Dear Homer

Dear Homer,

The library in my town is terrible. Don’t get me wrong - they try. The staff is curteous. The books and spaces are well maintained. There’s a wide selection of DVDs and other non-book materials as well as free access to a robust internet connection. Additionally, the library maintains a presence on the web through which patrons have access to ebooks and other electronic materials.

The space smells old, but it’s a familiar kind of old smell, the stink of yellowing paper and deteriorating binding glue mixed with the omnidirectional oil-ink smell of flaking lacquer, the low perfume aging wood, and the invisible stone dust of crumbling plaster. I know these smells. I like these smells. They are, to me, fingerprints and signatures that make a place essentially “library”.

Oh. And all of this - the friendly staff, the bountiful resources, the familiar smells - is located within a mile of my home - walking distance, even for lazy people.

Considering all of that, “terrible” seems an unfair judgement, a childish silver-spoon tantrum instigated by an overabundance of perfection. And, it’s true, the space could be entirely perfect and wonderful, would, in fact be nearly ideal.

...if it weren’t for the people. The Other People

Other People are here, gabbing loudly on cell phones about probation and day care and “GOOD MORNING MRS. LAWRENCE, HOW ARE YOU TODAY?”. They hack and cough and wipe their hands on the furniture, snorting back mucus in long mumbling grunts, swallowing and gasping like marooned fish.

Other People sit alone at tables for four, their unzipped pocketbooks spilling contents like vomiting dogs, chatting loudly with other Other People at other tables, squawking like stupid birds. Other People fill the air with gaudy jarring ringtones because they cannot be bothered to silence their cell phones. They MUST answer every call and MUST have the conversation right there and in their LOUDEST possible voice.

Other People need help with the internet. Other People don’t know how to check their email. Other People don’t know how to sign out books or where the bathroom is or how much they owe in late fees or if the library carries Cars 3 on BlueRay (and no? And when will it come out? And now we must discuss at great length whether or not the movie will be made and what it might be about if it is to be made) and “I AM MOST LIKELY GOING TO CHANGE THE FORMATTING TO SOMETHING MORE AESTHETICALLY PLEASING BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW TO DO BLOCK QUOTES! CAN YOU HELP ME PLEASE?”

Other People are ruining everything. They cause the polite staff to speak loudly because Other People are speaking loudly.

Other People don’t return anything on time. Ever. And they certainly can’t be bothered with late fees. Why should they pay when they can just complain? Loudly! ALWAYS LOUDLY!

Other People break the keyboards and monitors in the library and don’t tell anyone until their are no keyboards or monitors that work quite right. And then, of course, Other People complain. And blame Other People.

Other People stand just outside the library doors smoking, arguing that the prominent ‘No Smoking’ sign refers to cigarettes and not cigars.

Other People are terrible drivers and lousy parkers. they clog the parking lot with idiot machines thrown about like children’s toys.

Other People treat the library like their own personal lounge, gabbing and chatting and stinking and stealing and breaking and laughing and picking their teeth with their hands while reading and wiping the sweat from their brows with the books and digging into their underwear and typing and digging into their armpits and typing and digging into their noses and typing and coughing into their hands and typing and smearing filth on the monitor and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing.

And never leaving. Other People NEVER leave. They stand out like idiot tattoo, obvious and wrong and permanent. Other People are forever.

My library is terrible, Homer, because my library is Other People. My library isn’t you.

To Other People, the library is an all-purpose generic space; a daycare center, a meeting house, a telephone booth, a public restroom, an internet cafe. They don’t know you like I do, Homer. And they don’t care.

I wish they knew you, Homer. I wish Other People could sample your cool indoors and gently humming air exchangers, the pristine carpets and carefully adjusting lighting, the polished desktops and modern computers - each one of them in perfect working order.

And your quietness, Homer. Oh how I wish Other People could understand the gift of near perfect silence, how much work can be done, how much learning can be done, how sweet and peaceful and thoughtful and inspiring it can be. And, even if in experiencing the beauty of silence they learn that it isn’t for them, I wish, Homer, that Other People would learn to respect other people’s love and need for quiet.  

I will miss you, Homer. I will miss the hundreds of hours of writing and study and resting and reading and scheduling and sorting. I will miss your inspiring halls. I will miss your timeless lighting and inviting spaces, and, mostly, your infinite delicate silence.

I hope one day to meet someone else like you, Homer, to find a space in which I am allowed and encouraged to be my best self, to stretch out in all directions or dive infinitely inward and discover new things. I hope I am able to find the the perfect glittering silence of pre-creation to which you first introduced me. I hope I am able to adjust to this new place, to find a way of fitting in here without feeling like a misplaced part.

One day, we may be lucky enough to have occasion to adventure together once again. But, most likely, this is goodbye for good. And saying goodbye makes me sad, and grateful, and proud, and lonely all at once.

You were kind to me in all the best and most important ways, Homer, and I’ll never forget you.

Sincerely,

Drew Brathwaite



P.S. There are armies of penises and vaginas on the walls in the first and fourth floor restrooms. You probably want to take care of that.

Best,

D

- May 6, 2015 [http://lib.uconn.edu/libraries/homer-babbidge-library/]