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

