The Library

There’s a certain unspoken nostalgia about coming home to a tiny suburban town when on break from college. Every day that I am home, it hits me like a wave that this tiny town used to be my world for 8 years before college.

I drove to the town library this morning. As I parked my car, I noticed I was one of 4 cars in a 50-car lot.

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When I was younger, I used to always wonder what it meant to be an adult. My parents prided themselves on giving me independence and ownership over certain aspects of my life, one of which was access to my mother’s library card. I still remember the day that my mother told me the account details to her library account. I felt like the most powerful 11-year old in the world. That tiny card and how-many-ever digits card number gave me the ability to check out any book that I’d like, and immerse myself in any story. I almost felt like my physical library card was a credit card of some sort, a way that I could identify myself and take ownership over a part of my life.

My mom would drive me over to the library and wait in her car, as I would walk through those 2 automatic doors and head straight for the “Holds” section. I’d see the Holds shelf packed with books, each one having a little slip with the account holder’s name. I am from a relatively small town, so I’d notice the names of my friends’ and classmates’ parents, and take a sneak peek at what they would be reading that week. After spending a considerable amount of time in other parts of the Holds section, I made my way down to the end of the aisle, where all the holds under the last name “A” stood. I’d pull out the 3-4 books that had a slip with my mother’s name and walk over to the checkout line.

The checkout lines at the library were always long, with parents and children checking out their books together. I’d notice that it was always the parent holding the library card, with their children holding their books. 11-year old me felt very old and wise, holding both the books as well as my card all on my own.

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9 years later, on this December morning, I’m rummaging through old cabinets at my parent’s house. A few days ago, I was able to log into my mother’s old account and place a hold for “Little Women”. Though my mother - amongst many others - have shifted to reading via devices such as Kindles or iPads, I have always preferred physical books. My mother and I searched our cabinets and shelves thoroughly for the little white card that would allow me to once again access the joy of immersing myself into another world.

I pull into the empty parking lot and walk through the same 2 automatic doors. The cold air inside hits me immediately, as I notice that I am the only non-employee in the library. Like a reflex, I head for the “Holds” section.

The once packed shelves now hold 4-8 books per last name initial, compared to the 30+ several years ago. I begin to examine the other last names as I used to do when younger, but realize that I fail to recognize any of the names on the shelf. Somberly, I walk over to the “A” section, and pull out the sole book with the slip holding my mother’s name.

After checking out my book, I walk back to my car, leaving no one other than employees in the once-vibrant library.

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On my drive home, I couldn’t help but reflect on the countless days and endless hours I’d spent at the library, from volunteering during the summers to simply reading a new story every week. I think about my younger sister, and children in my life who don’t seem to recognize the power of reading and visiting public libraries.

Public libraries offer an abundance of resources that are available for anyone to use, regardless of socioeconomic standing, race, gender, or other characteristics. It is one of the few places that can breed a sense of unparalleled imagination in our ever-changing world, yet is suffering in its appeal to children. Libraries were a safe-haven for me growing up, and I would love to preserve this haven for children in the years to come.