The Library
When I was little, in the days before I was even tall enough to reach a computer, I used to read. A lot. It didn't matter what it was, I would read just about anything and everything I could get my hands on. I was drawn in by that alluring, magical world of reading, which forced me to stimulate the very extremes of my imagination. Apparently it was so extreme that my kindergarten teacher actually let me read to the class one day (although whether she did so more to get a break, I never did find out…). Fast-forward a couple of years to the day when two local librarians from the Perrot Library came to visit, Mrs. Mac and Mrs. K. They came to advertise a program specifically for elementary school students: Y2C2, the Young Young Critics' Club ("Young" was used twice in the name because there was another program for middle school students, dubbed Young Critics' Club). This weekly program gave a select group of elementary school students the opportunity to read and rate all genres of books for the age group, before they were published. Upon hearing this, I was immediately hooked, barely believing that I had met these seemingly goddesses reincarnated. I came home that afternoon, begging my mom to take me to the library so I could schedule an interview (and I thought the college admissions process was hard!). I completed an application (questions such as "what is your favorite genre?" really separated the men from the boys back then) and interviewed with the two librarians. A day later, my mom got a phone call from Mrs. Mac saying that I had been accepted. The first meeting was the following Friday; I could hardly wait.
As expected, I absolutely loved it. I looked forward to Y2C2 meetings each week, though my parents dreaded the experience of having their son bring back even more books than usual. The subject matter of these books varied: one described a boy who was framed for stealing Zeus' thunderbolt, in a world where Greek mythology coexisted with modern civilization in the United States; another told the story of a boy who happens upon a strange contraption while living in a Paris railway station. While carrying this pile of books home, I felt like the coolest kid on the block, a member of some exclusive, secret club. This club became a huge part of my life, and when I had "graduated" Y2C2, I signed up for the following program: Young Critics' Club, the middle school equivalent of Y2C2. Ms. Clark, a third librarian, hosted the Young Critics' Club. Not only did Y2C2 and Young Critics' Club form a large part of my life, but they were also consistent, even as I changed schools from Riverside Elementary to Brunswick. Meanwhile, I continued to idolize these two amazing women, who had not only given me a unique opportunity to fulfill one of my passions but also encouraged me to utilize it to my greatest potential.
One instance occurred during the summer before seventh grade, as excitement was building in anticipation of the release of the final Harry Potter book. Whenever I would go to the library, both of them would hand me a bookmark along with whatever book I was checking out, telling me to keep it safe. After I had received seven different bookmarks, the reason was revealed: having all seven bookmarks entered me into a lottery for a copy of the book! Whether it was due to amazingly good fortune, or perhaps the fact that I was the only one who had bothered to collect all seven bookmarks (besides my sister, since I had requested two copies of each), I won. Waking up on a Saturday morning to receive the news via a phone call from Mrs. Mac herself, I was ecstatic – so ecstatic, in fact, that I accidentally hung up the phone without asking when and where I could get my new prized possession (until my mom promptly redialed, probably due to her desire to read the book herself). That event still stands out as one of my favorite childhood memories, even to this day.
Unfortunately, it seemed that Fate had other intentions, only allowing this source of joy in my life to occur for so long. It began with a phone call on a night in January, from the mother of one of my friends in Young Critics' Club. My mom answered the phone, listened for a bit, and then entered her room, closing the door behind her. Despite all my attempts to surreptitiously press my ear against the door, I could hardly make out a word. When my mom opened the door, she didn't mention anything to me, other than that this week's meeting had been cancelled. An idea buzzed in my head: maybe there was some surprise for the next meeting? At the same time, however, I felt a slight nagging feeling, but I pushed it aside, thinking it was just a minor scheduling issue. I was wrong.
When my mom picked me up from school a week or so later, she parked her car in the school parking lot. When she turned to me, her face was the embodiment of foreboding, and, although I didn't know why, I immediately felt sick. She proceeded to tell me what had happened: last week, Mrs. Mac and Ms. K had attended a librarians' conference in Denver, Colorado. When they were driving to the airport for their flight back, they were caught in a hit-and-run crash with another car. They both died. The driver of the other vehicle was arrested and charged with vehicular homicide, vehicular assault, and drunken driving (the last charge, although I did not remember it until recently, I would like to think is one of the subconscious reasons why I choose not to drink). At first, a wave of sadness passed over me, then anger: anger at the driver of the other car, anger at the injustice that had been done to the world, to me. But that moment of anger passed as soon as it came, replaced by a feeling of helplessness, knowing that there was nothing I could do to change it. Died. I had dealt with death once before, the passing of my grandmother, but I was very young, and, unfortunately – and I still regret it to this day – I never really had the opportunity to get to know her as much as I would have liked to; therefore, this situation was different. This was, both literally and metaphorically, close to home. I cried for at least the drive home, probably the rest of the day.
