the library

I have an affection for libraries. They are silent gods with hands open. Their gift is knowledge. Seek and ye shall find. Their acolytes pay no fee. They walk and sit with tongues still. They work and question and, sometimes, sleep. They are permitted a place to rest; given a seat, a desk, a book without stipulation.
I am thankful for this. I benefit from this. Unless it is a weekday. After 3:00 pm. A transformation happens. The reverent seekers I identified with become annoying, slothful, needy. I think to myself, What librarian would let in a child? They pick their noses. They cry. They will. not. do. their. homework. The woman at computer 28 types aggressively. Preteens take pictures. #selfienation and all that. A man berates the middle-aged volunteers with questions about the biography section. The volunteers are pleasant but unhelpful. He punctuates his discontent with heavy steps into the elevator. When did the library become so loud? Aren't visitors screened? Where is the NSA? No list of virtues can abate my frustration about this. I wish it weren't so, but there you have it.
Last spring I tutored an eighth grade boy. He was unmotivated. He drew the anarchy symbol while I corrected his homework. Any question I asked was answered with the ever ambiguous"Sure" or "I'm not sure;" an upward inflection indicating his aversion to responsibility, discipline, and, more truthfully, thinking. Whatever progress we made grade wise was sabotaged by his own foolishness. Papers at the bottom of his backpack. Doing homework, but not turning it in. Shifting blame to teachers for not being clear, not being helpful, not entering his grades. He despised them and their authority and their demands. He considered their punishments baseless. He worked hard and understood most concepts, but then he stopped working hard. It was as simple as that. Of course there is a complex mix of factors to acknowledge. He is an introvert. His parents are divorced. His dad and step-mom care about him but work long hours. He moved last year. His mother picks fights with him. The complications of being alive, really. He is young and will pay rent one day. That might motivate him.
All of this is besides the point. The point is, we met at the library every Tuesday and Wednesday at 3:00 pm. It was my responsibility to reserve a study room, or at least a table. This was one of my six jobs last year, and I wanted to keep it. I needed to appear accommodating and punctual. So, I always arrived fifteen minutes early. When study rooms filled, I scouted the areas with plentiful seating, always to the right of the computers. I kept a steady, brisk pace and laid my belongings across the cheap, imitation-wood surface - a sign indicating that no one was welcome to one of the three empty seats at my table. I did not take out my phone. The library busy and myself unoccupied, I looked around.
My temple of quiet adventure cluttered with cheap, plastic furniture. Old IBMs. Comic books. People on Facebook. I prayed to Hemingway, Plath, Dickens to find some overlooked beauty.
There was a homeless man in a paper boy hat, thumbing a curled magazine corner. Thick tufts of soiled hay hid his ears, which I assume were as badly burnt as his face. He removed his hat. He was balding - how could this be? I couldn't even see his ears! But there it was: pink skin, clear for landing. He pushed the magazines forward. Having no pen or intention to work, he curled his hat into his elbow and slept. His fingers moved curiously, dreaming without out sound.
There was a mother and two children. Her daughter read silently, carefully turning each page, mouthing the words as eight year olds often do. Her younger brother bypassed phonetics that were difficult, sometimes inventing new words entirely as five year olds often do. She corrects him like her teacher, no doubt, corrects her, with patience.
There was a collection of five Hispanic women sharpening their English with a college instructor. Jelly, Jessica, Jamie, Yellow, Year, Yummy. Stay, Sister, Stella, Spanish, Spicy. English is a bastardized language - inconsistent and confusing - but there they were, trying. Ch! Sh! K! Mph! Primitive vowels and guttural sounds. Stacks of books and choral reading. Hopes of a better life.
So, these were the virtues of the library: a space for people escaping the sun, for people learning to communicate, for my unmotivated, anarchy-symbol-drawing middle schooler with nothing written in his agenda. The NSA need not apply after all.