Author: Dean DeChiaro
A few Sundays ago, I made my way into the library as I do on most Sundays, to settle in for a long day of mundane research on trends in ethnic nationalism throughout the Central Asian region. My history comprehensive, currently in its final stages, is on Pashtun nationalism in Afghanistan during the Cold War, but at the time it was little more than a pile of articles vaguely relating to my topic. On this particular Sunday, I was particularly optimistic about writing the bulk of my paper, hoping to churn out about 15 pages over the course of the day. To do this, I knew that I could not occupy my normal spot in the library, a reasonably public table frequented by my friends. It is too casual of a workspace for the type of work I wished to accomplish that day. I needed to shut myself away, find a place without breathing room, an arena that pitted me against my comps, a place only one of us could leave unscathed.
So naturally, I went to the stacks. I have found in my time at Occidental that the stacks are a divisive thing. As a history major, I find myself there regularly, searching out books that have not been checked out since the eighties, and I have come to navigate them relatively well. But many students, I have found, have never been in the stacks. To them, the name conjures images of horror, a black hole of academia they would rather steer clear of. This is totally understandable as the books stored in the stacks do not apply to all academic fields. But to me, the stacks have always been a place of refuge, or in this particular case, self-exile.
As I said, I have come to know my way around the stacks. However, I tend to believe that a library, and especially its darkest corners, is never meant to be fully mastered by those who use it. Libraries, while created by humans to store human knowledge, should always maintain an air of mystery about them. Their contents should never be fully known to anyone, ensuring that once in a while, amazing discoveries might be made. On this day, I was to make one such discovery.
I’m told that it’s called “The Yearbook,” but the name doesn’t appear anywhere on it. To the naked eye it is invisible. Its only obvious marker is a small message written above its entrance: “Come on in.” You have to move furniture, crawl on your hands and knees and risk the wrath of the library’s resident arachnid population in order to get to it.
To protect the sanctity of this place, I’m not going to reveal its exact location. I am too worried that, given the tenacity with which Facilities Management usually paints over student graffitti, it might disappear forever. Those who know of it should take heed as well, and those who do not shouldn’t have a terribly hard time finding it. When you do find it, you will know.
Upon entering “the Yearbook,” one might miss the point. But turn around, and the space reveals its secret. Dating as far back as the year 1982, students have written small messages on a range of topics. Many are simply pairs of initials enclosed in hearts, no doubt representing some of the more debaucherous activities of the library’s late-night residents. One message spares the romance, simply reading, “We just did it right here! A + R. February 3, 2004.” Some brag of successful shenanigans pulled during long all-nighters, like this one from April 23, 2005: “Cart racing on the fourth tier, drinking on the fifth.” The fifth tier, of course, meaning the roof.
Reading these types of messages brings a wide grin to my face. Over the course of my four years here I’ve caused less of a ruckus in the library than I might have liked, but a few instances do come to mind. Rather than allowing myself a few moments of premature nostalgia (I keep having to remind myself I’m two months and a 25-page thesis away from graduating), I move on to some of the Yearbook’s other messages.
A surprising amount of them, I notice, are written by first-years, publicly displaying what they hope to accomplish in their four years at Occidental. One reads, “First month at Oxy. Just found this place. Hopefully when I get back here in four years I’ll be feeling as hopeful about the future. 9/16/09.” Another echoes a similar sentiment, with a bit more spunk to it: “Young and stupid. We’ll see how these four years treat me.”
I don’t know if it is an unspoken rule or a simple truth that upon entering a liberal arts college, one feels some sense of optimism about humanity, an exaggerated sense of self-worth and a nagging desire to save the world. But it seems to be a measurable pattern. I would not say it is every first-year, but more students come into Occidental wanting to study in Diplomacy and World Affairs or Urban and Environmental Policy (the typical “save the world” majors) than in any other department. Students who pursue these fields of study learn over the course of four years that, as one friend of mine, a senior, puts it, “It’s not so much about saving the world but about identifying ways to implement pragmatic changes that result in measurable improvements.” No first-year I know is capable of such reserved seriousness; the ones who care enough are setting up tents in the Quad while the others are too afraid to leave their residence halls. But these notes written on the Yearbook-they reek of the optimistic naivete of a first-year do-gooder.
