For whom the bell tolls

I suppose this is not the first time in American history that it has seemed as if we were on the brink of collapse. But it is the first time in my lifetime that the very ground under my feet has felt quite so earthquake shaky. Of course, on the day of 9/11, a lot of us had the sense that the world as knew it had ended, but somehow in the weeks and months that followed we realized that the world was still spinning around in space and people were still getting up and going to school or work. We would mourn the dead and lose what little sense of trust we had, but our civilization -- this democratic republic with all its corruption and petty scandals -- would march forward defiantly.

Then the economy lurched. When my next door neighbor, an architect, lost his job, I didn’t worry too much for him. Surely, another job would fill its place -- in time. When my journalist friends lost their jobs, I understood that journalism was floundering and not likely to recover. The prospect of a country without a powerful fourth estate is not a happy one, but we are an enterprising people, and I was sure we would cobble together another (though certainly less comprehensive) system for disseminating information. We do have the Internet and while bloggers are no substitute for informed and tenacious journalists, funded by high-powered media organizations -- okay, I’m thinking “all the president’s men” not FOX news -- there is still enough journalistic fire out there that I figured a new system would eventually emerge from the rubble.

Architects and journalists and all their kin aren’t the only ones suffering. Almost everywhere schools have started cutting back or even closing their doors; public education has always had its head on the chopping block. And yet somehow it didn’t feel as if the sky was caving in. Economies falter, but they also recover.

So what is it now that makes my breath catch and my brow furrow in fear. It is simply this: the closing of the libraries. In my municipality, twelve libraries are shutting down. One of them is “my” library -- a bright, attractive building with lots of light and lots of books. While it isn’t usually overcrowded, it’s never even close to empty. Always children can be found in the children’s area, surrounded by Harry Potter and Goosebumps, teenagers write their awful research papers on the computers, and adults wander the stacks looking for a good mystery.

My friend, who is without an Internet connection at her house, goes to one of the doomed libraries several times a week.

“Where will all those old people go?” she wonders. “They’re always there, reading magazines and newspapers. What will they do now?”

And what about the people who can’t afford to buy books? That’s what I’m wondering. I’m thinking of all those stories of great people who grew their intellect in a little local library. Quite often I resist the temptation to whip out my credit card and clutter my already cluttered house by buying books that I can find in the library.

Who doesn’t love a library? A library is a place you can go to in any town and discover the world. A place you can go to sit in a comfortable chair and read great literature or great trash. A place where books and other media are free for the taking as long as you bring them back later for someone else to enjoy. A place with free wifi and the sound of an air conditioner humming.

And buried under that loss is the nagging question -- where do we go to learn the truth? What happens when a populace is not able to freely educate itself? The library stands for something in our society. It represents the last vestiges of freedom and opportunity and equality. That’s a hell of a lot to lose.

I know there’s a recession going on, but I live in a rich city. Shiny buildings cut the skyline. We’re even building a museum for NASCAR. Last night some friends and I ate at a fancy restaurant -- all chrome and glass -- and big square plates filled with delicious foods like roasted butternut squash ravioli and risotto. Handsome people laughed and drank as if they were in a commercial for some random product. Nobody was going hungry there. Sometimes I take walks in the neighborhood of McMansions near where I live. The houses are not for sale. No foreclosure signs stain the mahogany doors. In the driveways: big boxy vehicles for sport and transport, jet skis and a Mercedes, BMW or some other foreign coupe.

And yet we can’t afford to keep our libraries open? What will happen to all those books? What will happen to those buildings? And what about those wonderfully patient people who are always willing to answer the stupidest questions and eager to help you find a book or answer a question?

The canaries are dying in my city, and there’s nowhere we can go to escape the poison.