/manga section. Books with pictures? That aren’t for babies? Surely you jest. I start reading graphic novels, manga, cartoon compilations. I want to be a cartoonist. I trace the pictures in these books at home. I start writing comic strips about things that happen in my life.
I read Alison Bechdel’s Dykes to Watch Out For because, budding young feminist I am, I heard about something called “the Bechdel Test” on Tumblr. I am too young, but I like the drawings and the characters. Girls kissing girls? That’s actually a real thing? Also, what is a dyke? None of my favorite movies pass the Bechdel test. I am disappointed in myself.
In high school, I become overwhelmed by everything. But I keep reading. I finish every book assigned to me, even if I hate them. I read more graphic novels in my free time because I want to be an illustrator now. I check out CDs from the library and burn them onto my laptop so I can make mixtapes for my friends. I borrow the Scott Pilgrim vs The World soundtrack, and listen to Anthems for a Seventeen Year Old Girl on repeat and think about killing myself. I am admitted into partial hospitalization for two weeks. I return the CD to the library on my way home. I don’t go back to the library for a long time.
In college, the campus library is my refuge. I’m scared to go to the public library because I haven’t been in ages and I’m worried I have thousands of dollars in overdue fees. But the campus library isn’t a part of that. I explore every one of its three floors. I find the best corners to study in, the best spots to people watch, the worst salads I’ve ever eaten in my life in the library cafe. I buy coffees with spare change. I reserve private study rooms to memorize paintings, artists, years, locations. I write so, so many papers. The library is the only place I am motivated to get work done.
COVID hits. I can’t go to the library anymore. I can’t buy $2 black coffees while I work on my thesis anymore. I can’t sit in a booth and watch everyone pretend to study while I also pretend to study. I cry. But I finish. I finish my thesis. I finish my Bachelor’s. I graduate in May 2021. I walk across the stage, pull down my mask for a picture. Later that night, I drive home and cry. I feel like a fraud.
I got just about finished with this post and realized it was overwhelmingly long. So, I have split it into two. check out the library, part two for the thrilling conclusion to my daytime drama.
for art’s sake 