THE RARE BOOKS ROOM 

Last semester, a seed was planted. My English teacher had recently moved to Baltimore from New York and one day she nonchalantly asked, “So … who’s been to the Library of Congress?” Nobody raised their hand. Completely aghast, she told us, “I used to bring whole classes on field trips all the way down here to visit the Library of Congress.” We looked at each other unsure of what the big deal was. Again she asked, “It’s right in your backyard and you've never gone?!"

This semester, my Honors English professor was the one and only, Dr. Christine Gray, Department Head, Honors Program President, and all around “text book English teacher.” Animated and eccentric, she’d teach class clad in colorful clothes, vibrant scarves, big earrings, and reading glasses that hung onto the tip of her nose. Her passion for literature is unmatched, as is her expertise. She knew the content, symbolism, and background info on each work we read, as well as its connection to all the other works. During her lively explanations and commentaries on poems, short stories, and novels, her adoration of writing was obvious. On the first day of class she did what all teachers do: reviewed the syllabus. However, after the review the first of her eccentricities was revealed; “I offer only one option for extra credit: a trip to the Library of Congress.”

We were to return with three items, proof of our visit: a library card, the receipt for the book we requested, and a photocopy of the title page. It seemed like a fun idea but I was doing well in the class and consequently continued putting off the trip. Until finally one night discussing my classes with my father over dinner at the local pizza joint, the extra credit assignment came up. He responded with initiative and said, “Let’s go next Saturday.” The following week, he, my mother, and I looked up info about the library: its contents, exhibits, hours, directions, and metro stops. The Friday night before the trip, my mother discovered that the Library of Congress houses over 250 million books, including rare collections of literary giants such as Whitman, James, and Twain. We had the information we needed; the plan was set: I’d meet my father at his house at 8:00 am; from there we’d drive to the metro station in Greenbelt and take the Metro down to D.C.

Unaccustomed to waking up at 7 o’clock on a Saturday morning, I overslept till 7:30, showered and dressed quickly, and drove sleepily to my father’s house in Sykesville. A big breakfast was waiting and soon I wasn’t so displeased about being up early. With a full belly, I hopped in the back of his car and rode to the Park and Ride in Greenbelt and boarded the Metro. On the way down, I popped in my ear buds and while listening to my George Winston searched the Library of Congress website for potential books to check out. The activity was frustrating. I kept drawing blanks when I tried to think of topics to search. 250 million available and I couldn’t think of one single book to read. Finally I came up with a few search topic ideas: the U. S. Marine Corp, military history, Jonathan Swift, Hemingway, Portugal, and the Azores. The last two only returned results of books with titles in Portuguese. After considerable irritation I had a small list of books: my first choice, The Life of Dr. Jonathan Swift, and two backups: Helmet for My Pillow, and Portuguese Pirates and Indian Sailors. 

We reached our stop in the D.C. subway at 10:22, exited the train, and climbed the out-of-order escalator to the surface. Navigating the D.C. streets, we passed huge white federal office buildings and herds of tourists at the Capitol Building. We finally reached the Library of Congress, panting from the long uphill climb. The exterior was similar to the rest of the buildings in D.C.: large and white with high marble columns but this is where the similarities ended. Upon entry, we found ourselves in The Great Hall; an immense chamber gloriously decorated. Dozens of marble stairways lead to higher levels, walkways, and balconies. The ceiling is four stories high and decorated like a cathedral. Countless colorful and gold trimmed columns, rails, lattice, and crown molding fill the massive room. As I gazed up at stained glass windows, I think, “This isn’t like any library I have ever been to before.” An engraving in marble below a circular window reads in Greek, “Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty.” 

We decide now to split up and I begin my assignment to retrieve the three items for the extra credit assignment. After ascending a staircase to the third tier of the Great Hall, I view the Grand Reading Room from a balcony. The Great Hall appears dim and cramped compared to the enormity and grand adornment of the Grand Reading Room. A Plexiglas plate covers the front of the balcony to ensure that the noise of the tourists doesn’t disturb the academics below. After unsuccessfully attempting to gain entry to the Reading Room on various levels, I realize that this room, the room I need to be in to complete my assignment, is V.I.P. It’s not open to tourists, only “researchers.” 

As I return to the information desk, I recall Dr. Gray’s advice to the class: “don’t just go in there and say something silly like ‘I have to do extra credit,’ tell them you’re doing research on such-and-such a topic.” After stating this line convincingly to the attendant, I watch as he pulls out a map unlike the glossy brochure maps on the counter. He points down at the 8x10, black and white, blueprint-like diagram and says, “You must first go to the Madison Building across the street to obtain a Library of Congress Readers research card (great! That’s 1 out of 3 items on my list!). He continues and explains that to exit the building, walk across the street, and endure another gauntlet of security checks is unnecessary. “No, instead take the elevator around the corner there to the sub-ground level and use the underground tunnels. Follow the signs to the Madison Building, and once you reach its basement take the second elevator on the left to the Ground Level. Then follow the signs to the Card Office. It’ll be two rights and a left.”  

