To the Editor:
About a decade ago, I was with my niece who was 15 at the time, at the Guilderland Public Library. She needed books for school and I offered to be her chauffeur. It was one of those days when I could not see the forest for the trees. I knew the library at the very least would offer peace.

My niece found what she needed and I meandered through the stacks, hoping to shift my mood. Nothing. Then, on our way out, “Suzy, the person on that book looks like you!”

Oddly, she was right. I picked up the book, which coincidentally was about loneliness. Perfect. That night, I stayed up until 3 a.m. and read it until the very last page. It brought tears of relief.

When the vote for the building project to expand the Guilderland Public Library arose, I was extremely vocal, gathering support for its passing — urging everyone I know to “Vote yes!” Thrilled when it was approved but optimistically naïve, I regretfully did not attend any public-information events regarding the expansion. I trusted that more of the Guilderland Public Library had to mean better. I was wrong.

Last Saturday, my 8-year-old son and I stopped by to see it for the first time. It had been a hard part of the COVID shutdown for us — missing the library — and we were beyond excited. My joy faded almost instantly.

My mind raced with questions to everyone involved in planning this chilly and uninviting space. Had you ever been in the library for hours, helping a loved one searching to understand something new? Had you seen tired high school and college students wearily taking notes at the end of an academic semester?

Had you been there with with kids who run into their friends and need to be shushed — yet have to be coerced by their parents to leave when it’s time to go? Because I had. And it had always given me comfort like it did that fateful day in my past.

What I see now, are big boxy rooms with the stacks of books centered in each. There is cold lighting, few seats, and even fewer places to commune. The Guilderland Public Library, in this new updated edition, is vacuous, visually sterile and with the great common areas now parsed apart and hidden away from one another — it is emotionally distant. The heartbeat of the old GPL is nowhere to be found.

I am guessing that many people do not come to community libraries with a formal research agenda. Even as a Ph.D. student, that is low on my list when I am at GPL. Often I am there to simply study with my books and computer — like many adults who return to school and just need a place of belonging.

I lug half my desk to sit in the library air. I sat with other souls, trying to untie the knots in their lives or work through reading quietly — alone, but not alone.

When I inquired specifically about the shared desks, which disappeared in the renovation I was told that furniture was still not delivered. When it arrives — it will be placed in the little nooks, on the margins of the library.

It was explained that both COVID restrictions and the community desire for more privacy participated in the decision to get rid of the larger gathering areas. That was when I touched the sadness I felt long ago. Why would we make decisions that strip a public space of its most precious resource — public space?

The old library was a sanctuary. It felt warm and welcoming. It was easy to be there.

Like many parents, I would bring my kids on rainy Saturday mornings and boredom would evaporate in the happy spaces. Often there were two children’s librarians sitting at a low, round desk offering guidance and bookmarks.

I remember once sitting at a group desk late on a Sunday in the big open “silent” section, writing for a deadline, surrounded by people of all ages, all working on something. The pressure I felt in my work softened next to other community members facing their own tasks. The spacious desks gave us a place to put it all down, together. 

If we are making community decisions, based on the restrictions of the COVID health epidemic, why not do the same for public schools. My children and their teachers benefited from the smaller “COVID” classes last year. If we need to keep people physically apart, indefinitely, why not do the same in all public spaces?

It is painful to imagine but, if anything will change with time, it will be the availability of printed books. The desire to sit quietly with others, or teach our children will not.

The new Guilderland Public Library is a book warehouse, inviting community members to come get their books and go. I am disappointed.

I trusted the board members to represent the needs of the entire community — not just the loud voices who attended the public forums. If any of them witnessed an evening in the study area — where every seat was filled and people stayed until the very last moment that the library was open — they would never have taken this away.

It was explained to me that there was much support to rid the library of the communal spaces. People want more privacy. We are becoming increasingly privatized as a culture. It was an uncritical decision of the board of trustees to not challenge this current. Libraries are not private spaces. They are public.

Libraries are historically an equalizing force in our society. GPL’s physical space has increased by 20 percent yet the room for people to gather is gone. It is no longer “Guilderland’s Gathering Place.”

Some may read this and judge my criticism as uniformed and too late. This is fair to some degree. I never thought for a moment the place for everybody in the Guilderland Public Library would be erased.

Suzanne Kawola

Altamont

Editor’s note: Suzanne Kawola is a Ph.D. student in the Department of Sociology at the University at Albany, where she was a Fellow on Women and Public Policy, Center for Women in Government and Civil Society.