79/100: Where It All Began
This vignette is one in a series of 100 that explores the libraries of New York City and sometimes beyond.
I like to think that NYC is in my bones, if not my DNA. To that end, I’m all Montreal — and here now. I’m in for two weeks, staying with my parents in the same house I grew up in; they bought it in 1985 and never left.
Montreal is a small city, and Westmount, the borough ensconced within it wherein I’m from, is smaller. In addition to being small, it’s familiar, charming, lush, and quiet — except when there’s construction, which is all summer long, every summer, as far back as I can remember and almost certainly before that too.
But my hometown is also something else, something that goes beyond any of these things: it’s mine. I know every street, every building, every landmark in this place, and each holds its own story. The local YMCA is where I discovered the music of The Fugees, at the monthly 8–10 Y dance. The Town Hall is where I took jazz ballet classes with Valerie. The Dairy Queen is where I learned that you could chocolate-dip soft serve ice cream. And of course, the library is where it all began.
The Westmount Library is stunning. Built in 1899, its design harkens back to the architectural era of turrets, coffered ceilings, massive leaded glass windows, and intricate moldings adorning the arched passageways. It was an easy place to fall in love with as a child.
I vividly remember the renovations of 1995. For over a year, Westmount was abuzz with anticipation; the town had announced a renewal and enlargement plan for the place after years of back-and-forth on the matter. A new wing was to be built, which promised a state-of-the-art children’s area, a second reading room complete with private study spaces, and a whole lotta shelf space. Already a devotee of the old one, I couldn’t wait for the new library.
To this day, I remember my disgust and disappointment as I watched the extension take form. The new structure had no turrets, no gables, no spindles nor carved balustrades nor anything other ornate detail that could have saved this bland cubic monstrosity from its own ugliness. It was typically modern: an open-concept, exposed-concrete aesthetic that optimized both space and building materials. An eight-year-old girl’s nightmare.
I remember my mom trying to explain to me how buildings were built differently now; that turrets and gables and spindles and carved balustrades were a waste of money and besides, no one had the skills to craft these things anymore anyway. I remember being crushed. The new library was, in retrospect, the place that taught me the lesson that not everywhere would look the way Disney movies had promised.
But I begrudgingly began to spend time in the new enclave; it was, after all, where the children’s books were, plus it had these computers where you could play on this fascinating thing called the Internet. In our teenage years, my friends and I would use the study rooms, though rarely to do anything of the sort. When I would come by myself, I’d sit at the large tables at the back of the new building’s reading room, pretending to practice math while I took in the titles on the shelf.
And this is where I find myself today, settled in the very same chair I sat in twenty years ago. I’ve now taken the whole day here; reining myself back to this document each time I catch myself pausing to take in the titles on the shelf.
Thanks for reading!
