When I first arrived in Berkeley
I met up with my dear friend and U. C. Berkeley student, Shilpi. While I had
just escaped the end-of-semester madness and was finally ready to enjoy what
leisure and recreation the Bay Area could offer, Shilpi was in the thick
of finals and in no mind to anything but study. Needless to say, as soon as I had
stowed my bags in her dorm, she shooed me outside and locked the door.
But as a starry-eyed kid from a suburb of Phoenix,
I was thrilled simply to wander the U. C. Berkeley campus in total awe at the splendor of its architecture alone. Soon, I came across a magnificent structure that
seemed more like the Parthenon in all its glory than any sort of university
building I had ever seen. The regal pillars, the stately
facade drew me towards it. When I saw the words “University Library” carved across the top I knew
I must enter. I walked through ornate iron doors and found myself swept up a
marble staircase at the end of the room almost involuntarily. Here was the massive reading room: arched ceiling plunging into the sky, a sea
of bookshelves lining the walls beneath multiple-storey windows, and desks, oh
the desk, oh the rows of desks and lamps, words crumble in my attempts to
describe! And here I was, the helpless victim of this deliberate seduction, I
only meant to walk once around, but I could not resist the gold-lettered
leather binding, I would just crack open a book, and suddenly I found an encyclopedia published in Spain during the Franco regime in my hands and suddenly I
was sitting at a desk beneath one of those magnificent lamps – I couldn’t help it,
I was fascinated, how did Franco-era depictions of
controversial Spanish figures – Francisco Franco, Gabriel García Lorca –
compare with what I learned in America today? – and my phone buzzed, a text from Shilpi: “are
you alive?” (had that many hours passed already?) but I put it away, I pretended not to notice, I just wanted to find
out, I just wanted to investigate, I just wanted to learn.
This is what happened. But I knew that words would be insufficient
to convey what I felt. So a few days later I set out to recreate the
experience for my readers through a photo journal. Here is my result:
Locked. Could this be a cold reminder of the true elitist nature of the academic institution: beautiful, but only accessible to the select few sanctioned to reap the plentiful bounty as the masses are left to wallow in mediocrity and pound their fists in vain against locked iron gates with bitter contempt – and I was one of those among the mob, shut out forever from the forbidden fruit of knowledge?
Or perhaps a suggestion to check the hours first.
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