Reading these messages, I become frustrated. Not frustrated with the optimism they exhibit but with the disappointment I think their authors are destined to encounter by the end of their four years at Occidental. I try to remember if I was so optimistic as a first-year, but it is so long ago that I have trouble recollecting anything about my philosophy circa 2008. I probably was optimistic, but I do not think I ever felt a calling to change the world, only a calling to write about it as a reporter.
By now, I’m the college equivalent of a crotchety old man. Four years as a history major can do that to a student, tackling questions about colonialism in the Middle East one day, the Holocaust the next and the American Civil War on the third. History is a record of humanity’s shortcomings, not its happiest moments. I have remind myself that my general disgust with the world (which I tend to attribute to my time at Occidental) is not a worldview shared by all. And then a strange thing happens. I usually scoff at this type of optimism, but reading the words of these innocent first-years, I find myself feeling hopeful for them. Maybe where I found a dark world ruled by greedy and vengeful people, they might encounter the opposite.
My eyes fall upon a longer message. This one is written by a senior, one who was as optimistic about changing the world on the day of their graduation as they were on their first day at Occidental: “I will make it. I will. I will become someone who helps people and saves people’s lives after I get my degree. I will come back here and read this again. June 2007.” Five minutes ago I might have laughed at this but not now. I still think it is a misguided sentiment, but I can appreciate the passion inherent in its words.
A brief moment of panic about whether my cynicism might be misguided is assuaged by the discovery of a new set of messages. These are far more my speed, though not my style. One from 2008 reads, “If death is but the ending of a dream, then, truly, I will die, soon, as I enter the mundane world of our sad reality.” Another, which is signed simply by a call number which has since changed, is even more horrifying, “And among such am I. For these defects, and for no other evil, we are lost. Only so far afflicted that we liv
e desiring without hope.” I don’t spend too much time trying to decipher the meanings of these messages or why their authors might have written them, but I find some solace that the Yearbook doesn’t exhibit exclusively the sentiments of Occidental’s most effervescent.
The Yearbook’s other messages can not be as easily categorized as those I have just mentioned. The only discernible similarity between them is a dark sense of humor, simultaneously thoughtful and wry. “This place is a prison,” reads a message from 1999, “But for some reason, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.” Another from 1993 reads, “I love you all. Just know that. But this place bites c***.” One of my favorites, from 2008, exhibits its author’s strange sense of pride: “This is the kind of place people who’re cooler than me usually find.”
I find it interesting that, of all the messages on a wall called “the Yearbook,” only one actually resembles something one might actually write in a yearbook at the conclusion of college: “I found this place when I was a freshman. Although I went through a lot at Oxy, in terms of drama, I will still miss the four years I have spent here. Hopefully in ten years I can come back and read this. Bye Oxy. I’ll be out of here in two months. Eff the class of ’07.”
It is a stinging goodbye, I think, but an admirable one nonetheless. This student clearly faced some kind of adversity during his or her four years, as I think every college student does, but managed to salvage something special from it even if that something is this dark corner of the stacks only a handful of people know about. It seems that many students who took a moment to leave a bit of themselves on this canvas felt the same way: college was not perfect, but it was memorable enough that for all the things they are taking away from it, they could stand to leave a bit of themselves in return.
Suddenly, I’m floored by the sheer scale of the history stored in these words. If one looks closely at the Yearbook, painted-over messages are somewhat visible. I wonder how many layers of paint have been applied since the most recent one (which it would seem was 1982)? So many students have passed through these stacks, and though only a handful have known about this, I realize that I am looking at a piece of living history. The Yearbook is more than graffiti; it is a primary source of information on Occidental’s cultural history. In this sense, it is an invaluable and important part of the college.
What would I write on the Yearbook? I think it is too soon to tell despite the fact that my time here is all but finished. But one thing is for sure: no matter what I decide to write, it is all fair game. The Yearbook is a free press; students have already written anything and everything on it. From the philosophical to the bawdy, the Yearbook transcends the rules. That is what makes it special. When one speaks of a libraries’ hidden treasures, one usually refers to books. But this place, if you can find it, is most definitely a diamond in the rough.
At this point I have spent about two hours looking at the Yearbook, reading all of its messages, trying to understand its importance. I realize I have not yet started on the day’s work. I crawl out from Yearbook’s hidden lair and replace the furniture guarding its entrance, then leave the stacks. But probably not for good.
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