On College and Reading

Jade Maceoghain

January 22. Monday. The sky is clear and sunny, the air still. At least, that’s how I remember it–campus empty of people at 11am, which actually isn’t very likely. At 7am, yes. Why do I remember it this way? Is that what reflects how I felt as I walked around the 3000s, trying to find 3512? I was late, I was anxious, terrified, swirling with curiosity like nasty ice cream, melted, clinging to the sides, in this case the curiosity I suppose. Anxiety: remembering the large, seething red pen with every paper returned the previous semester: WHY IS IT SPACED LIKE THIS? and FRAG and COME TO OFFICE HOURS and NOT ENOUGH FROM THE BOOK

and so on. What if I was just a really bad writer? But also, what was this class going to be like? Who was the professor–not his name, but who was he? What was the group project? Where the hell is 3512?

DELIGHT.

“You can stay for the supplemental section, if you want.” Ooh, I was excited. An extra hour of class twice a week, the room the same size but the occupancy smaller, more intimate writing occurring. What might seem like torture for some was no where near such for me. No distractions, just writing, and a ten minute break for coffee or food (a habit that’s stayed). Right after, I’d pack up and follow the swole viking to his office. I no longer remember the first time I trekked under the hot sun alongside him, his heavy bag filled with volumes of books, including often three copies of the same book, and bottomless coffee, my heavy bag and cooled coffee in my hand. Then I’d sit on the chair by the bookshelf humorously weighed down by what seemed like a

million books and journals, and we’d talk, or I would do my homework while he graded or did what professors do in their offices, thirty or so browser tabs open, Outlook pinging. Sometimes I would select a book at random and read it: pedagogy (as it turns out, there are probably a million books just on that subject–some of them are on my shelves now, years later); essays by professors who taught English, discussing their lessons for fellow professionals, war stories…each book spine had its own colour, thickness, stickers or not, many had those lovely lines running down the spine from years of being overbent in the way that actually makes a bibliophile’s own back hurt, a sort of sympathetic pain-pleasure experience-response happening.

“Everything You Need to Know”

Another hot day, sun bursting,

hitting the cement With waves of

heat.

We trudge through the thick air and enter

the cool room; The cold, white fluorescent

light flickers–on–

I find my seat at the lopsided mountain of books,

metal frame, Stickers galore! USED SAVES

proclaimed in yellow.

The room is a refuge, haven,

my safe place This place I am

myself, fully

He laughs at whatever website is open, this morning’s coffee in hand,

30 tabs open Chair squealing as he leans back, ready to grade.

The titles overwhelm

me, pleasantly: The

Well Crafted Sentence

New Seeds of Contemplation

Teaching English in the Two Year College, Volume 46

Dictionaries spill out in between Michel Foucault and curious

wirebound books Smelling of libraries, office carpet,

Clean air, and–0.77 ballpoint ink, black.

“Refuge”

Square and

carpeted, Two

desks on

opposite sides

With a sense of

connection,

A window that never

seemed open

Between the two.

Yet the room

itself seemed

An open

window,

Full

of

opport

unity

And

sacred

ness.

Here

was a

space

Where I

could learn

and

Become

unburdene

d. This was

my space–

A place of

Freedom,

Warmth,

Safety.

Being in this new space, surrounded by a plethora of books, was not new to me. I was raised surrounded by books, on the floor, on bookshelves, in cubbies, wherever they could fit. We always had more books than anything else, and some of the coolest ones, when I was a child, were my mom’s dusty old paperbacks from the 1960s or so (back when books were maybe 50 cents or a dollar!). Later on, years or a decade plus later, I would mark up some of those same books: “we’re reading The Odyssey for class, can I borrow yours? Can I use a highlighter in it and sticky notes?” It’s always best practise to ask the book lender, in this case mom, what the parameters are of book borrowing. There are those special books that you just don’t dare mark up–dog ear, bright yellow highlighter, sticky notes that leave a mark–because there is something extra precious about those books. That actually turned out to be a topic of conversation in a literature class–what makes a book special enough not to mark up? Why? Conclusion: inconclusive. My mom’s copy of The Odyssey, printed 1962, has a special scent to it–that indescribable, you-have-to-experience-it-to-understand kind of scent…old paper from another era, the ink settled comfortably into the page, the binding a little wonky and probably different ingredients than now…open the pages and it smells like maybe you just walked through a portal, because new books just don’t compare to that scent. It smells like a used bookstore–that’s not quite it either. I hope these books smell like that forever, and we can keep passing on that pleasantness of scent. It’s positively delightful, I am enamoured by it, wrapped in its pleasant scent every time I open one of these old books. I think it’s a sort of nutrition for the soul.

“The Green Book”

Books–pages and ink bound

passionately– Some are crispy,

some are soft;

The spine is broken, peeling;

Pages are tasty and offer delight,

even an ecstasy. Grimm’s Fairy

Tales, 1940s, yellowed pages and U

n w o u n d binding;

I open the book, gently, and smell it:

I am a child again, small and tucked in, r

eady to choose A grim story for sleep.

The contents

pages still have

Colourful pencil

marks Crossing

out the titles read.

I suppose it’s strange to find comfort in these

bloody tales, But the me that used to be still

enjoys

A good whiff of

memory,

Something warm

and…

Voyaging.

“Urdu”

Ali’s book on Faiz arrives–

Faiz! Beloved poet of our

brother’s homeland I open

for a surprise: Urdu, side

by side.

“Let the breeze

pour colours into the

waiting blossoms”

(Faiz 35)

What lovely

lines– What

endless

possibilities!

“Agha, Faiz, & Disappearing Into”

I often disappear

into the pages Of

the book I’m

reading

It was

a way

to

Escap

e

reality

And find joy in

the chaos, Critical

for a young mind.

L

ater,

Whe

n I

met

Agha

We went on

many journeys

And I’ve been

home

To places

I’ve never

really Been;

he guides me

on Snowy,

rocky trails

We pass through the

Himalayas, Through

markets with

Incense

Shawls

Wazwaan

Histories, unspoken.