A Love Note for Libraries

This is my first blog post. Not the first I’ve written, for a folder on my computer is full of posts. But this is the first one I’m publishing on my live website. It is only fitting, then, that I begin with a subject that’s close to my heart.

The story begins on a dark, gloomy winter afternoon. Okay, it wasn’t dark and gloomy, but it was a chilly afternoon in the cold midwest. I had come to the U.S. only two years before, landing in sunny Florida where I was a visiting scholar at the Levin College of Law. In 2008, I started (my second) Ph.D. at The Ohio State University (see what I did there?).

That particular afternoon, we sat with our teacher for an informal meeting for Gender and the Family class at a Panera just off campus. One of the students, whom I knew through a common friend, asked rather casually, “So what was your cultural shock coming to the U.S.?” Point to note, I was the only international student in that group.

Cultural shock, the term gets thrown around quite eagerly and uncritically in the U.S./West at peoples migrating from the “third world.” I grew up in India in the 80s and 90s. Sustained efforts at liberalizing the Indian economy started in 1991, bringing in foreign investment and goods. The new-found wealth led to the mushrooming of several multiplex theaters and malls all over the country, none so prolific as in the prosperous centers of Gujarat like Ahmedabad, Baroda, and Surat, among others. Brands of all kinds made their way to India. Globalization, combined with the growth of the internet also meant the proliferation of “western” styles of clothing, language, accents, and an increased exposure to different cuisines.  

Long story short, the shock I got upon arriving in the U.S. was neither the glitz and glamour of malls/shopping, nor food, or style of clothing.

My cultural shock was libraries. 

To give a context, Sayajirao Gaekwad the III, the ruler of the princely state of Baroda in colonial India (which did not fall under direct colonial administration) had instituted one of the first libraries in the country (Mysore and Baroda were head-to-head in this kind of progressive politics. If you want to read more, see Manu Bhagawan’s Sovereign Spheres: Princes, Education, and Empire in Colonial India). There were three main libraries in Baroda at the time I was growing up, the Central Library, which as the name suggests, was the main library, standing proudly in the heart of the old city in Mandvi. The second was an exclusively “vernacular” library named after the prince Jaisingh Rao Gaekwad. The now dilapidating Jaisingrao Library, was formerly called the Baroda State Library, and stands at the cusp of Dandia Bazar and Raopura, flanked by city offices on all sides.  The third was the Hansa Mehta Library, a part of the proud M.S. University of Baroda of which I’m an alumna. Despite being a “public” library in spirit, it is accessible mainly to the students of M.S. University. There’s also the Oriental Institute in Baroda, an archive whose existence I learned about years later while doing research for my Ph.D. (As a side note, Sayajirao’s love for and faith in libraries was not limited to Baroda. In 1941, his generous donation to the Banaras Hindu University gave it the beautiful building that is now the Central Library, also called the Sayajirao Gaekwad Library, at BHU.)

My father worked at the Bank of Baroda. For years, he was at the main office in Mandvi right across from the Central Library. When I was 8, we had moved out of our city home to the outskirts into the suburbs, a sign of social mobility for the new middle class. Dad brought back books for me from the Central Library, but the collection for children was sparse.

Fast forward to my college years. We borrowed the recommended books for undergrad and grad classes from the Hansa Mehta Library. at the Maharaja Sayajirao University of Baroda. Apart from a few essential textbooks we never bought books. All through undergrad and grad school, we could borrow two book at a time.

When I started (the first) Ph.D. program in India, I entered a league of the elite, where I could now borrow four books instead of two. Then, I discovered a gem, the Women’s Studies Resource Center. The WSRC, as it was fondly called, had its own small, up-to-date library. I discovered it after I took a 6-week orientation course in Women’s Studies, which changed my life and my career. I registered with the Center and soon I could borrow 2 more books which brought my total book count to 6. It was cause for much jubilation. I carried my 6 books-at-a-time with pride. 

When I came to the University of Florida as a visiting scholar, I went to the library the day I got my UF-ID. I asked the woman helping me with my account, “How many books can I borrow at a time?” She returned to the computer screen, clicked a couple of times, and said 150. I flashed a triumphant grin. I had made it! I could borrow 150 books at a time!

Two years later, I asked the same question to a student-employee at The Ohio State. With my fresh, newly laminated Buck-ID, I stood at the counter with the same anticipation and asked, “How many books can I check out at a time?” She looked at me blankly, she hadn’t understood my question. I repeated it. “I’ll ask my supervisor,” she said and went inside toward the offices in the newly remodeled Thompson Library and returned with her supervisor in tow. When I repeated the question to the supervisor, she said with no inflection or expression of voice, “There’s no limit.”

No limit! I had truly made it! I could borrow as many books as I wanted. I made the best of of “no limit” while preparing for my candidacy exams. It was glorious, the little girl who craved books had finally grown into a woman who had books lining her living space. 

Through grad school, I borrowed books for coursework and pleasure reading. During the first year, I learned that we were expected to buy the books required for various courses. For a student trying to survive on a stipend (in the humanities), it was a steep cost. My fellow international student seniors in the department said the magic words, ILLiad, Interlibrary Loan, whispered like another well-kept secret of an immigrant hustle. Books there weren’t available at the Ohio State libraries or were checked out could be requested through interlibrary loans. ILLiad also had an extensive collection of journal articles. If I had a way to depict my loans over the years, it would make for a beautiful, bountiful bouquet.  

From the time I visited my first public library in Plano, the beautiful Schimelpfenig, I gained a newfound respect for public libraries. For many people like the young girl I was, who don’t have much disposable income to buy as many books as they want, these libraries are a haven. But they are more. They are community spaces, safe spaces, spaces that acknowledge diversity, defend the need for diversity of voices and experiences. They are spaces that give people access to computers and printing, a place to learn a different language, a place that cares enough to offer Math tutoring. A space for storytelling so tired parents of toddlers can take 30 minutes off. A space that we all should work hard to preserve.

In every city I’ve moved to, lived in, however briefly, I signed up for membership at the public library. While on a Consortium for Faculty Diversity Fellowship for 9 months at Dickinson College in beautiful Carlisle, PA, the smallest town I’ve lived in, I went to the library across the campus, armed with a copy of my lease and my driving license, ready to devour their fiction section. Living alone, away from my family who was in Texas at the time, I spent my free time with books from the Carlisle library.

During the last week of our move from Plano, Texas to California, I went to my favorite Davis Library, one last time. Under renovation, it looked and smelled different, but it was the space I had inhabited for 6 years along with my son, growing up from pre-K into almost-double digits. I informed the wonderful staff there, with love and regret, that I was moving and if there was a procedure to cancel my membership. We recommend you don’t cancel it, she said, even if you don’t use it, because our funding is contingent on the size of our membership. I’m now a proud member of the Santa Clara Public Library system and have signed up for online access to the Sunnyvale library. 

I wouldn’t be here without libraries. We wouldn’t be here. Stand with your libraries and librarians, who most recently have pushed back against the elimination of diverse stories of race, sexuality, and families from their shelves. Give back in whatever way you can. Love your libraries back the way they love you. 

It has been twenty years since I’ve been in the U.S., and my cultural shock is still the wealth that is public libraries of the U.S.