I take the elevator down and as I exit into the tunnels, I begin to feel like I’m trespassing. The long, white, winding halls seem like they’ll lead you right into the President’s underground bunker. The trek is considerably more complicated than the attendant portrayed it to be and I begin to wonder if I’m going the wrong way, going somewhere I shouldn’t. I notice two hefty security guards ahead and tense up. Looking down at my iPhone, I nervously pretend to be reading something. The two 6’6”, 250 pound guards, clad in black uniforms, radios, badges, and guns stroll by me without even acknowledging my presence. “Phew,” I wipe my forehead and continue. Eventually I pass under Independence Ave., and follow the signs to the elevator. 

Inside the Researchers Card Office, I’m seated amongst older, professional-looking academics and I start feeling more nervous. I quickly fill out extensive paperwork and sign forms that have words like “under penalty of” on them. “They’re gonna discover I’m not supposed to be here, that I’m an imposter, a stowaway.” These thoughts are somewhat worrisome, somewhat comical, and mostly suppressed so as to keep up the necessary calm, cool appearance. “I am an academic,” I tell myself. “Ha … relax, you are researching.” In my head I practice, “Why … I’m looking for … The Life of Dr. Jonathon Swift, original print, in the Rare Books Room,” yeah that sounds good, “I’ve already become a bit of a Swift expert, learned of his political leanings, his Anagrammatic Method, love letters to Stella, and now am simply continuing my studies you see…” 

I receive a glossy laminated library card which looks more official than a driver’s license. I take it quickly and promptly exit the office.  Making my way back through the tunnels, I feel a little more confident with the card in my pocket. Upon arrival back in the Jefferson Building though, the real hunt begins. I have my card and I have the room number of the Rare Books Room: LJ239, but am simply incapable of finding the room. The surface level hallways are as beautifully adorned as The Great Hall but as complex as the subsurface tunnels. I ride elevators to various floors and navigate countless hallways in a dizzying search for LJ239. “Didn’t I already pass that painting? Did I already check this hallway?” The corridors are long and winding, twists and turns in every direction. I search so long that I have to stop and take a bathroom break. Afterwards I begin to wonder why I haven’t even stumbled upon The Grand Reading Room. “How big can this place be??.”

I try one more floor. Departing the elevator, I notice a sign immediately to my left: “LJ239: The Rare Books Room.” “It does exist!” I chuckle and move towards the door with excitement.  As I approach the room, exiting is a large black man, in his upper 50’s, heavy, tall, with a grayish beard and well dressed in a suit with a dark blue blazer: the Library of Congress Uniform. He walks quickly past me to the room across the hall and says, “It’s closed.” 

“Wha …” 

“It’s only open Monday through Friday son, I’m just moving inventory.” 

“How … no …” in a daze I think to myself. “You mean … after all this?” 

He stops and examines me. “What’d you need? You’re trying to take out a book?”

“I … yeah, I needed ‘The Life of Dr. Jonathan …” my voice trails off.

A moment of silence passes. I guess my appearance was one of complete disappointment because he then says, “Here … come here, I’ll show you something.” He turns to the Rare Books Room and opens the door. “I can’t get you your book but I’ll show you something.” He looks over my shoulder down the hall, tells me to keep the door propped open with my foot (so we’ll know if someone is coming?), and pulls a cart over to me. 

I stand in a small room with him, crowded with shelves and books. He’s exceptionally large yet somehow comforting like a scholarly old bear. He lifts a flat blue box from the cart and slowly lifts the cover. A bright gold medal seated in the black velvet interior shines brilliantly. I’m not completely familiar with what they look like but somehow I immediately know what it is: a Nobel Peace Prize. 

“This,” he says, “is Woodrow Wilson’s Nobel Peace Prize.” He lifts the gold medal from the box, seats it in his big dark paw, and points with his other hand to a date. “He received it in 1919.”

“That date?” The military history neurons in my brain are sparked and I say quickly, “For, after WWI?”

“Yes, for the Treaty of Versailles.” 

He lets me hold it. It’s smooth, very smooth, and glossy, shimmering, and heavy. He shows me the inscription of Wilson’s name on the side, gives me one last look, then takes it, places it back in its box, and pulls out another. This one contains an average looking book. 

“You know how people find old books in the attic and just throw them out because they don’t look like anything special? Here look at this. He turns the book so I’m looking at its side and slightly curves the edges of the pages on an angle revealing a painted image of a landscape on the side. He releases allowing the pages to rest normally and then angles them showing the picture again. “It’s called ‘Fore Edging’,” he says and turns the book over and shows me another image when curving the edges the other way. 

