In Praise of Public Libraries
Last month, I was visiting my father in central Florida. The temperature approached 100 degrees; the humidity felt like it exceeded 100%. As wonderful as my Glampmobile campervan was, the air conditioning unit simply could not keep up. We drove around in search of a place we could sit and talk (and breathe). I briefly considered a nearly completely abandoned shopping mall, but there was a little too much Dawn of the Dead vibe (even for central Florida). Then some nugget stored in the back of my brain inserted itself into my consciousness – “find a public library.”
And so we did. The cool blast of air as we walked through the doors restored my sanity, but it was the kind, thoughtful, welcoming staff that restored my faith in humanity. There were several patrons of the library seated at tables, some perusing the newspaper and magazine rack, others browsing the stacks. We were gently escorted to a private reading room, where we reminisced about days long past, and occasionally touched on the more difficult challenges we are beginning to face regarding health and longevity. Those few hours were the highlight of my visit, and I will treasure that memory always.
Being in that space also brought back a flood of memories of spending hours and hours of solitary time in the downtown Asheville public library. Time spent waiting for the bus after a piano lesson, or just as likely in search of air conditioning. Though I had largely forgotten that part of my life, I began to realize just how transformative my time there was. It was in those stacks that I truly discovered the world and my place in it. As music had begun to dominate my life, I was thrilled to discover books about music. Lots of books about lots of music. Most importantly, books that took the music I most cherished – pop music of all kinds – seriously. Their very existence served to validate my interest and the deep emotional engagement I felt with the music emanating from my hi-fi system. And astonishingly, confirmed my suspicion that this music was as intellectually worthy as that of any other artform. In short, pop music mattered – and by extension, my connection to it, and thus my very identity, mattered as well.
One aspect of the library experience that I have come to deeply appreciate is the possibility for unanticipated discovery. Internet algorithms are designed to target, to narrow, to reduce options. Library stacks allow for unexpected juxtapositions, for exciting distractions. You start out looking for one thing when some word, color or shape catches the eye. You stop, pause, examine the spine. Perhaps you pull the volume from the shelf and begin to peruse the pages. And you’re off. If you’re lucky, you realize there’s a whole set of volumes related to this new wonderland in your hands. You’ve found a new destination, a new go-to aisle. Mine contained books on rock, jazz, recording studios, pop stars, and discographies.
I found one book particularly illuminating – Simon Frith’s Sound Effects. At first somewhat disappointed that it wasn’t a study of sound design for film, I soon got the hint that the title meant that sounds (and in Frith’s case, specifically the sounds of rock era pop music) not only affected our individual senses of self, but that they also shaped our collective understanding, effected real social change. From this point on, I read extensively about popular music and inadvertently came into contact with post-modern theory and other dialectics that were far, far from my Appalachian surroundings, and only slightly less far from the undergraduate experiences at a music conservatory where the written word generally only extended to composition titles and program notes. My tendency to visit the Boston public library in between rehearsals and classes marked me as a nerd among nerds, and I generally kept this aspect of my life secret from the few friends I had.
But one never knows where reading will lead. Ten years after graduating from the conservatory, a time spent making a lot of music and listening to a lot more, I was presented with the chance to teach a college music course on the intersection of music, technology, and society. It was called appropriately, Music, Technology and Society. Maybe my time on stages and in studios qualified me for this, but in truth, it was my dirty little hobby of reading everything that anyone cared to write about popular music. I was without a doubt a desperation hire. It was a new course and whoever was slated to teach it failed to show up for the first class. A series of phone calls led indirectly to me, and after perusing the one-page course outline, I knew I could easily fill in the whole thing, drawing upon my vast collection of remaindered titles and possibly overdue library books. The ideas of Simon Frith loomed large.
As my classroom experience led to a career in academia, I began to publish some words of my own. In a wonderfully full circle moment, the first journal to accept my writing enlisted Simon Frith as guest editor. It was a surreal thrill to read his introduction to the collection of essays, in particular the passage where he mentioned my name and provided a succinct summation of my contribution – “Oh my God, he read it, he read it! Simon Frith read my article! THE Simon Frith!” It was almost as good as Paul McCartney deciding to record one of my songs. And it all came from a chance encounter with a book, pulled somewhat randomly from the shelves of the Asheville public library.
A week after my time in Florida, I paid a visit to my hometown respite from boredom and summer heat. And there I encountered the same kindness and assistance from the library staff. They were there to help navigate the internet search. They were there to help round up the kids that came by for storytelling. They were there to point the way to the restrooms – open to all who needed them. I was struck by the public service these safe spaces provide for all who care to walk through the doors.
The library might be the most visible example of the American dream in action. A place of welcome, a place of sanctuary, a place that neither denies nor requires a spiritual belief. Ben Franklin championed the idea of a public library as the foundation for establishing a more perfect union. It is imperative that we provide shelter to those without. To provide food to those without. To provide comfort, solace, and paths to wellness to those without. And it is essential to our collective well-being that we make knowledge available to all who seek it.
Next time you feel resentment for having to pay a tax, consider that some of that money funds these hallowed halls. I, like untold thousands of folks like me, am eternally grateful for them. They shaped my life profoundly.
And they kept me cool, happy, and sane.
