There are two kinds of libraries in this world. The first is a library of hushes — one with people nervously tiptoeing around, clutching their library cards, looking for books to bring home. The other is the college library. In two and a half semesters, I have never come to a University library to get a book. In some libraries, I’m not even sure where the books are.
The college library is where you do your homework, where you eat your lunch and, at times, where you watch some hard-earned Netflix in the stacks. On most days, there is a quiet balance of people inoffensively going about their lives.
This changes dramatically during midterms and finals.
When the fateful deadlines start to appear, a new crowd of students descends upon the premises, taking up valuable table space and recreating library culture in their own image. They sit with their friends, talking at first in hushed voices but gaining confidence as they go, finding strength in their numbers. I’ve even seen people talking obliviously on their phones in the hallowed McGregor Room. In times such as these, libraries begin to lose the feel of a sanctuary for quiet study, and it seems some people show up just to hang out with friends.
These are the same people who occupy the top floor of Starbucks and turn it into a deafening cacophony. Having never been exposed to a library of hushes, they come in thinking outside standards apply. The wide open rooms that once held a pleasant ambiance echo with the influx of new voices. I can tolerate them ruining Starbucks — the sacrifice is well worth keeping them contained — but it always seems libraries are overwhelmed just when I really need them.
The answer seems painfully obvious. The University library system, especially the Clark reading tables where I like to work, is in dire need of stern, elderly librarians. Marshals from the PGA Tour holding up “Quiet Please” signs would also be acceptable. The librarian I imagine is ripped straight from the clichés — purple ‘60s-era reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, a sloppy bun of gray hair and a long bony finger held up to her lips in quiet disdain.
The ideal librarian, of course, would be the giant squid monster from “Monsters University,” but a human equivalent will suffice. On a side note, I find it disturbing that a group of monsters is more capable of establishing a system of harmonious workspaces than the best and brightest humanity has to offer. Thomas Jefferson is rolling over in his grave.
By their nature, humans are fundamentally unable to sustain a system of library etiquette without the presence of an authority figure. Even if most are quiet and respectful, one group of oblivious students coupled with the libraries’ surprisingly good acoustics is enough to make the library unusable. Since most of my work is reading, which I can only do in silence, I can’t resort to headphones to drown out the unruly masses.
The natural solution is to “go to the McGregor Room” — but, as blasphemous as it sounds, I don’t like the McGregor Room. Setting aside the fact that you have to line up at 6 a.m. in the December cold to get one of the 20 tables during busy season, I don’t think I should have to retreat miles underground to an ill-lit room full of uncomfortable antique furniture to find silence. I have no problem working around other people, but there is a difference between people greeting their friends and people talking for half an hour in hardly restrained voices without even taking out a laptop.
A librarian, despite the obvious good she would do, would likely be feared and reviled by most of the student body — myself included — for her judgmental stares and incessant shushing. But at the end of the day, she would be just what the University needs: a righteous martyr to save the soul of the library.
Christian’s column runs biweekly Fridays. He can be reached at c.hecht@cavalierdaily.com.
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