The above quote is from K. Sarah Ostrach (Class of 2010). Read the full memory below:
I wrote my first major art history paper in the Rock, much of it at the study desks with lights and outlets near the front windows. Prime seating. I would watch the clock and time my arrival to get one of those seats and then stay there until the need for sleep or hunger overpowered me. So much of working in the Rock revolved around where and when to find an outlet.
Often, I’d read at the large wood tables on the first floor. I still remember the light, polished wood. I specifically chose these tables because they were big—ample surface area for many and/or large books—and far from outlets—no computer distractions, or, at the very least, they were limited by battery life.
Although I was usually zipping up a hoodie or pulling over a sweater (sometimes putting socks on despite wearing flip flops), I always felt a feeling of warmth at the Rock that I never felt at the SciLi (though no criticism intended; there was a time and place for the cold austerity of the SciLi). The colors were generally darker. Even the lighter colors had a sort of patina of age, something left over from the 60s. Now I can look back fondly at the stacks, with their tiny desks too small for a book and computer to share space. I miss hunting for books and finding them somewhere dark, where the lights are rarely on, and struggling to hold them to my chest on my way to check them out. Only later would I find that the books I’d hugged so tightly had left their marks: feathery grey stripes across the front of my shirt.
I love the entryway, how the steps lead up to a low cover. It was a sort of passageway from the wide sky of the outside world to the closeness of the library, where I could focus. The horizontal lines created, for me, a feeling of weight–but not oppressive. The Rock, like a rock, sits solid and low. There is no instability, no wide open caverns through which air and insecurity can blow. The Rock hunkers down where students can hunker down.
One of my most vivid memories of the Rock, though, didn’t even happen inside. I had just finished a paper at an hour to which I would not be proud to admit should my professor ask. And my books were due. It was well past 10pm closing and I did not want to incur the fines, so I grabbed the sizable stack and walked across campus to the Rock, hoping against hope that nothing would be amiss with the book drop. Who knows, it could be locked?! And what if the due date was based on 10pm closing time and didn’t count books dropped off my students with poor time management sometime in the nighttime hours?! Campus was more or less deserted and the streetlights glowed orange. I reached the book drop and opened it. It creaked loudly, proclaiming my simultaneous virtue (for returning books) and shame (poor time management). The metal was gritty and cool against my fingers. I slipped the books in. One of them was very wide but thin. I winced as each one crashed into the bin inside. If one of them were to be damaged…Once they were all in, I closed the book drop door and stepped back. I almost wanted to reach in and try to rearrange them nicely and make sure none of the pages were bent. After standing in the faintly lit darkness under the heavy overhang for a few more seconds, I took one last wary glance at the book drop door and turned away and went back down the steps.
