80/100: The Archives
This vignette is one in a series of 100 that explores the libraries of New York City and sometimes beyond.
For all the smack I talked about the modern building annex at the Westmount Library in my last post, I opted to work in the new wing today. It might not be as pretty, but the lighting is better and I like how the reading tables are tucked off into a corner. If you read this series regularly, you’ll know I love a good corner.
So that’s where I am now, and it so happens that the corner table is stationed next to the wall that houses the archives for every issue of The Westmount Examiner since 1972. The Examiner was our local paper growing up; a weekly circulatory that reported on such memorable topics as children’s soccer scores and especially outspoken dogs in the neighborhood. It was discontinued in 2009, but my sister featured in it in the 1990s when she was about 7; she and her friend Setsuko had just taken up rollerblading and were adamant about wearing all the right equipment. I’m pretty sure their story got a whole page.
In fact, I’m trying to confirm this suspicion. I’ve spent the better part of today combing through these clunky old volumes, in search of the photo. I don’t have a photographic memory, but for whatever reason, I remember this one as if I did.
Though I can see the photo perfectly, I can’t remember exactly when it was taken, so I’ve pulled every edition from ’90-’95 and am perusing them in order. At time of writing, I’ve reached the January-to-June issues of 1993.
I have yet to find my big sister’s big moment, but I’ve found a lot of gems. I found an article announcing how my old babysitter had won an essay competition for a piece she wrote on being a vegetarian. I found some photos of the Westmount U-10 boys hockey team, featuring lots of little boys trying on their best tough-guy mugs for the team photo. Some of them probably have kids of their own in hockey now, trying on their best tough-guy mugs.
Best of all, I found a profile of my mom and three of her girlfriends, detailing how they quit their sewing circle to start a book club. I would have been six when the piece was published; I of course have no recollection.
The book club, called Stitch and Bitch — based on the founding members’ love for a good bitching session — sounds fun, and my mom probably deserves some kudos for her early ’90s girl-power moves, but that isn’t the point for today. The point is I’m sitting here, seeing my mother, frozen in a moment in time, in a part of her life which I had never conceived of her having at the time the photo was taken. I’m also seeing that — a club born out of love for reading and complaining — I am truly my mother’s daughter.
Throughout this series, I’ve often wondered aloud what libraries are for, now that digital databases have all but superseded them. I’ve talked about seeking refuge, about slowing down, about community. It took coming home to understand that, while they are all these things, they are above the keepers, and the tellers, of stories — our stories.
Reading is known for its power of transcendence; words can bring anyone anywhere. But this isn’t a travel thing. The archives have brought me back to this same place, to my own lived experience, and the one I shared with my hometown community. The archives have preserved the spirit of Stitch and Bitch, of my story, my mom’s story, of the community’s story, and in doing so, have given them new life.
Anyone can read a book; to be a part of the narrative is, well, a whole other story.
Thanks to everyone who’s been a part of this story — so far!
