On this particular night I vacillated between walking home and walking to campus. I desperately needed to print some required reading in preparation for the coming week. In theory I could just as easily read the documents online but I'm never good with PDFs or electronic versions of things. I'm not sure whether it's the tactile pleasure I derive from turning a page, or simply a quirk about the way I learn and process information...but despite living in an age where technology advances at breakneck speed, I'll forever resist looking at screens. (Yes, I concede that printing all my stuff is bad news for the trees and for my wallet, but alas, an M.Phil's gotta do what an M.Phil's gotta do).
By the time I reached the Berkeley, it was half past nine. The library was all but deserted. I hurriedly printed my documents. It was dark outside. I could see nothing of the college green. I felt trapped in a haunted house. Eager to escape. Desperate to get home.
I was daunted by the sheer volume and density of the readings (literally and figuratively). I've been out of school for a while now. Having come to the library ill-prepared, lacking a folder or parperclips, I went off in search of a stapler to sort my documents. I approached a young man stocking the shelves.
"Hi," I whispered, even though no one was there. Library rules from childhood seem to abide no matter what the circumstance. "Can you tell me where I can find a stapler?"
"They are behind the partition," he said ominously.
"The partition?"
"They are behind the black partition. The partition is closed."
"Can you point me in the direction of the partition?"
"They are behind the black partition, and I told you the partition is closed." It was quite evident this guy was a total sociopath. I mean, come on. Couldn't he be a little more specific? What is this, Hamlet? Is someone going to knife me from behind the arras?
The shelver finally understood I had no idea what or where this partition was. He frowned.
"Sorry. As I said, staplers are behind the partition and the partition is closed. I suppose if you want to be a student here, you should come more prepared."
Awash with a mixture of homesickness and frustration, the weirdness of this encounter was actually rather galvanizing. I would find a stapler if it took all night. I've always been a persistent (okay, stubborn) person: when presented with the odds, I set out to defy them. Always.
Minutes passed as I lurked through various corridors within several libraries of the college, each hallway a vein to the main artery from whence I came. After a while, time stood still. I put all my hopes, dreams and fears into the idea of this stapler: my fear of failure, anxiety about not being worthy or good enough. I had to find it.
After a while I found myself in the bowels of the Leckey Library. Considering my awkward experience with the shelver, I approached a female guard with extreme caution, prepared to defend both my honor and the honor of a stapler that may or may not exist. I was in a foreign land, among books about economics, politics and international affairs. I'd wandered quite a ways from where I'd been.
Much to my dismay, Library Guard Bridget did not have a stapler. She did, however, have a maternal sense of compassion about her, and for that I was endlessly grateful. Simply by looking at me she understood a stapler was of the utmost importance-- truly a matter of life or death. I clutched my readings close to my chest. Little was said between us. She phoned a guard at another desk somewhere. He could've been miles away. She covered the receiver with one hand, muffling her speech as if I were a child. You'd think a stapler was the arc of a covenant. You'd think I'd be asking for a million dollars.
She hissed into the phone.
"Yes, Charlie, I know, but this girl is in a jam."
Ah, when am I not in a jam?
After a moment Bridget hung up and, with a smile, directed me to the front desk. Down the stairs, to the right, then to the left, up another flight of stairs...I thanked Bridget for her kindness. She smiled and urged me to go, like Cinderella fleeing from the castle. When would my coach turn into a pumpkin?
At long last I reached the front desk, not far from where I originally started my journey, and took notice of a black partition almost immediately. The black partition. Two men sat in front of it, both of whom had kind, sympathetic eyes. A stapler was on the desk dividing us. I suppose the partition and the office supplies coveted behind it is put into use for those who need it most?
As is the way with most Irish people, my exchange with Charlie and his coworker, Hugh, did not end after I finished with the stapler. In fact, I stood beside Charlie and Hugh for the better part of an hour, conversing with them about all sorts of things. Subjects varied and the men were eager to talk; eager to have an avid listener. It was word vomit without ebb and flow...just flow. My feet were planted there e even though it was late and in my best interest to leave. After spending some time in Ireland you'll find that you will never get off easy, a conversation will always ensue no matter what, so you might as well surrender yourself in quiet acceptance and try to learn something from the person you'er talking to. In my limited experience, it doesn't take too long before you learn a thing or two.
Charlie in particular is/was a fount of knowledge. Upon learning I'm at Trinity to start my M.Phil in theatre, he spoke lovingly of the late Deanna Durbin, a Canadian-born triple threat whose childhood experience was set in the harsh winters of Winnipeg. She isn't as well-known today, but at one time she was the top-paid female star in the world. Back in the 40s she surpassed all her beautiful rivals, competing for roles alongside the likes of Judy Garland.
A series of tragic events led to a rather unfortunate demise for Deanna, who became somewhat of a recluse and was fully retired by the age of 27. She peaked at a very young age and willingly retreated to a life of seclusion.
Charlie explained that as children, Judy Garland and Deanna Durbin were up for the same role. Deanna was chosen despite being "fat." Apparently, Judy plumped up and Deanna was driven to near anorexia. Judy wound up taking the role instead because Deanna's looks had changed so much.
"In the end she was quite happy, though," Charlie said. "Her third husband was the one she liked best. She asked him to promise her the life of a nobody."
Apparently I reminded Charlie of Deanna Durbin, which I actually took to be a compliment. I'd mentioned holding a European passport through ancestry, and Charlie recalled Deanna held numerous passports and was "extremely intelligent."
"You never knew what to expect from her, really," Charlie said with reverence. Hugh nodded in agreement.
"She was so smart. She was a gas. She saved Universal Studios from crashing, yet her life ended quietly, without much fuss, but on her terms."
They turned the conversation back to me. "It must've taken you a lot of ambition to walk away from your life back in New York, yeah? Or, not ambition...but..."
"Courage," Hugh decided.
"Anyway, you ought to listen to her sing the Star Spangled Banner. If you take anything from this conversation, remember to listen to Deanna Durbin sing the Star Spangled Banner."
I promised the two men I would return, and asked them which shifts they generally worked. They seemed so surprised that I had enjoyed their conversation. They knew I stayed there willingly and that I wasn't being polite or anything-- they were more surprised by my willingness to participate in conversation instead of doing "more important"things. We ended on a high note. Hugh took out his phone and shared some of his oil pantings with me. They are beautiful. He is entirely self-taught. Hugh's grandson gifted him a cheap set of oil paints a few years ago and he's been doing it ever since.
As I passed through the barrier to exit, leaving the two men and their partition behind me, I thanked them for such a wonderful conversation.
"You're quite nice," they remarked.
"You set the bar rather low for nice, then," I responded. "I enjoy talking to new people, friendly people, and strangers."
Students heading out for the night passed through the barricades without acknowledging us.
Charlie took his glasses off and wiped off a few smudges. "My gran used to say that people are never truly strangers. Just friends you haven't met yet."
Time has come to mean something totally different to me here than what it meant in New York. I've been encouraged to listen actively, if not proactively, to the people I'm with. Long discussions and galloping sentences keep you rooted in the moment. Tonight, my thoughts drifted far from the readings that were due and the things I had to accomplish by the next day. In the moment, all that really mattered was the time I spent with Hugh and Charlie...and all I had to benefit from it.
It's saddening, really -- if not humbling-- that these men are largely ignored, and that they're genuinely surprised/taken aback when someone stops to chat with them. I've resolved to chat with every single person I have the pleasure of meeting. Ireland has taught me you always have nothing to lose, but so much to gain.