Words, Words, Words—mere wind, sir
Going through it has been an act of nostalgia (“I remember writing that!”) and an act in self-deprecation (“Oh, that’s so overwritten!”), but I’m learning that writing a book, a good book (I hope), takes patience, tenacity, and self-discipline—all of which I naturally lack.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my reading roots. How sad I am, for example, that the old, ugly McAllen library has been closed.
I only say ugly because the new library is so pretty. It’s won awards for its prettiness. My friend Carolyn wrote about it in the L.A. Times (for Jacket Copy, the book blog). She interviewed me about it, and then Gawker picked up the story, and now a few friends from high school have texted, wondering if the Adriana Ramirez mentioned in the piece is me. It is me. I’m not famous. I’m just a citizen and friend of journalists who pointed out the proximity between a building and the violent border.
But then again, I write about violence. Drug violence. Border violence. The violence of change and time. Like my book. The one I’m finally finishing.
George Bernard Shaw said it best in Dark Lady of the Sonnets, “Words, Words, Words—mere wind sir.” He’s making fun of Shakespeare when his character says the phrase, but I can’t help but imagine all the words I’ve typed and read in my lifetime fluttering around me, gaining speed, and funneling themselves into a cyclone. Wind can be violent too.
My parents would drop me off at the old library on Main street, and at my request they’d leave me there for hours lost in stacks, and always amazed that so much information could be contained within those walls. Of course, I’d read: Many inappropriate things for a child, usually in the Adult Large Print section, but I learned a lot about myself, about culture, about desire and intrigue. I read all of Kurt Vonnegut’s books in 1996. I knew about sex from the Thorn Birds and about sexy machinations from Ken Follet. I typed, typed!, on the typewriters on the second floor all my applications for college, thinking my handwriting too unprofessional for a first impression. Painstakingly tapping out my personal statement, keystroke by keystroke, not wanting to make a mistake and have to start over or brave the unsightliness of correction tape. I remember locking myself in study rooms and following IMDB trails for hours on the borrowed computers. And sure, it’s all there, but it’s in another building. The place I remember no longer exists. And years from now, the new library will just become “the library,” and the old one will fade into memory.
And while I can’t stop myself from being sentimental, I can certainly control how deep wade into the remembrances of the old building2. I’m not going to lie, there’s something beautiful about an old library. Knowing that books have been there for well over fifty years3, that some librarians probably have too. The Main Street library taught me how to use reference books, how to look things up on microfiche, how to feel like a detective and a journalist before I ever knew what either of those professions really were. Community libraries serve as monuments to our pasts. And the buildings that house these monuments symbolize just as much. Architecture that has withstood change and circumstance can make knowledge feel more permanent, and when you enter a building like that, one that bears the imprint of time as well as its books bear the imprints of obscure presses, one cannot prevent succumbing to acts of nostalgia and self-deprecation. We remember who we were, we remember our felt potential. And how we grew, moved on, and left the shells of our past behind us. Like that beautiful, old building. Even though it’s ugly next to the new.
If words are wind, then libraries are hurricanes.