W
hen I was in kindergarten, I had
mandatory Quiet Time in my
room every day after school for an
hour. I could play with my toys or look at books
or color, but I was not to disturb my mom un-
less I needed something important.
Needless to say, I was not a big fan of Quiet
Time when the policy was first put into place,
and I protested. Loudly. And daily. But my
mother is an incredibly smart woman, and she
quickly figured out how to get me to cooperate.
One fall afternoon, having finished my
after-school snack, I trudged up to my room,
complaining all the way upstairs. When I got
into my room, I found a shiny new book wait-
ing for me at the end of my bed. It was a kids’
biography of Abigail Adams, whose name had
instantly earned her my admiration when we
learned about the Revolutionary War. (Re-
member the ladies!)
Suddenly, Quiet Time didn’t seem all that
bad. Usually, I spent most of the hour bemoan-
ing the drudgery my own mother was subjecting
me to and checking the clock every few minutes.
But that day, I barely noticed as the once-dreaded
hour ticked by. I was absorbed in my new book.
My mom must have noticed my relative lack
of complaints when I came back downstairs
an hour later. Because after that, for as long as
I had after-school Quiet Time, every so often,
she would leave a book or two — sometimes
new, sometimes from the library — waiting for
me on my bed.
As I got older (and relatively easier to man-
age), Quiet Time was no longer required. But
by then, I had become a full-blown bookworm.
My favorite day of the week was the day my
mom drove me to our local library after school.
I had the route from my school to the library
memorized before I could even ride a bike.
I would tumble out of the car the second my
mom parked and skipped across the shaded
parking lot. I’d bounced down the stairs to the
children’s section, where I’d promptly buried
myself in the stacks. I’d stay there browsing
happily until it was time to go, at which point
my mom invariably had to help me carry my mas-
sive pile of books upstairs to the checkout desk.
When we got home, my mom helped me
carry my books upstairs and organize them in a
precarious tower on my nightstand. I picked up
the book I was most excited about and, if I was
left unbothered, would spend the rest of the af-
ternoon reading until it was time for dinner.
Somewhere between 15 and 21, my love
for reading lost that intensity, that excitement.
Math homework started getting harder. TV
started getting more interesting. My friends
and I were suddenly allowed to go places on
our own — and sure, they were just the mall
and the local Starbucks, but our newfound
freedom was thrilling.
On top of that, the intense pressure I felt to
fit in meant I was terrified of being judged for
my reading choices. I’d rarely pick up books I
hadn’t already heard my peers talking about,
and if I did, I wouldn’t mention it. It was just
another reason to read less.
I still read books, of course. I even still read
not-required-for-English-class books, and I
kept an eye on the news. When I had the time,
I’d pick up a murder mystery or whatever novel
all friends were talking about at the time. But
always something light and easy; always some-
thing that wouldn’t require too much brain-
power; always something I could easily put
down if I had to.
Because of that, it wasn’t the same.
I no longer read for the sheer excitement of
it. I no longer devoured books because I just
had to know what happened next. The amount
of schoolwork and extracurriculars I had left
me with few afternoons to spend reading, and
very little mental energy to tear through a book
at breakneck speed. So even though I read
books I liked — books I loved, even — the old
excitement was reduced to a few glimmers.
Most of those patterns I started forming in
middle and high school became cemented in
college. Once I found my friends at school, I
was less scared about being judged, but it was
midterms by then, and the only thing I had time
for was school. As much as I loved reading for
fun, I just didn’t have the time — or the brain-
power — for it.
Then COVID-19 happened, and suddenly, I
had all kinds of time.
It started in early May, just after I had fin-
ished classes. My mom and some of her friends
had planned a mother-daughter Netflix Party
to watch “Clueless,” the gloriously 90’s teen-
movie adaptation of Jane Austen’s “Emma,”
which I had recently started reading as a way
to wind down during finals.
A love for Austen is one of many things
I inherited from my mother, who excitedly
watched the entire BBC “Pride and Prejudice”
series with me when I decided to read it fresh-
man year of high school. So this was an excit-
ing moment: We could watch an adaptation of
“Emma” (a movie we both already loved) while
I was reading it.
Suddenly, I was right back to my middle
school reading habits. I spent afternoons read-
ing on our porch. I fell asleep with images of
Regency flirtations dancing in my head. I fin-
ished the remaining three-quarters of the book
in four days.
The old flame was reignited. I tore through
books last summer, just for the fun of it. I read
whatever I felt like reading: murder mysteries
and spy thrillers, gritty true crime and cheesy
rom-coms, high literature and history and
Harry Potter for the 100th time. And suddenly,
reading was fun in a way it hadn’t been in years.