Next he removes a very thin, square, 4”x4” book and points to the faded inscription on the cover page. I can barely make it out. My eyes strain and finally read: Galileo. “It’s the first edition of Galileo’s Sidereus Nunciusa, or Starry Messenger. He opens it to the title page and points out the publishing date: MCDX, 1610. “It was the first book written about observations of the stars seen through a telescope.” We leaf through and gaze at Galileo’s drawings of the heavens. 

It doesn’t stop there. Now with subtly increasing excitement, he pulls out a large hard cover box, opens it and pulls out another box which again opens to reveal another. After opening several boxes like babushka dolls, he holds a tattered faded aged book in his hand. “This is the first book ever published in America. The Whole Book of Psalms, printed in 1640. See there?” Again he points out the publishing information. “It was printed in Cambridge, Massachusetts.” He turns the pages slowly, revealing faded lines of scripture on its soft pages. Then, he reaches over and places it in my hand. It weighs less than half what it looks like it should weigh. It feels as if it might crumble in my hands.  I quickly return it to him. 

He places it back on the cart, pauses and reaches carefully for another book. I think to myself, “This is the last one; I can tell.” The gentle giant holds up a tall light maroon box. He lays it on its back and opens it, unfolding it like a book itself. Inside rests a faded maroon, rough-velvet covered book with a tiny gold badge on the cover that reads: Holy Bible.  Picking it up with two hands he says, “This is the Lincoln Bible … the bible that Abraham Lincoln was sworn into the office of the presidency with on March 4th, 1861, also the bible Barack Obama was sworn in with on January 20th 2009

Goosebumps flitter over the surface of my skin as I look down upon it. He unlatches a gold clasp on its side and turns to the back page showing me the blue seal of Congress and the date of Lincoln’s inauguration. Then, to my disbelief, he holds it out towards me. He does not place it in my hand but rather, holds it out so that I may rest my hand upon it.  A nervous hand reaches out gradually and softly rests upon the cover. The old velvet cover is still soft on my skin. A chill rolls over me. I breathe deep, pull back my hand, and place it quivering slightly at my side.

The bible returns to the box, the cart to its place by the shelves, and us to the hall. All occur in a surreal hazy blur. I profess my gratitude to him and ask his name. “It’s George.” He pulls a card from his suit coat and hands it to me. “Get in touch with me, you can come back down with the family and we’ll set up a tour.” I tuck it safely in my pocket. “Ok, yes sir, thank you so much. That was … incredible … incredibly surreal.” Again he says, “You’re welcome,” and I walk over to the elevator and board it in a daze. 

  The doors close. I forget to push a button and the elevator lifts off to a random floor. The doors open, and a young studious academic enters. He looks me over and says, “Wrong floor?” 

“Uh … um no. Right floor. Yeah definitely the right floor.”

“Huh?”

“Um, yea, sorry. Uh, I’m trying to get to … the Grand Reading Room.”

“Oh, ok, yea that’s this way,” he says as the doors open and he exits to the left. A guard sits outside a door. The academic signs into the registry and shows the guard his Readers Card, then looks back at me to make sure I got all that. I nod and do the same. Inside the first doorway is a small room where I fill out the request forms for my backup: Helmet for My Pillow. Then I pass through another doorway and enter the massive expanse of the Grand Reading Room. My eyes are immediately drawn upwards to the massive golden dome six stories above my head. The rush from the Rare Books Room is still strong in me and now this to add to it. I give the request forms to the woman behind the circular counter in the center of the room. 

The circular counter is surrounded by rings of curved tables filling the round chamber out to the shelve-covered walls. I quietly fall into a chair. It’ll be about forty minutes until my book comes. I walk to the nearest shelf and retrieve a two volume encyclopedia on astronomers. Randomly opening to the “P’s”, I read about Plato, Ptolemy, and Pythagoras, but am unable to keep my concentration. Even when my books finally come and I read Robert Leckie’s poetic accounts of fighting with the Marines in the Pacific during WWII, my mind still keeps wandering back to the Rare Book Room. A smile keeps creeping onto my face. And finally it remains there. As I gaze up at the life size statues of philosophers and poets four stories up and bronze busts of statesmen around the room, I sit, and reflect, and smile.

Then suddenly I realize how much time has passed since I split up from my father. I quickly text him, gather my books, Xerox the title pages, return them and hurry back to the Great Hall. We exit the Library of Congress into the warm May air and head back to the Metro. The afternoon was still to include a stop in Chinatown for lunch, and a confusion of correct train lines that led to a game of musical trains, but through it all the memory stood strong in the forefront of my mind. Eventually as the train glided along among the green of tree covered hills, I realized the odds of having that experience. Had I gone on any other day during the semester, or had I found the room five minutes sooner or later, I may have missed George going from one room to the other. I would have missed out on a once in a lifetime experience that I’ll someday tell my grandchildren about and many others for years to come.