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If you walk into Lamont Library on Friday from 10 a.m. to noon or on Saturday from 1 p.m. to 3 p.m., chances are you’ll find me at the front desk, folding and placing hold slips into requested items, loaning books or media equipment to patrons, routing books to other libraries, answering people’s questions, or simply spinning in the office chair.
Most people view my job as menial labor, one where I can “get paid for studying.” And they’re not entirely wrong. Although I do all of the tasks mentioned above — and sometimes more — during every shift, I almost always have time to get some of my own work done, in part because my shifts tend to be quieter hours.
But having time for myself isn’t necessarily my favorite part of working at Lamont. I love the job itself: the menial labor, the simplicity of the tasks, the smallness and apparent insignificance of my work.
I have a hard time slowing down. Although I’ve been trying to improve, my mind constantly runs through the list of work I have to do, and most days, I rush from one thing to the next. Gym, classes, section, meetings, work, dinner, shower, more meetings, more work, and then crash — or some variation of this routine. I build in breaks for myself, but most of the time, I’m still thinking about everything I have yet to do, one hour, one day, one week, one month from now.
But all that changes when I’m at work, when I find myself sucked into the quiet little world behind the front desk. I wait for printers to wake up and churn out hold slips. I organize books on a cart. I wish patrons a good day. My mind stops buzzing for a change.
During my shift, I’m no longer stressing over getting straight As or completing extracurricular work for different clubs. I fade into the background and become a fly on the wall – a helpful one who will lend people books and tell them where the bathroom is. I’m reminded of the quiet beauty and joy of doing small things for people that make their lives even marginally easier. I’m delighted to play a tiny role, no matter how fleeting, in the busy lives of strangers. I get to help them along the journey from point A to point B — from obtaining a camcorder to filming their project, from finding a single reference to working on their thesis, from wanting something to do over the weekend to checking out some DVDs or books.
Late one morning last November, a slightly breathless student strode up to the desk and asked if I knew how to print documents. Brimming with nervous energy, she explained that she needed a hard copy of her speech — which she hadn’t been able to memorize due to a concussion — for a class starting in half an hour. Together, we made our way down to the Media Lab. We waited several minutes for the computers to wake up. She anxiously clicked the keyboard and hovered over the printer before finally dashing out of the library with papers in hand, thanking me profusely as she left.
All I had done was help her print something she needed; yet in tha fleeting moment, I had been united with someone whose name I didn’t even know, striving for the same goal. We’d held our breath and released it together when the printer whirred and sputtered, and then parted ways just like that. An inexplicable mixture of awe and gratitude washed over me, a feeling of being blessed by something simultaneously beautiful and small, like a rosebud just poking its head out after winter. How lucky I was to have experienced that connection, its beauty defined by its intensity, smallness, and transience. I couldn’t help but wonder: What would have happened if our paths hadn’t crossed? If she had met a desk worker who didn’t go downstairs to help her, how much more anxious would she have felt? How much more — even if only fleetingly — alone?
But really, none of those hypotheticals mattered. What mattered now was that I’d been there, I’d helped her, and now she was in class with her speech in hand. It hit me then, a comforting realization that tethered me to reality, to simple, daily life: When I can interact with people in these big small ways, why should I stress myself out trying to always be bigger and do more? And vice versa: If I’m striving to be bigger and do more, why does that mean I should forget the value of these big small things? Although I ultimately still want to accomplish what I can with my fullest potential, life isn’t only about doing big things all the time. And perhaps those who regularly commit themselves to helping people in these smaller ways are those who have already found the joy and meaning in their work that I am only just discovering.
Between exams and papers, presentations and meetings, applications and interviews, I’ll sit back in my office chair, organize books, and say my you’re-welcomes and have-a-good-days. I’ll delight in the little things, not because they matter most, but because they matter more than I often remember they do.
— Magazine writer Kaitlyn Tsai can be reached at kaitlyn.tsai@thecrimson.com.
