Fuck the Library

I am a woman of modest means. Also: I like books. This is why I found myself at the library on this pretty afternoon.

Specifically, I was at the New York Public Library branch on Mulberry Street in Manhattan. All around me today, people are waving their shiny new iPads. I’ve been on the fence about e-readers, but I can see the appeal of reading a book on one of these things.  My husband only asked me four times today what books he can download for me on his new device. Still, in the name of simplicity and thrift, I decided I wasn’t going that route. As a defender of things obsolete, I feel it’s my duty to keep the library light lit. Today, however, may have been my last visit. But this isn’t because of the iPad: It’s because of people.

I went to the library hoping to get a Spanish grammar book and a book by Temple Grandin, an autistic scientist who writes about animals. Could my book-desires be any tamer? I found the Grandin book. Easy enough. Next up, Spanish. One librarian showed me where I could find Spanish dictionaries. Not what I needed. She suggested I go three stories up to talk to another librarian. Librarian number two showed me CDs for Spanish-speakers learning English. Also not helpful. I actually had to explain this to her, as she seemed confused about why the title of the CD was in Spanish if it wasn’t for people learning Spanish. This was when I started to lose it. She suggested I go back down three floors and check out the dictionaries. Instead, I looked at the online catalog, which offered up only books for bilingual kids—kids who learned Spanish without even trying. Brats.

Certain that a library in downtown New York City had to have some iota of investment in people learning Spanish, I continued my search on my own. After almost an hour of looking, I finally found one single Spanish grammar text book. I went upstairs to check it out, but I didn’t have my library card. Or my license.  You see, I lost my wallet recently and still haven’t recovered all that was in it.  I do, however, know my library card number by heart. How many assholes come into the library knowing their library card number by heart? And I know my pin. And I have several credit cards with my name on them. Credit cards, more than anything, seem like pretty good proof that you are good at demonstrating an ability to be accountable for things that you haven’t paid for. Still, the surly librarian wouldn’t help me. She sent me to go down back down two flights of stairs  to “talk to the pregnant librarian.” I don’t like to define people by their pregnancies. What about all those poor ladies who just LOOK pregnant?  But she refused to tell me the pregnant librarian’s name. I went downstairs and asked the woman her name.

“Suzy,” she said.

“Why wouldn’t she tell me your name upstairs?” I asked.

“Because it’s not required,” she said. “It’s personal information.”

Your name? Personal? You are a librarian! At least make something up! Even strippers have names. 

She continued: “Sometimes they don’t give our names when people are being aggressive.”

Aggressive. Me? Okay. Interesting. Well, were I aggressive, I actually think I’d be more likely to rip out the unborn baby of a librarian in the children’s section of a library in Soho if I didn’t know her name. Now, I’m like “But that’s Suzy! I can’t hurt Suzy!”

My point to Suzy was this: The library is a place where they give things away on an honor system. Who is more honorable than the person who knows her card number by heart and is offering up an American Express card as collateral. These are the kinds of things that are important in the real world. In the last week, I’ve managed to buy several things using my debit card number without actually having my debit card. Yes, we are living in future times! When I say “we,” I mean everyone who isn’t currently inside of a library.

Another fact: Library cards in NYC don’t have names on them. Or photos. Or magnetic strips or chips. All it is a piece of plastic with a number on it. So, if it turns out my wallet is stolen and not merely lost, someone could easily go use my card to take out books. They wouldn’t need to show any other ID. Does this make sense? I’m asking rhetorically. It doesn’t. 

I asked the librarian if I could just get a new card, but no dice. “We need proof of where you live, like a bill,” she kept saying. Again, huh? What are they going to do, come to my door if I don’t return the book they gave me for free to begin with? I’ve had books that have been overdue without me realizing and they’ve never come over. They never even sent a postcard. They just sat back and waited while my late fees mounted high into the double digits.

Anyway, the NYPL has all my information on file because they took it when I applied for the card to begin with.  Given that it’s a library, I’d think they could look up that kind of thing. I’d be happy to verify it! What’s more, if my address is so important, then why have they not asked me if it has changed since I first gave it to them in 1986? I was 6. I loved you back then, NYPL. And you loved me, even though I didn’t have a driver’s license or a recently post-marked bill. Then again, do I really want to show you my bills? That’s kind of…personal. 

iPad, here I come.