A quick scroll through Twitter confirmed
that I wasn’t the only one feeling like this. My feed
was full of nostalgia for the elementary school
Scholastic Book Fair, book recommendations and
people like myself who had gone back to their
middle school reading habits in quarantine.
For me, quarantine also took the pressure off
reading because I stopped feeling like I had to be
reading something impressive or cool or interest-
ing whenever anyone asked. I stopped caring what
other people thought about my book du jour.
N
ot caring what people thought about
my current read made an incredible
difference. I sourced book recom-
mendations from family and friends and social
media. Eventually, I made a Goodreads account
to track what I was reading and find more sug-
gestions. It quickly became my favorite In-
ternet rabbit hole — say what you will about
robots monitoring our lives, but the algorithm
on that website is very, very accurate, and I am
thankful for that.
It’s part of a larger trend we saw during
quarantine: allowing ourselves to indulge in
self-care to escape the literal hellscape outside.
Along with countless skincare TikToks and
plenty of online shopping, reading fun books
became a way for me to treat myself to some-
thing uplifting or escapist.
Of course, as the summer progressed, read-
ing became so much more than just an escape.
As the Black Lives Matter movement rightly
took its place in the forefront of our conscious-
ness, we got a necessary reminder about the
importance of reading diverse authors and ed-
ucating ourselves, and leaders in the movement
recommended books like Ta-Nehisi Coates’
“Between the World and Me” and Ibram X. Ken-
di’s “How to Be an Antiracist.” Mike Gustafson,
who co-owns Literati Bookstore in downtown
Ann Arbor with his wife, and Richard Retyi, the
director of communications and outreach for
the Ann Arbor District Library, both told me in
interviews last week that antiracist literature
has been in more demand ever since.
It’s an adjustment, to be sure — these are
not light, easy reads. But honestly, at this point,
what’s one more adjustment? We’ve switched
to online classes, contactless takeout meals and
countless Zoom holidays. Switching up what
we’re reading is a small, but important addition
to the massive change the last year has brought.
Lockdown has also been incredibly difficult
for local libraries. The Ann Arbor District Li-
brary hasn’t opened its doors in almost a year.
But AADL is committed to serving the commu-
nity, so they’ve adapted. Story hours, book clubs
and film discussions were all moved online. Li-
brarians are available for shelf service to find
what their patrons are looking for. Checkout is
now done contactless in the library’s lobby or
online, as AADL works to make audiobooks
and e-books, which are in more demand than
ever, as widely accessible as possible.
And it’s working.
I spoke with Retyi last week, and his pride in
the work AADL is doing to help the community
through the pandemic was audible over the phone.
“We are circulating about 60% of the
amount of material that we were when we
were fully open,” Retyi said. “It’s remarkable
— to have two-thirds of our stuff still going out
even though nobody can browse. It’s huge. The
volume has been awesome.”
Indie bookstores are also struggling. It was
true before the pandemic, thanks to Amazon
and Jeff Bezos’ correct assumption that giving
me a coupon for a book on my to-read list will,
in fact, make me buy the book online rather than
going to the store. But the pandemic has made it
even harder. It’s no longer safe to just pop in and
browse your local bookstore, so that two-day
Prime shipping looks better and better.
So indie bookstores have adapted, too. My
beloved Capitol Hill Books at home in D.C.
is doing appointments where you can have
the entire store to yourself (a literal dream) to
browse safely for an hour and custom-book
grab bags. Literati has expanded its online aup
and virtual events. They’ve even put their sig-
nature Public Typewriter online.
It hasn’t been easy. But like the library, indie
bookstores are finding their niche in this pan-
demic. Gustafson told me more about what
indie bookstores are doing to stay afloat during
the pandemic over email, and though it’s been
challenging, Gustafson’s love for and pride in
his work is clear.
Still though, attending online events and
picking up books curbside is a far cry from af-
ternoons spent studying, browsing and drink-
ing coffee in Literati or getting lost in the stacks
at the Dawn Treader. It’s only a “semblance”
of that pre-pandemic haven, Gustafson says.
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
statement
In the midst of a pandemic,
a refuge in reading
BY ABIGAIL SNYDER, STATEMENT CORRESPONDENT
ILLUSTRATION BY EILEEN KELLY
ILLUSTRATION BY EILEEN KELLY
Wednesday, February 24, 2021 — 11
Read more at
MichiganDaily.com