Stacks

I grew up in libraries.

My dad was a professor. When he wasn’t teaching, he was also a research librarian, and his office was located accordingly. As a kid, I always thought he had the best office building on campus.

My mom was a nurse. On weekends, my dad would take my sister and me to his office to let Mom rest between shifts. I spent my Saturdays combing through the college’s juvenile section — sleuthing with Encyclopedia Brown and Nancy Drew; flying to (or escaping from) fantastical places like Krakatoa; pretending I was Claudia from The Babysitters’ Club*; discovering the wonders of scratch-and-sniff. I especially loved Sundays, when the library was technically closed, and Dad the librarian let us have free reign of the stacks.

My dad — who didn’t start learning English until he was 23 (among numerous other things, thanks to the Cultural Revolution), but now knew the language better than any native speaker I’ve met — was adamant I appreciate language and have a thirst for knowledge.

So, I read.

When I was 8, he made me read as many classics as I could in one summer. I got away with the abridged versions for most stories, but Huckleberry Finn was the exception; it took me nearly a month to get through. I still wince when I think of Mark Twain.

When we weren’t at the college library, we were at the town library. My dad became “that guy who brings in the box.” We would march in every week with a recycled-paper box, and pack it so full with books the cardboard seams could barely hold them. Colorful children’s books, young adult novels, fiction, non-fiction; my sister and I ate them all up. I read between classes, during classes, before bedtime, past bedtime — my parents would check that I was actually asleep, and not under the covers devouring yet another book.

When I went off to work in a college myself, I landed one of the best, and most elusive, jobs on campus: library assistant. (It tied for first with gym attendant: those guys basically got paid to work out and force others to listen to their terrible music choices.) I didn’t enjoy college. Many of my peers were immature wanna-be frat guys (despite the fact that our campus did not allow Greek life) and repressed, over-compensating private school girls. I voluntarily took the night shifts, the ones that ended at 1 am; as well as the shifts during events where the rest of campus was surely getting drunk. I preferred shelving books in the 914s (travel) to dealing with my classmates. That job, and the lovely librarians I worked with, were one of the few bright spots in an otherwise forgettable college experience.

The first time I walked into the American Library in Paris, memories came flooding back, like an old relationship that never had closure. The musty smell. The peace. The quiet. The knowledgeable-looking librarians, who almost all wore glasses. Best of all, the books — I felt like I was surrounded by old friends again.

I signed up to volunteer at the Library. By chance someone was leaving soon, and after seeing my experience they had me fill her position: Shelver. Everyone starts out shelving, they told me. I didn’t mind — I was a whiz at the task after years of practice: the shift was four hours; I always finished within two.

At first, it was beautiful; it felt like a joyous reunion. The books, I had missed them. Every few shelves, a spine would pop out at me and I’d lose track of where I was in the Dewey Decimal System. The 950s (Asian history) always got the most of my attention. They always have.

Something about the Library didn’t feel right though. It lacked the warmth I’d felt in the libraries of my past. Maybe it was the cost of membership; maybe it was simply because I had to shelve for hours without human interaction. Besides the books, I love libraries for the chance to be with like-minded people; I’ve never met a librarian I didn’t get along with. Yet here I was mute; always buried in the basement or the stacks.

As a student, I could at least listen to my iPod while I shelved. Here, I just felt used. I couldn’t make friends and I wasn’t being paid, so what was I toiling away for? Week after week, I told myself I should quit. But week after week, just as I would start shelving, promising this would be the day I quit — the books would change my mind. They walked me away from that ledge as I shelved: I loved seeing the new arrivals come in, wondering who was reading the biography of Gershwin, discovering outdated travel guides.

I stopped volunteering at the Library earlier this month. I finally gained the willpower to resist the siren call of the stacks; I sadly said goodbye to the few people I’d met, none of whom I’d gotten to know as much as I would have liked. For a number of reasons, it was time, and it had to be done.

I don’t know the next time I’ll work in a library again. I already miss shelf-reading the 914s.

*I will hug anyone who gets that reference.