Young Critics' Club and Y2C2 continued, hosted by Ms. Clark and another librarian. I continued to attend the weekly meetings, but it wasn't the same, now that these two modern-day patrons of the arts had gone. It was not the same, not only in how the atmosphere of the club felt, but also how I perceived it. I would sit in the back, hardly paying attention, rarely raising my hand to be selected for unread books. I'm sure I wasn't the only one who felt this way, but I guess in retrospect this feeling was amplified by the fact that I was the one of few ninth-graders left in the club, surrounded mainly by seventh- and eighth-graders, who somehow found a way to keep the spirit alive. That spark, that ever-glowing ember of fascination that had lasted for almost a decade, had seemingly vanished, blown out by a swift breath from Death.
Although I did not know it at the time, my change in attitude toward the meetings did not go unnoticed. My tenure in the club lasted a few more months, until I finally decided I had to give it up in the spring of 2010, on the day that one of my favorite childhood authors, Kate DiCamillo, came to visit. Although I enjoyed the chance to meet one of my favorite authors, the mood was poignant for me, knowing what I had to do afterwards. When the meeting ended, I waited for a bit, walked up to Ms. Clark, and, not knowing what to say, quickly uttered something along the lines of a brief "thank you." I remember her looking at my face curiously for a moment, nodding her head, and, as if she not only had read my emotions, but also understood them, she thanked me for having been a part of the club for so long, wished me all the best in the future, and said that she hoped to see me again sometime. And with that, it ended.
I rarely visited the library again, in hindsight perhaps perceiving it as Carraway looked upon Gatsby's mansion post-mortem. I gradually forgot about my mourning of Mrs. Mac and Ms. K, but the effect of their loss had already been sealed. I rarely picked up a book again after leaving Young Critics' Club, apart from reading for English class, but even then there was hardly the same level of enthusiasm. Although a seemingly disparate event at the time, it is no surprise, in hindsight, that I sought solace not in the company of others, but rather in Internet communities and discussion forums, at the cost of maintaining an avid high school social life. Life went on.
You may be wondering, at this time, why I would bring up this experience now, many years later, and perhaps if I have recovered. In the meantime, I won a college scholarship sponsored by the library on behalf of the family of Mrs. K, and although I felt immensely honored, I still felt a pang of disappointment, namely in myself, but not enough to inspire my former love of reading. No, the cure did not arrive until the Fall of 2013, years after I had left Young Critics' Club, when my dad forwarded me an email that had been sent to the old family email account that we hardly use anymore. It went as follows:
Dear Curren,
What are the chances that this is still your email?
How exciting to see your name in the Harvard Club of Fairfield County Newsletter. Congratulations on your admission to Harvard! You will be a great addition to the class, as you always were to Young Critics. I am delighted for you and hope you will have a wonderful and interesting time in Cambridge. It's a fun and lively place. Mrs. Mac would be so proud of you also.
All the best,
Mary Clark
That last line. With tears welling in my eyes, I slammed my laptop shut, almost wanting to fling it out the window. Just as it had on that January day when I heard the news, multiple emotions filled my system at once, but this time not in the form of grief, but as a realization. The realization of the terrible mistake I had made. Proud of me. Looking at the years since I had left the club, I couldn't possibly believe this to be true. The realization that the failure I had originally perceived was not in the library, but in me; specifically, my actions in response to that unfortunate day in January. Of the many emotions that stormed my head at that moment, the greatest was not sadness or anger, but shame. And, looking back, I'm glad I felt it, because it was strong enough to snap me out of these years of inadvertent mourning.
There was one thing left to do, to redeem myself. As soon as I returned home for Thanksgiving break, I went to the library. Entering the building, I looked for a book, any familiar title that seemed worth reading. I finally came upon one: Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five. I brought it home, took it up to my room, and began reading it. As if I had fallen asleep, the world around me appeared a blur, as I, just as I had done years ago, tore through the book, page by page, driven like an animal by this hunger, a thirst to find out more. When I reached the last page, I realized that it was already night. I had finished it within a day. Almost like a science, I tested this theory again when I returned home for winter break, with other "trials" in this strange experiment of mine. Conrad's Heart of Darkness, digested in about 4 hours. Heller's Catch-22, conquered in 3 days. That magical world had welcomed me back, and the spark had finally been rekindled.
I dedicate this piece to Mrs. Kate "Mac" McClelland and Mrs. Kathleen "K" Krasniewicz, who died on January 28, 2009, five years ago. Ever since I received that email, I think about you often, and I miss you both terribly. But I am also honored to have had the privilege of knowing you, and through my experience after your passing, I appreciate the value of your greatest lesson. Books have a unique and incredible power: the empowering ability to welcome you into amazing worlds, even when you are disillusioned with your own. My greatest hope is that I can not only carry on that legacy, but to also spread it to others, keeping the spirit of the Young (Young) Critics' Club alive. Thank you.