Dan DaranciangI lowered my head, secured my hood and took a step out into the violent, arctic cold. As I marched briskly through the tundra, I made note of my surroundings: a collection of penguins had gathered outside the business school; a lone, lumbering polar bear was pacing in front of Eliot Hall; and out on the horizon – looking more like a sanctuary than a library – stood Olin. I looked down at my hands, having already lost a finger to frostbite, and broke into a jog for the doors of the library. It was Wednesday, Nov. 16, 2005, and it was the coldest day ever recorded on the planet Earth.
Now, for most, this will appear a perfectly natural choice. Many wise and right-minded Washingtonians leave class each morning and head directly into the bowels of Olin. I, however, take a different tack when determining where I will spend my 16 hours of daily study. Instead of embracing the veritable social jungle that Olin offers, I usually retire to my apartment to dedicate myself to knowledge and good works. While others enjoy flavored coffees and human contact, I remain locked within the cell that doubles as my bedroom.
You see, my time within the library – despite my senior status – has been quite limited. To me, the library is the depot from which books are retrieved and the publishing house where my papers are printed. Aside from that, Olin and I have maintained a distant, strained relationship. It stays on campus, I stay off, and never the twain shall meet.
But it was 9:30 a.m. and too cold to travel, so I resigned myself to a few hours in Whispers. To ease my wait, I ordered an exotic-colored tea and a plain bagel and sat down at an open computer. And for the first 45 minutes, I became convinced that I had made one gigantic, undergraduate-sized mistake. As I sipped at my cup and browsed the New York Times, I concluded that I had severely misjudged the library experience. I mean, my drink was hot, the paper was free, and all around me there was the gentle chirp of motivated students. It was overcome with a Zen-like tranquility, a meditative peace, and I luxuriated in the deep calm of Whispers. Food, fellowship and a brief reprieve from the long walk home, I thought. What could be better?
And then the clock struck 10, and Olin erupted: from every door poured hordes of bodies and backpacks. Seemingly without warning, the halls bubbled over with Vandals and Visigoths. Lines formed in every conceivable direction and I was swept up into the human tide. Within minutes, the crowds became mobs and Whispers was filled with the sounds of wild, throaty shrieks. Rioters hoisted chairs above their heads and I saw two shirtless gentlemen fist-fighting on a table top. By the time the tear gas was administered, coffee cups and bodies lay strewn about the floor in equal number. As I crawled to the exit – battered and bloodied – I yelled to the living: “Cannibals! You are cannibals all!”
Don’t believe me? Hyperbole, you say? Well, fine. Whatever. I made it up. But the fact remains that what I saw that Wednesday was unnerving. You see, I came to the realization that the library was not the place I had imagined it to be; it was, in reality, far, far worse. There were 35 students for every computer, and my bagel and water – what, you really think I drink tea? – came only after I missed class to wait in line.
While I may not be the most informed party nor the best person to launch a program of reform, I know that something ought to change. To be sure, we deserve a library that can accommodate the tenacious study appetites of our students. In the meantime, you can find me in my bedroom.
Zach is a senior in Arts & Sciences.