Last week my 14-year-old needed to work on an essay for an astronomy camp and they wanted three references "not from the internet" (bless them).
The only library open in town was Mann Science Library at Cornell, so we put on our heavy coats and braved the snow to get her there.
As we walked into the door of Mann, I suddenly realized that this moment held great import.
I'm an academic, and here I was taking my kid into a university library, a place that helped make me who I am. Long ago I was seduced into graduate school by the smell of the library, the joy of being alone in the stacks pulling books off the shelf, the solitary nature of concentrating on one thing, and the silence.
As we stood in the atrium, I said to her, "Look up." She did, and when I said, "Those are the stacks. All four floors," she gasped.
We rode the elevator to the floor with astronomy books and sat on the floor, just the two of us, pulling out fragile old books and heavy textbooks, even a slim volume written by Edwin Hubble.
We hauled a bunch back to the atrium where I set her up at a table all her own, a place where she could spread out and get to work. And then she wanted me to leave her alone.
I came back four hours later and there she was, just like a college student, engrossed in her essay, surrounded by books.
She hadn't left her seat, even once. She was tired, but so very happy.
This was a rite of passage. Unexpectedly, I had passed on to my daughter an essential part of myself, one that I really hadn't expected to hand over, certainly not so soon.
It also hit me that she has the makings of a scholar, but even if she doesn't become one, we have had this shared moment.
We both now know the private, personal, and glorious nature of being left alone to learn something new.
As we left the library, she grinned at me and I saw her brightness, a shining star streaking across the the cosmos, a book in her hand. And she is, indeed, my lucky star.
The only library open in town was Mann Science Library at Cornell, so we put on our heavy coats and braved the snow to get her there.
I'm an academic, and here I was taking my kid into a university library, a place that helped make me who I am. Long ago I was seduced into graduate school by the smell of the library, the joy of being alone in the stacks pulling books off the shelf, the solitary nature of concentrating on one thing, and the silence.
As we stood in the atrium, I said to her, "Look up." She did, and when I said, "Those are the stacks. All four floors," she gasped.
We rode the elevator to the floor with astronomy books and sat on the floor, just the two of us, pulling out fragile old books and heavy textbooks, even a slim volume written by Edwin Hubble.
We hauled a bunch back to the atrium where I set her up at a table all her own, a place where she could spread out and get to work. And then she wanted me to leave her alone.
I came back four hours later and there she was, just like a college student, engrossed in her essay, surrounded by books.
She hadn't left her seat, even once. She was tired, but so very happy.
This was a rite of passage. Unexpectedly, I had passed on to my daughter an essential part of myself, one that I really hadn't expected to hand over, certainly not so soon.
It also hit me that she has the makings of a scholar, but even if she doesn't become one, we have had this shared moment.
We both now know the private, personal, and glorious nature of being left alone to learn something new.
As we left the library, she grinned at me and I saw her brightness, a shining star streaking across the the cosmos, a book in her hand. And she is, indeed, my lucky star.
